Grace Notes @ Snarkattack

Both my parents are postcolonials.

In terms of personal identity, sometimes it really fucks me up.

Other times it seems fantastic because it means I belong to several different cultures (Indian, British, Filipino, Spanish, Australian).

Anyway, I’m posting a note that a cousin of mine wrote. He lives in Canada, and unlike me, both his parents are Guyanese-born (Asian) Indian. He had a lot of interesting things to say about a trip to Guyana (my father refuses to take myself and my brother there, for reasons my cousin mentions). It reminded me a lot of my visits to the Philippines (my mother’s birthplace) where I’ve made similar such observations.

Rum, Family and Jungle

Take a colonial power (England). Then take thousands of indentured slaves from their homes in India (my great great grandparents). Go to Africa and take thousands more. Plop them onto a piece of land, make them toil for decades, then breed racism between the two classes of slaves, subtract the colonial power and what do you get?

The Republic of Guyana, birthplace of my parents.

Despite the warnings from the Canadian Government that ¨travel to Guyana is not advised due to safety concerns,¨my brother, father and I found ourselves landing on a narrow strip of concrete that constitued an airstrip in Georgetown, Guyana.

Before this trip, Guyana was simply a place on a map where I could tell people my parents were from.

My family in Guyana lives in poverty. According to Western standards, anyways. At first, I found it difficult to completely comprehend. But my family wasn´t despairing, or worried about what they didn´t have. Life was life, and they lived it differently.

Our culture, with it´s preoccupation with ¨stuff¨(material things), was replaced with a culture of giving. I have never drank so much rum (welcome to Guyana), ate so much food (three times we ate 7 different types of curry… out of a massive leaf), and felt so much love from strangers who my father told us was family.

We spent long nights on the porch of the house of my great grandfather listening to Dad tell tales of his childhood, while swatting mosquitoes and sipping sugar cane juice. We took walks along the sea-wall, where he and his friends used to play cricket when the tide was out and visited the trenches where they used to bathe, fish and run from Anacondas and Aligators.

My Dad recounted how before the British gave Guyana it´s independence, they instigated hate between the Indian and African people who were previously in harmony with each other. Villages segregated themselves according to color, and to venture through the other races village could mean death. Today, that segregation still occurs with all-Black or all-Brown schools, and the two major political parties being composed mainly of persons from one color. Although it may not be ¨right¨or ¨fair¨, as many Guyanese would say, ¨that is life.¨

Guyana is a land untouched by foreign investment, tourism and heck, even a decent road to another country. Chock full of mosquitoes, jungle, fruits I will never be able to pronounce, and family I may never see again, it is largely an entity in itself.

And to me, it´s no longer just a place on a map.

To me, it´s both the beauty of the people and the problems of the nation give it the unique flavor that is Guyana.

To me, it´s a second home.

Live the Dream
Love Ravi
(Thanks for the adventure Dad)

*** Currently, I´m finding my way out of Colombia to aide an animal rescue centre deep in the jungles of Ecuador. A place with no internet, but if you write I will reply sometime! ***

It’s going to be great to see these relatives when they come to Australia for my brother’s wedding.