Journeys pass, and memories rest, then revisit as occasions occur

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A GROUP of Guyanese in the Arts were invited and their passage was paid for to French Guiana by the MITARAKA group. (I will ask for some forgiveness for words and places misspelt because of documents lost while moving and others not documented as required.) The essence of this article was jolted into relevance by the recent passing of the author, Rooplall Monar. The then group that made this journey included Ras Michael, Martin Carter, Michael Gilkes, Monar and myself; if there were others I can’t recall. There was also a Suriname group which came in later. All this occurred in October 1998.

The Guyanese community there avoided us, unknowingly, though we could identify them as they glanced and then looked away, as we roamed around the streets of Cayenne. We were bunked at the Cultural Centre. Soon enough, we were escorted by members of our host group, the Mitaraka team, to be featured on local TV, where we were officially introduced. Upon leaving, we were then met by a group of Guyanese, including some folks familiar to me who had seen the introductory broadcast.

I had just published the comic book Shadow of the Jaguar and had brought some two dozen books with me. They were scheduled to be displayed at a meeting, bringing the three Guyana groups together a few days later. Our citizens there informed us that our “hustlers” were the prominent visitors to French Guiana, and our coming was not promoted. They distanced themselves from our “hustler kin” with good reason, but there we were, and they were interested in our presence.

We were housed in separate accommodations. I was bordered by Ras Michael and Monar, so we met and talked. Rooplall then confessed that he was a mystic who interceded in the interest of an important personality in the sugar industry. I responded that I knew some mystics too, Dr Sharples, etc., and they were all con men, but Ras Michael insisted that Monar was the real thing. Monar, on an even more serious note, indicated that his daughter was urging him to migrate to the United States, something he was reluctant to do. Monar was an extraordinary Indo-Guyanese folk writer, the real thing. He had an audience in Guyana, but with America, he was unsure. Monar was hesitant about migrating but seemed enveloped in this new prospect.

What we did not realise about the host group Mitaraka was that it also had a subtle, hopeful political desire for a more independent nation, more like Guyana and Suriname. Although we were not the type of group to advise on political platforms, we did respond and hint at certain obvious requirements that must be in place long before independence, like varieties of agricultural products grown locally, etc. We did notice that oranges were imported from Africa into Cayenne. The market was open only one day a week; we realised this because, as Guyanese, we went searching for fruits and were told the market was open only on Saturdays. At that time, the only person with a banana garden was a Guyanese with a small farm who provided us with fruit at a good price.

However, we witnessed the most remarkable burial ground, making us feel ashamed in comparison to where my mother is buried at La Repentir, in and out of a forest. Secondly, it was the first time I experienced a drum party. Had I been told of a fete where only drums made music, I would have hesitated, but the experience was incredible. We had our creative day; my books were sold out, and we had interactions with other creative people from the Guianas.

It was an enlightening experience, with much more to tell. The last thing that I must mention was the evening after the exhibition when a few of us were invited to visit Paris, where another exhibition was to be held early the following year. We appreciated the invitation, based on a judgement of our presentations and not on the economic realities of a creative person domiciled in Guyana.

Thus, we left for home, all of us wrapped in our own thoughts. The elders complimented us, but what remained was intact. Monar shrugged his shoulders. I smiled, Ras Michael fell asleep; each inspired differently. I had bought a Terminator toy for my son that he loved, and I was grateful for the visit and the means to revisit it through the memory of a creative colleague. So long, Monar, you’ve done your part, as have those other members of that voyage who have departed to give account to our fathers.

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