A kaleidoscope of colour and sound:
here, a grove of bamboo poles
waving strips of bright cloth
call for the blessing of revered
and ancient Gods
on an East Indian wedding;
there, the explosion of Stabroek Market
scatters vendors’ stalls across
the old Dutch square.
Papaws and mangoes vie
with books, tee-shirts,
music tapes and CDs:
the sound of Bollywood
competes culturally with
urgent soca and hip-hop
as stall-owners musically flaunt
their ethnic roots.
Beyond the Clock Tower
the Demerara flows in muddy splendour
patiently supporting
motley bum-boats, freighters,
fishing boats, and
the occasional Amerindian dugout.
The ghosts of the Jonestown dead
wander here, betrayed
by their leader’s selfish view
of Heaven.
The Seawall protects this small city,
where a system of dykes,
and drainage ditches
return high tide seepage,
the skill of the Dutch founders
still evident today.
With wooden buildings,
and gun-carrying diamond miners,
this frontier town offers temporary shelter
from the encroaching, and pervasive jungle,
that waits just miles away.
As custodians of this beautiful,
resource-rich country,
these descendants of African slaves,
of indentured East Indians,
have blended their collective experience
into unique forms of politics,
art, music, cuisine,
and a melodic language
that baffles and delights
the foreign ear.
Part Caribbean, part South American,
these capable people
take the best of both worlds,
and make it unmistakeably
their own.
