Posted by: randallbutisingh on: October 7, 2009
“My Story” – by Randall Butisingh.
(Reminiscences during my life beginning 1914)
My aim in writing this book is to leave a first hand account of my experiences of events which occurred from eighteen months after I was born to the year 1972 when I retired as a teacher after serving for more than forty years.
This is a legacy I would like to leave to posterity, as I am sure many would be interested to know how they came to be living in this land and the life and work of their forefathers..
I call this work Reminiscences because I want to include more than my own life. I want to include events which would give a broader picture of a people who emerged from semi-slavery and, with other people, helped to build this nation which was once the Pride of the Caribbean, the Bread basket of the West Indies and a Haven for foreigners who enjoyed its equable and salubrious climate, and its freedom from natural disasters..
British Guiana as it was known for a long time, since the days of slavery, was called the Magnificent Province,. Georgetown, its Capital was known as the Garden City, But time and changes have left their baneful effects – Ethnic rivalry, brain drain, corruption and economic failure.
I trust this book will help, in whatever little way, to see ourselves as one people, whose survival depends on unity, not division, on cooperation not competition, on peace not war.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
INTRODUCTION
As we approach the second anniversary of our Weblog this month: (October 21, 2009), I think that it is an opportune time to release my book promised some time ago.
I wrote the chapters of this book over the years, and revised it a bit over the last couple of years. It is titled “My Story”, and it contains the reminiscences of my life beginning in 1913. I have tried to write it in a chronological order as my life has spanned over nine decades, however this was not always possible. I may have repeated myself in some places, but this was done mostly for clarity as this book could be read as separate chapters and still makes sense to the reader.
To date, I have written 30 chapters and I will post the chapters as they are finally edited. As an online book I will be able to make changes and corrections if some information is incomplete or found to be incorrect. .. So this is still a work in progress!
Your input as readers is therefore important to me…. so please comment!
My thanks to Mr. Cyril Bryan who has helped me over the last two years with technical matters relating to the suggestion and the establishment of this Weblog, and for the editing of this document.
Today, October 07 2009, I started the posting with this Introduction and the first three chapters. The rest of the 30 chapters will follow shortly. Please look above, or on the sidebar, for the links to the various chapters.
I look forward to your comments, and please pass my weblog link to others who may be interested in my writings.
Thank you all!
Randall Butisingh
October 7, 2009.
Posted by: randallbutisingh on: November 18, 2009
By Harry Hergash
Harry Hergash, a graduate of the University of Guyana, taught at the Annandale Government Secondary from 1964 to 1969. He immigrated to Canada in 1974.
In this column I would like to share my recollections of the village of Buxton-Friendship, East Coast Demerara. Historically, after starting out as separate villages that were purchased and built by freed African slaves, they were amalgamated into one around 1841. By the beginning of the nineteen sixties, Buxton-Friendship was possibly the most progressive and prosperous village in Guyana. It was known for its highly educated sons and daughters, civic minded citizens, hard working farmers and fisherman, skilled tradesmen, and prosperous business people, where citizens of African and Indian origins lived together peacefully.
Indians, who started arriving in the village in the 1890s, emulated the Africans in striving for education and social betterment in the country. By the 1950s they were scattered throughout the village with concentrated enclaves in the area along the seashore, referred to as Buxton Front, where there were some of the most renowned sea-fishermen in the country; on both sides of the railway embankment around the railway station where they worked as pawnbrokers and jewellers, and operated clothing and hardware stores; and in the area along Brush dam where they raised cattle and grew rice in adjoining estate lands. Most if not all of them adhered to Indian cultural traditions, and Buxton could boast of having some of the most educated and finest Indian musicians and singers of Chowtaals, Ramayan and Bhajans.
I remember Saturdays and Mondays as prime market days at the municipal market next to the Post Office, just off Company Road, a stone’s throw from the railway station. The interaction and relationships between Africans and Indians were based on mutual respect and trust, befitting two peoples who depended on the fruits of each other’s labour. Indians from the estate areas of Lusignan Pasture and Annandale Sand Reef to the West and Vigilance to the East would bring their produce of garden vegetables (ochro, bora, calaloo, etc.) to sell to the African villagers who would sell them fruits, plantains and ground provisions (cassava, eddoes, sweet potatoes, etc.). Both groups would then patronise the fishermen and the butchers who operated their stalls in a corner of the market where the odour was quite distinct. Before noon, the efficient Mr. Brown would have already completed his rounds and collected from vendors all market fees.
During my childhood in the 1950s, I traversed every street and cross street in the combined village in the company of my grandparents and uncles who sold feed to the many self-employed villagers who farmed the back-lands and raised chicken and pigs in their yards. Every Sunday morning we travelled around the village in a dray cart hauled by three donkeys laden with paddy, broken rice and bhoosi (pulverized rice shells produced during milling) which was sold to customers to be used as chicken and pig feed. By midday, with our task completed after serving the last customer along Friendship Middle Walk, we would stop at the Esso station, the first petrol station to be built on the East Coast of Demerara, where I would get a treat of Brown Betty ice-cream or Fudgsicle while the elders collected the “wet-cell” battery that had been left the week before for recharging.. In those days, radio sets of that period with names such as KB, Grundig, Phillips and Pye, were operated in the rural areas with current from a battery similar to a motor-car’s battery that had to be recharged periodically at a gas station.
Regrettably, the madness of racial discord and intolerance raised its ugly head in the country in 1963 and by 1964 Buxton-Friendship, like other parts of the country, was consumed. As Indians hurriedly relocated from the predominantly African villages to the safety of predominantly Indian areas, Africans did the same in the reverse. Even then, many good people on both sides risked their lives and property to help those on the other side, but it was not enough to stem the mass migration from villages and the formation of segregated communities. This was the beginning of squatting areas or shantytowns in Guyana. Overnight pastures and swamplands were cramped with makeshift houses and places like Lusignan East and West, Haslington, Logwood, etc. came into being.
Sadly, Buxton-Friendship never recovered from this restructuring. With independence coming shortly thereafter and government jobs becoming readily available, many African villagers deserted the self- sufficiency of independent occupations – carpentry, cabinet making, blacksmith, guttersmith, farming and the raising of livestock, opting instead for the apparent security of salaried occupations. As the village tax base deteriorated, critical infrastructural work on roads, drainage and irrigation was neglected, and by the time the oil crisis and world-wide economic downturn hit us, both citizens and the village as a whole found it difficult to cope which resulted in the serious political repercussions of later years.
Buxton-Friendship’s loss of Indian fishermen and business people was the gain of Annandale and Lusignan. Almost overnight, in the midst of the turmoil and agony of 1964, a market developed in Annandale North’s Centre Street, rechristened “Market Street”. It quickly replaced Buxton’s municipal market as the commercial centre for the surrounding areas, and by 1965, African Buxtonians were also patronizing the vendors in Annandale. Likewise many of the hardware and clothing stores relocated to Annandale. And the fishermen formerly of Buxton Front became the enterprising fishermen of Lusignan East where the fishing industry was taken to new heights as the importation of salted cod and canned fish was banned during the period of economic hardship of the 1980s.
Now more than four decades later, as I reflect on the deaths and destruction of 1964 and the havoc wreaked on the communities of Buxton and Annandale, I cannot help but recall that it was the ordinary citizens, not the external forces that combined to destabilise the country, and certainly not those individual politicians of both major parties in whose names the so many horrendous acts were perpetrated, who were the victims and losers in all the madness and mayhem. It was these ordinary folks who became homeless, and it was their children who became motherless, fatherless or orphans. And when it came to healing and restoring some semblance of peace and harmony, it was community leaders who had to pick up the pieces. It was Eusi Kwayana as the respected leader of Buxton, and Pandit Ramsahai Doobay as the respected leader of Annandale, who met with then British Colonial Secretary, Duncan Sandys, on the Annandale Side-line dam (then referred to as the Maginot line, a term used by the French in the Second World War) to discuss and work out arrangements that played their own part in establishing an uneasy peace in the villages.
I am now an emigrant from the land of my birth. As I follow developments of recent years in the communities of Buxton-Friendship and neighbouring areas, I am saddened that lessons of the past seem to have been forgotten. Ordinary citizens of these communities have once again been the victims and they are the ones who once again have to start rebuilding the good inter-personal relationships and trust, sorely damaged by needless strife and violence. The time has surely come for people to realize that while politicians remain unscathed and continue to enjoy the perquisites of office, it is they the poor folks who will always have to bear the consequences of actions by their “representatives”. It is they who have to live side by side as neighbours and interact with each other. As we look to the future, let us be guided by the actions and teachings of the elders of our communities. Let us remember a time not so very long ago, when an African grandmother would give a special bath of blue water to an Indian child to protect that child from the mythical “old-higue”, and an Indian mother would pay a penny to nominally “buy” an African child so that child could grow up to be healthy and strong. Let us remember our history.
(This is one of a series of weekly columns from Guyanese in the diaspora and others with an interest in issues related to Guyana and the Caribbean)
Posted by: randallbutisingh on: November 16, 2009
South Africa: October, 2009
“A search for opportunity” by (Kristen Faith Konkol)
To view with pictures, go to: http://briankristenkonkol.blogspot.com
She looks up from the washing and rests her weary hands on top of the bucket to see where all the sound is coming from. As she walks out beyond the gate and down the path to the small patch of red dirt the sounds become louder and more familiar. When she reaches the area where the sounds were emanating from, she steps forward with uncertainty to the small group gathered. As her calloused and tiny bare feet come into the circle, all eyes are upon her. The sounds she heard were familiar ones…those of the neighborhood boys playing and kicking around a make-shift soccer ball in one of any number of informal spaces in the area. But when she approaches, she is met with many looks of displeasure, restlessness and discontent. The cackling and sighs under their breath make their feelings transparent. The “ball” rolls to her feet, and with one touch she unlocks a palpable sense of vigor and excitement. Small posts made of sticks and old bottles are put on either side of this makeshift (garage-sized) space and the competition begins. Although the first days and weeks of ‘toeing the line’ to be just ‘one of the gang’ [who used every spare moment to play] were brutal and sometimes defeating, she remained persistent, focused and simply tried not to screw up and hear the demoralizing criticisms with arms raised in her direction. She is eager to hold on to this rare opportunity.
Born in a rural area of KwaZulu-Natal (at the time simply Natal ), she was already faced with challenges that continued to test her and try to keep her down. As one of 6 children born to her mother and father, her life was quickly turned upside-down. With her father out of the picture from the beginning, she then faced an uphill battle as her mother died before she had reached two years of age. She and her siblings were then taken to an aunt in the Edendale Valley (just outside of Pietermaritzburg), where she still lives today. At the age of 5, she spent nearly a year of her life in the hospital fighting pneumonia for which they were told to plan a funeral. Today, her father, brothers and one sister have perished at very young ages (most presumably from HIV/AIDS) and one of her two remaining sisters is currently battling serious ill health. Her immediate family is all but gone. But it was from her father that she said that God placed this love and gift into her body…the physical gifts, love and passion to play the game of soccer. She knew she had to create that opportunity to shine.
Growing up in the Edendale Valley , she took advantage of any opportunity to play soccer. But as like many places in the world, opportunities for young women and girls to play sports (especially those “traditionally” for boys) was limited and she knew every time she got the chance to step out and compete with the boys that she had to prove herself. But she always asked herself, why? Why do people not want me to play? Why are there no girl’s teams? Why do they (the boys) get all the opportunities? As she got older, she heard that there were some girl’s teams in the country, but had no idea or resources to participate. It wasn’t until she was playing with a boy’s team that she was “seen” by someone in SAFA (South African Football Association) who had contacts with the likes of female teams. As her aunt had no phone and no way of really reaching her outside of finding the school she attended, she was a relative unknown. Her talent was not taken advantage of for lack of opportunity, exposure and ability to locate her. Then the call came in to the school…
Bayana Bayana (the female national soccer team) called her to come and train at a camp and play some matches with them when she was 15 and 16 years old. It was not long before that she was given her first pair of soccer shoes. To put on the national uniform in the relatively new democratic country was an amazing feeling for her and opportunities she says she will never forget. Although the experiences were meaningful, she wondered what was next in store for her career, as there still remained relatively few opportunities for females to play in the area. ‘Here I was playing for Bayana Bayana and now I come home and it’s back to playing with the guys.’ Although she admits that playing with males helped her with her skill, speed and toughness, she always wanted the opportunity to compete with and against other females.
It wasn’t until the early 2000’s that an organized league for females in the area was available. She has been playing on this team ( Maritzburg City ) since its inception and feels very happy that it was created. Although, she says, that part of her always wishes that these opportunities came earlier in her life as opposed to the latter stages of her career. Above all, she remains determined to create and encourage opportunities for female players today that she herself did not experience.
She remains with the local women’s team, and continues to play at a very high level, although the gray hairs on her low cut style are apparent. She spends many a weekend working with and coaching the next generation of female players and continues to assist SAFA with scouting of female players around the region. Her goal is to provide the opportunities and encouragement for young girls that she always yearned for. Although the days of females getting kicked off the soccer pitch by male teams and being scoffed at when arriving to play against male or female teams still happens (and did while I was there), strides are slowly being made.
It has been my privilege and joy to be able to call the person in this story my friend. We have not only played together in practices and games, but coached young girls alongside one another from all over the surrounding areas. Walking alongside and accompanying one another in mutual respect we have learned so much about not only each other but also about one another’s country, language and culture. Above all, the passion that we share is for women and girls to have the opportunity to compete, participate and enjoy the gift of games and sport…no matter what sport that is or where in the world that female may be!
With peace and blessings,
– Kristen Konkol
A great story from a brilliant writer. Kristen Konkol is a rising scintillating star in the field of journalism and honest reporting. We look forward to her first bestseller.
Randall.
Posted by: randallbutisingh on: November 8, 2009
Xmas Festivities at Buxton -1948
Vivid Recollections of the Xmas Festivities at Buxton –
By “BUXTONIAN” – December 30, 1948
PEACE and quietness can truly be said to have reigned all through the festive season so far as Buxton was concerned but there was not an absence of jollity, mirth and pleasure among the populace, but whenever manifestation they made of them was very much tempered and modified. A walk around on Christmas day revealed that there was not made that kind of elaborate preparation which was a marked feature of old time Christmases. In times gone by there was always something to greet the eye, for even the humblest cottager did not neglect to show by his drapery over her cottage door and new or fancy blinds on the windows, if balloons could not have been procured to give taste to the kind of decoration made, that it was Christmas – a season that must be given a kind of special welcome.
NO DRUM BEATING
There was no drum beating, nor was there any street singing of wild songs with the usual accompanying gesticulations to disturb the stillness which prevailed throughout the day. It was Christmas Eve night that merriment made itself felt. As soon as the evening shades appeared the singing of Christmas Carols by various groups of young men and young women began; and they continued all through the night. This particular feature was unprecedented and the zest and excellence with which it was all done were commendable.
CHOIR IN GOOD FORM
The Catholics as has been the age long custom had their Midnight Mass and the little church of St. Anthony was as usual, brilliantly illuminated. There was the accustomed procession to the manger, but there was no profusion of gifts. The invitation to visit the Crib was given in the usual way by the singing of “Come! Come! Come to the Manger, children! Come to the children’s king”, which the choir beautifully rendered. The midnight Mass was followed by two others masses at daybreak. The Anglican, the Methodist, the Congregationalist, the Church of God, each had its own service after daybreak to celebrate the Christmas, and each congregation joined heartily in the singing of some of the hymns specially written to tell of the birth of the Saviour of Mankind.
CHRISTMAS SUNDAY
On this day which in former years was always the grayest of the season when the young folks of both sexes endeavour to vie one with the other in their Christmas Sunday Garb, there was, not in evidence much to attract attention of the observer.
There was much sobering down of any display in apparel as there was in public festivities. the usual crop of christenings followed by “Candles” was there and there were several unions of hearts and hands of young man and maidens; and one clergy man was heard to remark at marriage feast that he had his hands full and was kept busy nearly all day long baptizing, preaching giving communion, and marrying; and it was his good fortune not to be called upon to do any burying.
SACRED CONCERT
At Arundel Church a sacred Concert was staged in the afternoon, but the many attractions in other directions robbed it of the attendance it deserved. The items on the programme were all splendidly rendered and told of the energy and time that must have been expended in its preparation.
ON WITH THE DANCE
MONDAY was officially observed as Boxing Day and the sport-loving and holiday-merrymaking homesters and friends and acquaintances from abroad had a day all to themselves to indulge in their particular tastes and fancies at the picnics and dances that were promoted. These were held at the Tipperary Hall, the Congregational Schoolroom, and the ideal Recreation Club Bungalow. During the day as well as the night there was a jam session and patrons just let themselves go in the latest in jiving. Oh! how their hearts were light; how they danced and jived, though moon and stars were not shining bright, the while the bells of the orchestra went tinkle-ting.
Source: Covering the Country Districts – the Daily Chronicle – Thursday, December 30, 1948: Page 6.
Posted by: randallbutisingh on: November 1, 2009
Gems from Madhuban
Posted by: randallbutisingh on: October 28, 2009
IS IT ME?
We have this old saying: “time changes”.
To me, time is an abstract, … a constant that measures history in its passage, which helps man to put events, ideas, mundane activities, etc., in a sort of orderly fashion: it enables us to associate happenings with perspective, era, or place. Man has developed by evolution, over millions of years and to us time is timeless and without end into eternity.
We humans always seem to be on the defensive and make-believe that “time changes.” Or maybe we mean “times change”. Well, I keep wondering if it is me who has failed to change or conform to today’s norms, or, since “time changes” I am now held accountable for my failure to adjust accordingly to the “new times”. To me, the norms I grew up with were better but now I live in a world where rudeness and disorder is the norm.
For instance, when growing up, I had to go by the adage “silence is golden,” or be ostracized. In any public place – a post-office, bank, doctor’s office, lobbies, etc, it was expected and in some cases demanded to be polite, and speak softly when called upon to do so. Today, rudeness is in fashion, and almost everyone: young, old, male, female: all seem to act as if they were born with cell phones stuck in their ears, incessantly babbling, and inconsiderate of others.
I remember when reading was required and was the order of the day. Now I see signs in post offices asking that customers refrain from using cell phones, and guess what? One can hear their loud cell phone conversations from one end of the building to the other, paying no attention to the posted signs. Sometimes I try to read in doctors’ offices and other waiting rooms, but this is difficult when bombarded by loudmouthed individuals.
As a kid, when I ran out of books I read labels on packages and cans, advertisements and anything legible. My classmates and I played games in school finding cities of distant countries listed in the atlas, and looking up strange words in the Oxford Dictionary. Nowadays, in contrast, I see parents assisting children in video and cyberspace, games in offices and waiting rooms. No more reading of books or in pursuit of good literature. At home the children live on Facebook, the Internet, cell phones, or again in cyberspace.
No wonder President Obama wants to bring U.S students up to par with the more educationally advanced students of other countries. Good luck Sir! American youngsters can tell much about baseball and football stars, American idol, Yankee pitchers, Deco Drive and Dancing with the Stars. Ask them about Socrates or Plato, Shakespeare or Dickens, Longfellow or Samuel Clemens and they will ask: “what planet are you from”?
For instance, a High School senior could not add 50+15+35 cents for purchases that he made. He threw out a couple of dollars in coins and asked the cashier if it were enough for his items; other senior students could not locate the capital of England on a map. A college student asked his professor for permission to use “The Godfather” to do a book report. I could not make any of this up. The ignorance of the typical so-called “educated” American is amazing.
I had to say please and thank you and still do. My playtime was real sports or physical games, not shooting men or fighting wars in video games. We had to be accountable to our guardians for our whereabouts at all times, and smoking and drinking for pre-teens and teenagers were taboo, until age eighteen or better. Somewhere along the way society lost control, good manners and etiquette were out the back door. Parents or guardians are solely responsible, NOT TEACHERS.
When children beget children, and BBC boasts about the world’s youngest father, age twelve, in England, with a fifteen year old girl being the mother, and feature men with their underwear hanging out almost fully, it’s time to say “beam me up Scotty.” Society is so hypocritical that they address the underwear issue as “droopy pants.” It is a disgusting, shameless, and quite unhygienic problem. Quit the “droopy pants” nonsense, and describe it for what it is: indecency verging on lewdness. We use deceitful words in order to avoid confrontation, so the rot continues.
Motorists, trying to make right turns, cut me off on the road, I look around, and there is not a single vehicle behind me for about a quarter of a mile. I believe the same ones, instead of stopping short of the pedestrian crossing line, go right over, leaving no safe path for pedestrians. They see red lights and mistake them for green, and some tailgate so badly it seems as if they are sitting on your back seat. All right, all right, it’s just me bellyaching. I know it is my entire fault for not following the new norms, and sidestepping mores, “it is me!”
In his classic, “The Stranger” (L’ Etranger,) Albert Camus states that society deems any man a criminal, who does not cry at his mother’s funeral. Yes, it’s me. And I did not cry at my mother’s funeral: …… I was too young.
- Patanjali Ramlall – Guest Contributor
Posted by: randallbutisingh on: October 26, 2009
I’ve traveled this world far and wide
Seeking something I thought I could find
Loneliness, solitary companion by my side
I had hopes for answers to things on my mind
O’er the mountains and through deep valleys
Beneath sparkling fountains and in dark alleys
My weary feet have had to toil
As I traversed this earth’s soil
Searching for a reason to live, a hope for tomorrow
A world without sorrow
But more I traveled more I marveled
At a world full of cruelty
At man’s inhumanity
As I look around me
All I can see
Are men yearning to be free
More questions than answers
Violence and pollution
Problems beyond solution
A world full of sin
The world I’m living in
Yet will I trudge on
From dawn till sunset
From sunset till morn
Till I find what I seek
A reason to live
Comfort for the meek
Someone to forgive
“Fore my life comes to an end
There’s something I must find
So I can tell you, my friend
Answers to things on my mind
In a world of futility
A world full of cruelty
Posted by: randallbutisingh on: October 26, 2009
Sickness and disease are caused, not only by what we eat or how we eat, or by lack of exercise and adequate rest, though these contribute a great deal, but also to the negative emotions like hate, anger, malice jealousy, bitterness and the like.
There is an Indian saying which goes: “HASAD KEE AAG BADAN KO JALAATAA HAI JAISE AAG LAKREE KA”. This translates to mean: “The fire of malice consumes the body in the same way as fire consumes wood”. That may seem an exaggeration, but negative emotions do not only harm you physically, but they warp the wind and corrupt the morals. Hate too, corrodes the vessel that contains it and also disfigures the object on which it is poured.
Nothing is better medicine than cheerfulness, laughter, thankfulness, content, loving service and prayer from the heart. Carrying guilt too, is harmful; we can never undo what is done already. Confess, repent and ask forgiveness and move forward with a clear conscience; for though you may carry the scar of your past, the wound is healed. God, who is of the present, will know you as you are, and not what you were. It is fallible man who digs into your past to condemn you for what you are not.
Temperance too, is good medicine. So get wise, get in good company without which you can never acquire discrimination, and think loftily at all times. It was Sir Philip Sydney, that compassionate soul who said: “He is never alone who is accompanied with noble thoughts”.
To sumarise: Health is Simple living and Lofty thinking.
- Randall Butisingh.
