EPISODE 3 : THE UNEVEN TENOR OF OUR DAYS

One morning, in the middle of a drill session, Hazel came in to the kitchen puffing and panting looking like death warmed up.

She flopped down on the dirt floor and cried out in pain. One of the crew quickly handed her a cup of hot coffee and another, a few spoonfuls of black eye peas which she refused. When she had recovered sufficiently to talk, she told this story.

She had been on the drill-square and was in line formation. Who told her to spit on the drill square? The Lieutenant saw her and stopped the drills. He came up to her and commanded that she bend down and suck up her spit. Then she was told to do twenty laps around the drill square. The others could only look on helplessly.

Her distress, when we saw her, was not only from the fatigue of running in the hot morning sun but from the disgust and humiliation she felt from having to suck up the saliva from the drill square.

On another morning as were were having breakfast in the mess hall, Raymond, the only Native Guyanese in our batch, suddenlt shouted.

“Everybody out. LABARIA.”

No one needed to be told what that meant. In half a minute we were all outside. I do not know by what means Raymond “defused” that snake, but he came out with the head in one hand and the body still wriggling in the other. He buried both parts. When asked, he said that were someone to step on the bones, they would still be poisoned.

K. is a Frighten-Freddy. She has no backbone and would faint if she were caught breaking one of the rules. So, after lunch one afternoon, we were in the lecture hall listening to a person giving us a lecture on the “Milestones in Guyanese History.”

There were History majors at UG in the room and to listen to this idiot telling us that the “milestones” were the markers that measured the distances along the highway and the names of the villages in which they were placed was an insult. Any attempt by one of the history majors to correct this ignoramus won him four laps around the drill square.

Now Frighten-Freddy-K. was sitting next to me busily making notes on her yellow pad. I didn’t know what she found so interesting that she had to make notes so I glanced at the note pad. K’s pen was making scratches all over the paper, her chin was propped in her hand, head down but she was far from being academic. She was fast asleep. Too scared to let on that she was sleeping, she was pretending to write. When I nudged her, her face fell flat on the notepad.

FISH:

Late one afternoon, the army truck brought in a load of fish – fifty pounds of snapper. The KC was told to take care of it. That meant ME leading the charge. This one was a head-scratcher. Frying needed oil, salt and flour. There was oil and lots of salt but there was no flour. That was a banned item in Guyana. You, dear reader might recall that.

What to do was the big question. We discussed the matter but all suggestions were of no help. The fish needed to be cooked or go bad. Sargeant was inexplicably absent.

We seasoned the cutlets with salt and lots of black pepper. In the meantime, I filled the huge carahee with oil and set it on the fireside to heat. I would deep fry the fish a few pieces at a time. Believe it or not, it worked. The delicious smell of fried fish filled the air. It must have reached even the Lieutenant.

That night, Heather and I were detailed to do the 12:00 midnight to 2:00 a.m. watch. Half way through the watch, Heather said, “Amna you hungry? Me hungry baad.” So with the huge basket of fried fish fresh in both our minds, I said to her, “Stay here. I coming back.”

I went silently to the kitchen, got a piece of news paper and put my hand into the basket to select. Out of nowhere, a hand with a silver bracelet grabbed my hand to still it with the words, “Leff some fuh me”, said a voice that belonged to Lieutenant. He too had come to steal the fish. He must have been starving because he filled a bowl and then said, “You now.”

I won’t bore you, dear reader with my encounter with the labaria that stretched itself out on the fence by the creek where I was about to throw my bath towel and change of clothing. Nor about the boys on a dare running through the girls’ billet in 5 seconds never mind the girls in various stages of undress, were all there.

I scarcely remember our journey home on the steamer. There was joy, and relief and “ bad-mouthing” enough to entertain a much bigger crowd.

It was enough for me to see the familiar car with the little heads waiting at the Rosignol stelling.

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