Stories of My Own: Reflections from My Trip to Guyana

By: Bridgette Jeonarine

It’s 4:05PM on a fairly quiet Sunday afternoon in Blackbush Polder, Guyana. The sun is beaming down on me, nearby a goat is grazing lazily in the shade, and I hear my poowah (paternal aunt) calling out to someone in our travel bus, her voice carrying over the sway of the coconut trees. However, all I can focus on is the house lot in front of me.

In the Yakusari village of Guyana’s Region 6, lies a seemingly old broken down house; the color of the wood is fading, the stairs have lost foundation and the concrete is littered with cracks and years of weathering.

I stand there for a moment trying to reconcile the crumbling structure in front of me with everything I’d only heard second-hand. This was the house where my father grew up–the one my cousins would bring up in late night stories at family gatherings, always recounting their fondest moments with my father and grandparents. This was where my aaji and aaja had laid, two people I never got the chance to meet, whose faces I only know from photographs. There were decades of stories embedded onto the wood, and as the youngest child of the youngest child, I loathed the distance time had created by being born too late for any of it.

But if that house was where I finally began to grasp how many memories I’d never been part of, the rest of my trip was my attempt to create my own.

Walking through the roads of the Port Murant, Berbice, after my late chacha’s (paternal uncle) shraad, (hindu one year death ceremony) grief and gratitude tangled together. Grief has a way of pulling people closer together, and in that closeness I found forever memories and bonds. It was in these quiet moments, walking alongside my extended family members, reminiscing about our day and making plans for next, that I felt a sense of belonging.

One morning, not long after a trip to Port Murant Market, we got a call from my cousin that there was a man in front of their house selling “hard-head” curass and fresh snapper. Of course, nothing beats fresh fish so within minutes we were all gathered outside laughing over which cuts we wanted to keep. We spent the rest of the afternoon sitting in a circle, trading stories, as my cousin expertly parceled off the fish to freeze ahead.

The month of June brought a copious amount of rain entirely flooding the rice fields. Still, flooded or not, being able to firsthand experience and understand, even briefly, the work that had laid the foundation for the life I have, meant more than any picture perfect trip.

Growing up, it always felt as though Guyana was simply a country where my extended family members resided, not actually a vacation spot. Though severely underrated in the tourism department, I was able to visit some amazing sites such as the blue water lagoon in Linden and the newly reconstrued Skeldon Park.

These locations showcased the hidden beauty of Guyana and gave me a new appreciation for the country outside of just a family reunion.

Though Berbice might be what most picture when envisioning Guyana, being able to see the diverse parts of this country is what truly made my trip. Unlike the Berbician rice fields and free animal roaming, Georgetown held an urban feel—more cars, lively nightlife and modern department and grocery stores. In the capital of Georgetown, Indian restaurant Aagman served some very comforting cuisine (Butter Chicken, Garlic Naan, Rasmalia, Jalebi), reminding me that the country was bigger than the small pocket I had grown up hearing about.

Now that I have been able to experience Guyana with my parents, but also with my many extended family members, it holds a more permanent place in my heart. Growing up, I used to go through phases of feeling very connected to Guyanese culture whether it be through music, food, religion and also feeling like an outsider, especially when I lost connection with some of my cousins due to age and time. Being at my aaja’s house brought up emotions that I had suppressed over the years–the tension between me and the age gap between my extended family members.

I wished I had been able to know my paternal grandparents, to see my cousins grow up, to be more intertwined with my “motherland.” I know that this separation was ultimately out of my control, but as I grow older and realize just how many of my family members are so far away from me, both in distance and the years we missed together, I cherish these smaller moments where we are able to connect, laugh and simply exist in each other’s presence.

As I continue to balance my career goals with my longing to stay close to my home and culture, I realize that belonging does not necessarily come in the form of proximity but in showing up when it matters and never letting the location difference define how much I care.