Walk About: Searching for the Epic Life a Guyanese Memoir

By Rory I. Jagdeo

Rory I. Jagdeo lost his brother Steve to COVID-19 and was inspired to write this story of leaving Guyana at almost twenty years old, boarding an airplane for the first time to Toronto, Canada.
It was an unlikely journey for a man with such humble beginnings—a man whose great-grandparents were taken from India to work on a sugar plantation as indentured servants in the late 1800s.
In this autobiography, he looks back at his boyhood and adolescence growing up in a village called Fyrish on the Northeastern coast of Guyana, a country on South America’s North Atlantic coast and how life changed when he went to college in Toronto. From there, he highlights his life’s challenges, pleasures, and close calls.
While his life has been challenging, he has never given up. With hard work, he has followed destiny’s path and explored the pleasures of life.
From his life as a musician and recording artist, to his adventures traveling, to his romantic exploits and time as a caregiver, the author celebrates his incredible life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Oct 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781480897618

Rory I. Jagdeo

Rory I. Jagdeo is a singer/songwriter and street musician with a passion for the harmonica. He has recorded three albums and loves performing classic cover songs. He retired after more than twenty-five years in the telecommunications field and spends his free-time writing songs and memoirs, birdwatching, feeding cats, facilitating ecstatic dance, and traveling. He lives in Asheville, North Carolina, with his partner and two cats.

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Copyright © 2020 Rory I. Jagdeo.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Author Photograph Credit: Lanie McKeever

ISBN: 978-1-4808-9760-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-9761-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020919960

Archway Publishing rev. date: 10/27/2020

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Introduction

Chapter 1 Leaving Home for Canada

Chapter 2 My Early Beginnings

Chapter 3 Politics and Village life

Chapter 4 My Early School Years

Chapter 5 Boyhood Adventures and Chores

Chapter 6 My Highschool Years

Chapter 7 Technical School and Rock & Roll

Chapter 8 Romance and Village Life

Chapter 9 Fishing and Hunting Adventures

Chapter 10 Ethnic Holiday Adventures

Chapter 11 My Life in Canada

Chapter 12 My Shocking Return to Guyana

Chapter 13 My Wild Life in Suriname

Chapter 14 Penpal in Trinidad, a Military Coup, and a Visit to Guyana

Chapter 15 My Life in New York City

Chapter 16 True Love

Chapter 17 Return to Guyana and Fatherhood

Chapter 18 My Life in Houston, Texas

Chapter 19 Exploring the U.S. and the Netherlands

Chapter 20 Music, Celebrations, Close Calls, and Cancer

Chapter 21 My Time as a Caregiver

Chapter 22 My Father’s Death and New Beginnings

Chapter 23 My Life in Boone, North Carolina

Chapter 24 The Year of Reconnection

Chapter 25 Reflections on the Pandemic and Honoring My Brother’s Life

DEDICATION

For my brother Steve Jagdeo – A Covid-19 Victim

Thank you for the inspiration

For my wife Jeanne Gabel – A Cancer Victim

Thank you for sharing your life with me

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I diligently penned every word in this book during the Covid-19 pandemic lockdown by tapping deep into my long-term memory during the months from May to September of 2020. Knowing my lack of discipline to sit down and write, my partner Lanie was instrumental in giving me that nudge not to give up on this project and teased me when she saw me writing early in the morning or late at night, calling me Hemingway. She made me delicious snacks and good coffee to get my creative urge moving through my fingers as I pecked at the keyboard like a happy red rooster. My gratitude goes out to her for sweetly nagging me to start writing this book so you can all witness my journey and feel my experiences. I graciously want to thank my editor Lanie McKeever for her thoughts, insights, and ability to correct my grammatical mistakes.

I wanted to end this story after I left Guyana at almost twenty years old as I boarded an airplane for the first time to Toronto, Canada. However, many wanted to know what happened to that naive young man as he ventured out into the world. I decided to continue the story, capturing all the unplanned events that have shaped, and continue to shape, my life.

You will notice that I went into great detail documenting my road trips. This is because they are very special to me. They are the times when time slows down for me and when I can forget about all my responsibilities and be free inside. Road trips and sightseeing are so important. They help me touch the fabric of evolution and the world at large. When I witness these wonders that we have here on Earth, I can see how insignificant and minute I am in the big scheme of things. If anything, exploring the world can help us love our fellow human beings and bring peace and connection.

The journey of my life has been challenging but I have never given up. With hard work, I have followed destiny’s path and explored all the pleasures of life as it has unfolded throughout the years. I am forever grateful for all the people I have encountered in this matrix of connection. My goal is to continue to explore this matrix until I take to the astral plane on my last breath of life. I sincerely want to extend my thanks to my extended family, my children, and my beautiful grandchildren: I love you with all my heart. My special wish is for God’s grace to keep my mother safe and to bless her with good health so she can continue to embrace her children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren with love and affection.

INTRODUCTION

It was a cool and pleasant afternoon in Boone, North Carolina in May of 2020 when all of a sudden, I felt inspired to write the story of my life’s journey. The desire to write all of it down has been a heavy burden and I have wanted to do this for a very long time. Many of my American friends have encouraged me over the years to do it, especially when I would share extracts of where I was born and how I lived life in a tiny village called Fyrish on the Northern coast of Guyana in South America. They all found my life exceptionally interesting and were fascinated by the events they didn’t hear every day.

The motivation came when my brother Steve passed away on April 28, 2020 as a result of Covid-19. He was a full gospel Evangelist and pastor of his church and was respected all over the world. This was quite heartbreaking because he had just retired six months prior from the New York Transit after working there for 25 years. Family members tried to justify his death by saying that his mission was over. However, I don’t think so because he had so many plans and a vision that was very personal to his well-being. How do we justify death and the dark feelings we suffer? Even with the passing of time, the scar of his death, as well as others in my life, still haunt me. I know we are stronger than death and must face it with full force to live through it and move forward. My mother has been crying every day for months now as I try to console her with words of kindness and encouragement and to experience the goodness of Steve. As I sat down to write my story, I have realized that life is too short. I felt an urgency to share my story and to capture some of the essence of what life was like growing up in a strange land.

I turned 65 on December 10, 2019 and I believe that I had to get to that number in order to feel motivated enough to open my heart, tap into my memory, and just let it fly. I lost my wife to cancer on December 20, 2015 and my father on January 30, 2016. These two incidents also made me realize that I needed to share these thoughts with you, and most importantly, with my two kids and grandchildren. I want them to know who I am and what my journey was like. My son Peter and my daughter Melanie were born in the USA and have never seen my home country. Maybe I was too caught up in the system of working, raising a family, and going to night school to take the time to make that trip. I know that is not a good excuse, but perhaps it is never too late. I made a trip back to Guyana in January of 2019 after being absent for almost 34 years.

A lot had changed in Guyana but the feeling was still the same. The smell of the humid air and the burning heat of the sun awakened my senses as I saw myself as a little boy running in the swamps. I had decided last minute to accompany my brother Oscar on his yearly pilgrimage to the home country. He was quite excited to take me around to the old haunts and to connect with people I barely knew. Old stories surfaced and we reminisced about folks we knew and who had passed away.

I do not consider myself to have the eloquent expressive language of the literary greats, but I will write here in the layman’s language that is easy to read. I tried to encompass my story, touching on different aspects of the social, political, and lifestyle of growing up in a village hidden from the world at large. I even take you on my search for the epic life and how I became a parent; a caregiver; and a musical artist. Our world is changing with the onset of the Covid-19 pandemic. It is my greatest wish deep in my heart for life to return to normal and to reclaim the freedom to live without a mask.

ONE

LEAVING HOME FOR CANADA

It was a hot tropical friday evening in September of 1974; the air was thick and very humid and I was having a farewell party in a rum shop (bar) in our village. Cecil was the owner and he was cool enough to let us occupy a booth, even though we were in our late teens. In Guyana, there were no age restrictions implemented as to when we could drink; it was determined more or less by your parents. There were about ten of us, but the names and faces I recall were of Val (who currently lives in Suriname), Kailan (in New Jersey), Zubeer Z (recently deceased), and Eugene Grimes (who sadly died of a broken heart).

I was leaving for Toronto, Canada that Sunday, September 15, 1974. I was almost 20 years old, standing five foot eight inches tall, one hundred and fifteen pounds, and very dark and skinny. I was about to attend the Radio College of Canada and felt both excitement and sadness as it was the first time I was leaving home and the first time flying on jet plane.

I had just finished a two-year apprenticeship at the New Amsterdam Technical Institute in July 1974 in Electrical Practice and Installation. I even passed my City and Guilds of London Institute—a certificate that is recognized in all of the British Commonwealth. Prior to this, I had completed high school quite young at 16 and had passed 5 subjects in the General Certificate Examination (GCE) ‘O’ Levels from the London Institute. In those days, in order to graduate from high school, you had to write the same exams that the kids from England took. The written tests were taken in Guyana and all of our work was sent to London to be graded. During the August holidays, we would get so stressed out waiting for the results. English was the main subject to pass in order to find employment as a teacher. Unfortunately, I wrote English three times and failed so miserably that I gave up on this.

We ordered a bottle of rum and a few bottles of sodas for mixing. In those days when you go to a rum shop, you can only buy in quarter, half, or a full bottle. We poured our first and last drinks together that night locked in brotherly love. I still remember that very taste and the sad feelings of leaving my friends. Val had brought his guitar and we were all ready to party. Val, Z, and Grimes, could play quite well. I had been mentored by Grimes and I truly had a love for the instrument. We sang Leaving on a Jet Plane a thousand times at the top of our voices; people in the bar were loving every minute of it. We also played House of the Rising Sun and a few Beatles songs as well.

We shared so many funny stories and, feeling slightly intoxicated, I cried a few times from laughter. There were also a few times when I felt panic seeping into my soul as I questioned why my parents wanted me to go to school so far away in Toronto. When I look back now, I feel that I was very young and naïve at 19 years old. I was not ready for this big step. The expectations of my parents were that I would eventually gain residency through employment or marriage and maybe one day take them over there for a better life than what was offered in Guyana. Well, that never quite happened, but we’ll get to it.

Saturday night came quickly and it was my last night home. We had to leave at 4 a.m. in the morning for the airport. It was quite far to travel to the airport from where I lived. We had to get to the Stelling and wait in line with all the other cars to cross the Berbice River. The name of the boat was Torani. Many Guyanese livelihoods depended on this boat crossing. It was put in service during the British colonial rule. It was usually a joyful time for me when crossing on this ferry because I could look out the huge windows and see the city of New Amsterdam fading away in a distance. My mother was busy packing my suitcase and my father was finalizing the agreement with a private car owner to take us. In those days, you were at the mercy of people who owned a car and they would charge a hefty fee for this service. I saw my mother neatly fold my two pair of pants—a light blue and white one that I wore to play cricket as part of the uniform, a few shirts, underwear, and few socks. I had no sweater or winter coat. I had no idea what was required in Canada during the month of September. She put aside my black pair of pants and a light blue shirt which was even too big for me, a tie, and my brown leather shoes for my travelling outfit. This was all I had since I grew up in Guyana where the temperature is always over 80 degrees year-round and very humid with the blazing hot sun in the tropical sky. It would be a culture shock to feel the first blast of cold air against my face.

It was the first time in my life praying for the night to never end. I couldn’t sleep and tears were pouring non-stop from my eyes. I was the eldest of ten children. My brother Steve, Oscar, Burt, and myself all slept on one bed. My five sisters: Grace, Maxieen, Debra, Cheryl, and Marcelle slept on the floor on rice bags spread out and covered with blankets in the other room. My little brother Cliff, who was almost three years old, slept in his crib with my mother and father. I was so attached to him because I used to watch over him and feed him to help out my mother who worked tirelessly like a slave to take care of all of us.

I tossed and turned all night—a few times, I even dreamt that the trip was cancelled and I wasn’t leaving and I felt happy. Then I realized it was only a dream. I remember looking around the room, watching my brothers all sleeping; my tears just kept on flowing. I was beginning to panic and wanted to tell my parents that I was not going, but I was too afraid to break my commitment. They had spent quite lot of their savings to get me this far along with the efforts I had to put in to get my visa. There were the police and income tax clearances, medical certificate, and airline ticket with BWIA (British West Indies Airlines). All were a big sacrifice for my family.

Around 3 a.m., my mother and father were awake and getting ready. I remember my mother preparing a picnic basket with delicious foods, including roti and chicken curry. My father made sure the liquor, soft drinks, and glasses were packed. For them it was a celebration, but deep inside I know they were sad too that I was leaving home. My mother was especially taking it hard because I had never cooked or washed my own clothes; she was worried about how I would cope on my own. Later in life, she told me she had regretted sending me away because I was so naïve and innocent and was not able to bond closely with my other siblings. I took a cold shower in the outside bathroom using a bucket of water I had left out the evening before. There was no electricity, but I was used to finding my way in the dark. Getting dressed was slow and torturous; my body was shaking and I had to drink some hot tea to calm myself down.

The car arrived at precisely 4 a.m. My grandmother and grandfather from my mother’s side came over together with my uncle—they lived opposite our house. My other grandmother from my father’s side also came over—she was about five minutes walking distance from us. They were all going to the airport. Together, we had eight people packed into this car which was the norm. My small suitcase, shoulder bag, and all the food and drinks were packed in the trunk and everyone was waiting for me to join them on the road. I stood motionless over my little brother Cliff in his crib before I picked him up and hugged and kissed him with tears pouring from my eyes. I couldn’t remember if my other brothers were awake or not—if they were, I probably hugged them too. My eldest sister, Grace, was there to say goodbye as she had to take care of Cliff while everyone was away. I reluctantly ran my hands over the surface of the bedroom walls and doors and the bulky red radio with AM and SW (short wave) bands sitting on a shelf that I was so fond of. I slowly walked to the car, squeezed myself between my mother and father in the front bench seat of the old Morris Oxford, dried my tears, and quietly tried to come to grips with my fears. I closed my eyes and prepared myself to face the unknown. As the engine cranked up and the gears set the car into motion, I took a long look back at our house, watching it fade away in the distance.

TWO

MY EARLY BEGINNINGS

My story has an early beginning starting after the abolition of Negro slavery in Guyana in the year 1834, when a new era began with the importation of indentured servants known as coolies from India starting around 1838 and ending in 1917 to replace the Negro labor force. The British recruited men, women, and children of all age groups using devious methods by promising a world of paradise and a better life overall. Instead, they were brought on steam ships (for example, the SS Ganges—you can find photo of this ship in archives) on a journey that took many months. Approximately 12 to 17 percent of the new recruits died on the way, so basically it was the survival of the fittest. About 238,000 Indians were brought to Guyana during that period as they stepped off the ship barefoot with few possessions to replace the newly emancipated slaves on the sugar plantation. Many of the men had left their wives and signed a contract for five years, hoping to eventually return. The women who came were poor, single, young or widowed, and were considered outcast. Some came as a family unit and some were allowed to live together in housing close to the sugar plantations. My great-grandparents came as children and grew up with the plantation lifestyle.

The plantation life was extremely hard for the new recruits, toiling in the tropical heat without proper food and water. Many died of diseases, suicide, and some even tried to run away. In some cases, there were strikes and some were punished by whipping. Because they were considered indentured servants, they were paid cheaply for their labor. As the system became more relaxed, they were able to lease pieces of land or, in some cases, buy close to the plantation. Eventually, villages were formed and communities were established so that the traditions, especially religions, such as Hinduism and Muslim were maintained. The British plantation owners allowed the families to live together and maintain their traditions in order to prevent uprisings.

At this time, the Indians lived in harmony with the Negroes who were previously slaves and who shared a common desire to one day be independent. Starting from the early 1950s, Guyana was ruled by a three party system: People’s Progressive Party (PPP) ruled by Jagan who appealed more to the Indo-Guyanese; People’s National Congress (PNC) ruled by Burnham that represented the Afro-Guyanese; and the United Force (UF), a small conservative party ruled by a wealthy Portuguese businessman who drew support from the Roman Catholic Church, the small Portuguese, Chinese, and Amerindian populations. The PPP was branded as communist at the time but has evolved to embrace democratic principles while the PNC pledged to bring socialism and committed to the nationalization of foreign-owned businesses and to government control of the economy. Even though a local ruler was leading the government, it was still under the watchful eye of the British until Guyana was given independence. There were many conflicts during the elections for a new government and major strikes from 1962 to 1964 took place. Fast forward to May 26, 1966, when the British gave Guyana its independence, many of the existing infrastructures were destroyed or replaced by the new government (for the worse in many cases). For example, the passenger railway that I adored was replaced with two lane freeways that are not particularly safe. Socialism was introduced and sugar, rice, bauxite, and other mining industries were nationalized. The motto was to buy local and many foreign goods were banned. The ruling PNC party was in power during the 1978 Jamestown massacres that drew wide international attention and criticism.

My great grandparents, as I mentioned, were children raised on the plantation and their marriages were matched. My father’s side came from Ramdhan Kanhai and Bucky having three children—two sons: Bhola, Doman, and a daughter, Chillery. Bhola married my grandmother Basmattie (whom I don’t have much information about) and they had seven kids: Sumintra (deceased), Leslie (deceased), Jagdeo—my father (deceased), Joycie (deceased), Isaac (currently in London), Jacob (currently in Scotland), and Finey (currently in Guyana). I never got to meet my grandfather Bhola who died quite young by falling from a mango tree and breaking his neck. I heard he was quite muscular and tall, over six feet, while my grandmother, Basmattie was barely five feet tall, dark and very pretty. I was told that my great grandmother Bucky worked tirelessly helping my grandmother Basmattie raise her seven children. I have many fond memories with my grandmother which I will share later. My father, Jagdeo, was the third child in that line and lived to a ripe old age of 82. He passed away on January 30, 2016.

My mother’s side began with my great grandparents Ramberrose and Latchia, who as children, grew up and found themselves in a matched marriage. They had seven children and my grandmother Janey was the 3rd child. My grandfather was Ram (Jogie) Jaggernauth and he was the youngest of four sons whose parents were Jaggernauth and Jasmin. He married my grandmother Janey in an arranged marriage, an arrangement I was told, that was very complicated. However, they had five sons and three daughters, namely Doodnauth (deceased), Bindu (currently in Brooklyn), Parasnauth (currently in Florida), Ricknauth (deceased), Amo (currently in Guyana), Elaine (deceased), and Samuel (currently in Queens, NY). My mother, Bindu, was their second child.

I would also like to mention here that their fifth child, Ricknauth, was a September 11th victim in the World Trade Center in New York. He was a craftsman who happened to be on the 104th floor in one of those buildings and never made it out. This loss was devastating to our family and one that we will never forget. He was a special man and we grieve for him every year during the 9-11 anniversary. I grew up knowing him during the first 20 years of my life since he lived opposite our house. We went to the farm many times with my grandfather Jogie’s donkey cart to fetch wood for cooking and to gather mangoes as a reward. I remember him being the first person in the village to own a reel-to-reel tape recorder in the late sixties. We were able to use a mic and tape our voices which, at the time, felt like magic. He encouraged me to play the harmonica and would even summon me to play when drinking with his friends in the ballfield, rewarding me with ten or twenty-five cents. I even remember when he got married in a Hindu wedding and the entire week’s festival while I was still in primary school. We all miss him so much.

My mother Bindu was born on February 23, 1936, in a village called Bengal and later on moved to Fyrish Village after her parents acquired some land and was able to build a wooden house. She was exceptionally brilliant in school and was a top student all the way to Six Standard which is comparable to grade 9. She was taken out of school to help with the younger siblings as her parents were working full-time at the Albion Sugar Plantation. Her mother, Janey, was a weeder. She used a very narrow machete to clear the brushes along the canals used to transport sugar cane in punts or iron barges. She would also work manicuring the grounds of the overseers and managers who lived in a special compound. My grandfather, Jogie, was a laborer and an expert with the shovel. His job was to keep the canals cleared and maintained and also made drains for irrigation in the cane fields. Both my grandparents spent the