When the Singing Stops (3 page)

‘I'm not sure. Well, I guess I do know . . . Geoff, of course. I'm glad it's over but you feel like your skin has been gone over with sandpaper. You feel very exposed and vulnerable. Things creep up on you, you wonder why you didn't read the signs better. I thought we really had it together and I didn't see what happened, what he did to me . . .' her voice trembled, ‘. . . what I did to myself.'

‘Madi, you didn't
do
anything. Maybe you were too nice, too soft. I never understood how you let him walk all over you. Those little zingers he slung at you, so often I wanted to thump him. You were always so apologetic, it made me ill.'

He leaned forward and spoke seriously, ‘Where's my sister? Where's the person I've
always looked up to, who has looked out for me all our lives and I thought nothing could shake her. Where's the fun, gutsy, spunky girl who I thought was going to take on the world?'

Madison's lip trembled and her eyes filled. ‘I don't know, Matt. I wish I did. I've just lost it. My confidence, my self-esteem, he trampled on me . . . He told me so often I was worthless, I'd never be anything . . .'

‘He was just trying to make himself feel good and powerful and boost himself by putting you down. Madi, you've held a good job, a responsible job . . . for years.'

They paused while the waitress placed Madi's coffee in front of her and Matthew gave their lunch order.

‘You're right,' Madison admitted. ‘My job at the hotel has been my lifeline. Marketing and promotion can be hard work. But I'd have gone crazy without that.'

Like her brother she'd been an achiever. Graduating from Sydney University with a BA in business administration and marketing, she'd gone into the hospitality industry, getting in on the ground floor of a new international hotel and quickly showed a natural flair for promotion. She had fresh, attention-grabbing ideas and her job description had become more elastic as her opinion was sought on various aspects of promoting the hotel and its services as well as its corporate image.

She was a respected executive and dressed
accordingly in subtle suits—some with short skirts, others with well-cut pants. Today she was a complete contrast in a short white cotton skirt and blue and white striped tank top.

Matthew put his hand on hers. ‘The hotel must value you and it's part of an international group. Go to the manager and tell him you want a transfer for personal reasons. Do they know about the divorce?'

She shook her head. ‘No. I never let it interfere with my work. I mean it wasn't like he was bashing me. I felt it was sort of admitting I'd failed and would diminish me in their eyes.'

‘Oh Madi, I wish you'd shared more of this at the time. I don't think I really knew how hard it was for you. He bashed you up pretty well emotionally.'

‘Well, it's over now. And you've been, are being, such a help.' Her face brightened and she gave a stronger smile.

‘So, are you going to do what I suggest?'

‘I'll think about it. It seems a big step. To be truthful I think I'd like a holiday . . . away from multi-star hotels. That's my work.'

‘Want to hear my big news?' He sipped his coffee.

‘A new girl?'

‘Nope. I'm going overseas again.'

‘Oh, Matt!' She couldn't hide her disappointment. She'd come to rely on Matthew for brotherly support as well as his company. ‘I'm shattered. When? Where?'

‘Guyana.' He laughed at her puzzled expression. ‘Sit back and I'll fill you in on the place. I've become an expert—since yesterday. Boy, it's some story!'

‘Start with where it is.'

‘South America, but the people are more Caribbean/West Indian. There's a lot of African influence from the slaves who were brought in for the sugar plantations. The country was held by the Dutch, the British, the French, reclaimed by Britain to become British Guiana and is now Guyana. The capital is Georgetown. The country became an independent republic in 1966 and now its population is roughly eight hundred thousand people, but there are six races and they all drink rum.'

‘From the sugar . . . what else does the place have?'

‘Not much by the sound of things. It has a spectacular jungle interior but it's never been developed. The joint was stuck at an amber light for thirty years under Forbes Burnham the socialist prime minister, later president. He formed his own party and courted western governments who were afraid the place was turning communist and would become a Cuban satellite. So he got the usual American backing, promptly rigged elections, became a dictator and ran the country downhill into debt and disrepute. He died in 1985—and boy, is that a saga in itself. The place still hasn't recovered under the new democratic government, despite its
good intentions. Corruption is ingrained and there's no money to aid recovery. It's going to be a slow process.'

‘What's the saga about the poor old dictator dying?'

‘The report we were given reads like a part farce, part thriller.'

‘Tell me.'

‘Forbes Burnham went into hospital in Georgetown to have an operation on his throat because he'd had problems and had to speak at a huge rally celebrating the freeing of the African slaves—he was African. So he flew in specialist doctors from Cuba, refusing to trust the local doctors. Apparently he thought himself invincible so he rejected the normal pre-op tests and sailed into the hospital the morning of the operation. The Cuban doctors had no idea he'd had a heart attack in 1977, and right after the operation his heart stopped. What happened after that has become part of Guyanese legend . . . to the effect that they rushed to the cupboard to get a resuscitation machine. It was locked. No one knew who had a key, so they broke into it only to find the equipment had been stolen. Burnham died of cardiac failure, a victim of the sort of bureaucratic breakdown he'd let flourish. The doctors were rushed straight out of the country to avoid an investigation. And in the official announcement of the death, all celebrations and parties were banned.'

‘You mean people were pleased?'

‘Seems it was more like relief, they were fed up. Apparently, when the news was broadcast over the public address system of a shopping mall in Miami, all the Guyanese migrants there started dancing and cheering. Anyway, Burnham was buried with pomp and ceremony. Then his followers decided the body should be exhumed and embalmed and placed in a mausoleum in the Botanic Gardens like Lenin in Russia, so that future generations could see him laid out to rest.' Matthew paused as the waitress arrived with their meal.

‘At first they planned to parade the body in an open gun carriage through the city—this place is just above the equator remember. And at the morgue, they'd had an electricity breakdown. Anyway the funeral procession got under way in the cool of the afternoon and was attended by huge crowds. Then the body was rushed back to the mortuary where the refrigeration was now functioning again.'

Matthew glanced at Madi who held a mouthful of food on her fork in mid-air, a look of disbelief and amusement on her face. ‘Go on.'

‘It then took ten days just to get the body out of Guyana, to be flown to Russia for the embalming. It was a bureaucratic nightmare. It went via Cuba, where apparently the coffin was handled by Havana officials who had no respect for the occupant's former role of office. So the departed PM turns up in Moscow three weeks after his demise. Meanwhile there was a flurry
to build the grand mausoleum in the Botanic Gardens at a cost to the country of two million dollars. However, the budget didn't cover air-conditioning or a back-up generator to cool the temperature in the chamber for a body on display. Other factors like security and maintenance of the electrical equipment were also overlooked. Meanwhile Burnham's party was splitting into an ideology faction on one side and a pragmatic faction with a sense of new order on the other. So at the end of 1986, more than twelve months after his death, Forbes Burnham's remains were buried in a modest ceremony, at the site of The Seven Ponds in the Botanic Gardens and there he apparently—and finally—rests.'

Madi shook her head, rather bemused as she fussed with her salad. ‘Why on earth would your company want to go there?'

‘It's an initiative of the International Funding Organisation. There's an IFO official—incidentally, he's an Australian—already there. Apparently he's decided this bauxite mine, called Guyminco, is worth rehabilitating. Now he's taking tenders from consultants and that's where we come in. Stewart Johns our CEO thinks it's just what we need to keep us out of trouble.'

‘And you're looking forward to this assignment?'

‘Yeah, you know me, I love to travel. Unlike most people, I get to spend extended time in a
country, tap into the people and the place. Apparently that's what hooked Johns. He went there for a quiet recce before deciding whether we should tender. He told me after the briefing that the place has a magic about it. Especially the people. Despite the problems he thinks we'll enjoy it. A stimulating challenge as he put it. He also told me to be sure and tick the NO box on the visa form that asks, Do you intend to preach?'

‘Whatever for?'

‘Remember the terrible incident of the Reverend Jim Jones from San Francisco and his 900 followers who ended up committing mass suicide after the murder of a US congressman?'

Madison raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh, right. Preachers not welcome, huh?'

‘Not really. They never did figure out what sort of a deal he did with Burnham to set up Jonestown. No inquiry was ever held and no one knows what happened to all the money and valuables supposedly kept at the People's Temple.'

‘I wonder what's left now?'

‘Since 1978 . . . not much, I guess. Anyway the place was in the middle of nowhere, near the Venezuelan border, so Johns says.'

‘Well, it sounds extraordinary. How rough are the living conditions?'

‘Hard to say, I'll be out at the mine site a lot of the time, that's some way out of the city. Though I'll have a base in the town. I'll need to
liaise with government officials and the like. Probably share a house with Kevin Blanchard, our engineer. Johns will stay at the mine. Georgetown's not too safe, certainly not a tourist destination like most of the Caribbean. And there's Brazil and the great Amazon River at the back door. You know who did go there?'

Madison shook her head.

‘Sir Walter Raleigh. He went there looking for the fabled lost city of gold, El Dorado.'

‘You're joking!'

‘I'm going to find his book and read it. He wrote about his expedition, how he was lured there by a story about a “golden man”.'

‘Who was he?'

‘Some ancient king whose wife and daughter drowned themselves in a lake because he mistreated them. To appease the gods and bring them back, the king painted himself with gold dust and threw gold into the middle of the lake. This became part of the legend of El Dorado, the Golden City. Raleigh didn't find the lake or the gold but he wrote glowingly of what is now Guyana. Who knows . . . it's kind of fun to think there could still be a lost city of gold somewhere in the rainforest.'

‘I can just see you doing a little gold prospecting on weekends. Sounds like our own Lasseter's Reef . . . truth or myth, it's still a good story,' laughed Madison, her troubles now forgotten as Matthew enthused about his new challenge.

‘Well, we know there's gold there. And diamonds. Probably all sorts of minerals. But being mostly rainforest jungle, it's hard to get at.'

‘Why not leave it there?'

‘The country is poor, if it has rich resources they should be utilised . . . in a responsible manner, of course,' he hastened to add, aware of his sister's sympathy for ‘green' politics. ‘Let's not get into a philosophical environmental debate.'

‘I know the mining industry is your life but I always thought you had a sensitive side and didn't approve of what some companies got up to.'

‘Some
companies, sis. Times are a'changing,' he sang lightly with a smile. ‘Most miners are learning how to be good corporate citizens and do the right thing by the environment.' He threw his hands up defensively. ‘I know . . . you think too much of it is sheer window dressing, that in the end the almighty dollar rules supreme. And please, don't raise the Ok Tedi argument again . . . not this time, it's too nice a day.'

‘Well, it seems to me that this Guyana isn't that different from Papua New Guinea,' responded Madison, who had been appalled at the headline-making stories of pollution of the Fly River by discharges from BHP's Ok Tedi gold and copper mine in the remote highlands.

‘Anyway, you work for the tourism industry. Slapping up resorts, hotels and golf courses in
sensitive wilderness areas isn't very environmentally correct either,' shot back her brother.

‘Okay.' Madison waved her hands in the air. ‘Let's call a truce and not spoil a good lunch.'

‘Right. Now how about
this
for a really great idea? You've always loved travel. Why not get away from all the hassles of the divorce and pop over to Guyana for a holiday with me . . . a sort of cleansing rite to start your new life?' He leaned back and folded his arms, delighted with the idea.

She gave him the dismissive look which, ever since childhood, she had used to greet ideas he thought brilliant and she thought appalling. ‘I'm not that desperate, bro.'

M
atthew was going through a mild form of culture shock after only a few days in Guyana. He felt his mind pausing, then snapping and freezing an image that brought home to him, as it always did, the fact he was in a strange country, a new continent, an alien city. Georgetown was as different from Sydney as anyone could conceive. He kept seeking parallels and familiarities, but found only comparisons and contrasts.

It was Saturday morning and he caught what was possibly the only elevator in Georgetown to the sixth and top floor of the Pessaro Hotel. He stepped out onto the terrace that ringed the tower of the city's ‘best' hotel, a landmark that had been updated and
homogenised to universal mediocre tropical hotel standard: white cane furniture, glaring bird-print upholstery, mass-produced paintings of more native birds, stands of glossed greenery and staff in uniforms featuring bits of gold braid and badges. White shirts and smiles, and an accent that his ear was still tuning to a comprehensible wavelength.

A sluggish wind assaulted him with hot equatorial breath that suffocated rather than resuscitated. He walked to the iron railing and gazed across the ocean. He recalled suddenly the Saturday lunch with Madison at Shelly Beach just a few weeks ago. No blue Pacific here. None of those dazzling Australian colours. Only the slow slurp of the cafe au lait sea slapping at the seawall, a flimsy-looking structure that held the Atlantic Ocean back from slipping over the cityscape, an ocean stretching east to the slate horizon where heavy rain clouds hung sodden, over-burdened, bladderful. He felt he could almost see the air he dragged into his lungs as he took a deep breath.

To the west the city sprawled in the distance. Immediately across from the hotel was the affluent area of the city, dominated by the cream fortress of the US embassy. It covered a block where previously three gracious colonial homes had stood. In the 1980s after the hostage crisis in the Middle East, Washington had issued an edict to fortify all US embassies behind walls that could withstand the impact of a truck
loaded with dynamite driven into them at fifty miles an hour. Also for security reasons, the ambassador now lived in a fortified contemporary ‘palace' in another part of Georgetown.

The solid structure of the embassy contrasted with the rest of the city which, for all its history, looked terribly temporary to Matthew. Nothing much had risen to great height and most of the low concrete and wooden buildings were of nondescript design. The city was heavy with trees that thrived in the wet and humid conditions and Matthew speculated that if all the people quit the city it would not take very long at all for nature to turn it back into a swampy jungle.

It was the cricket pitch that stopped Matthew in his slow stroll around the hotel's parapet. The green sward with clubhouse was at last something he could relate to. He found it surprisingly like the oval at Manly and smiled in recognition of at least one thing he shared with this strange and distinctly odd-looking city. Cricket was one of his passions and, until this assignment, the only time he had been conscious of Guyana was when one of its cricketers turned up to play Australia in a West Indies' team. And that was another odd thing about this place. This wasn't the West Indies, it was South America. Yet everyone he had spoken to so far had that lilting West Indian English, almost a calypso way of talking, that said loud and clear this was a Caribbean country.

A breeze swept up a mixture of sound and scents from the street. The traffic was frenetic and very dependent on excessive use of horns. The pedestrians were an artist's palette of colour, in skin as well as dress, and a hint of many accents drifted up between lulls in the traffic. And the scents—spices, curries, salt air, tropical fruit, the lushness of flowers, and a slightly rancid smell of something wet and rotting.

There was a Saturday morning vigour about the street below and Matthew suddenly felt so remote, so alone, looking down from his modest tower and he had an urge to get down there among the action. He looked at his watch. It was almost time to meet the local representative from the Guyminco bauxite mine. He walked to the lift with a feeling of relief, pleased to escape the heat and attack on his senses.

Vivian Prashad, born and educated in Georgetown, had been with Guyminco for eight years. His parents had come from Bombay, originally to work on a sugar plantation and had gradually improved their circumstances. As assistant operations manager of Guyminco, Vivian Prashad was ambitious and a hard worker. He had additional responsibility for introducing the expatriate executives to the city and to the operations of the mine. He opened the rear car door for Matthew then slid in beside the African driver. ‘I take you on a little
tour, Mr Wright, then we inspect the house we have rented in Georgetown for you and Mr Kevin Blanchard. Mr Johns will be living at MacGregor.'

‘That's the mine township?'

‘Yes. It was nothing until a Scottish chappie took a canoe up the river in 1910. He found high grade bauxite. He made a very good deal with an American venture company. They bought up a lot of land and started digging in 1916.' Prashad shook his head. ‘They were the good old days, now not so good. Things are very bad for the families of the workers. People are worried if the mine goes down, the town will die.'

‘Well, we're here to see things get better,' said Matthew making an effort to put some authority into his voice. ‘We've had tougher projects than this one.'

‘Oh, that is very good news. Very good news indeed,' enthused Prashad, swinging around in his seat and smiling broadly at Matthew.

‘How big is the mine town?'

‘Seventy thousand people. A very big place. But it is a nice place. I like living in MacGregor.'

‘How long does it take to get there?'

‘Under two hours. For years the road was terrible. Now it is excellent. The best in the country.'

That wouldn't be hard, thought Matthew as the car shuddered over another batch of potholes.

They turned into the central part of the city.
Now the streets widened into broad avenues, and he could more fully appreciate the influences that had shaped the city named Longchamps by the French, Stabroek by the Dutch and Georgetown by the English.

‘This is Main Street. Many important buildings here. Lot of people hanging about here. Dangerous for choke and robs. Robbers hang out near Guyana Stores, the bank, the Tower Hotel. You mind your watch, wallet. Tell your lady not to wear jewellery,' advised Prashad with a lifted eyebrow and half smile.

They drove parallel to large open drains with grass verges which to Matthew's surprise seemed relatively clean despite the rubbish and litter scattered everywhere. ‘Were they built as drains or stormwater overflows?' he asked Prashad.

‘The French began some town planning but it was the Dutch who really created the city with the streets in a rectangular grid pattern on old plantation land. Georgetown is below sea level so they built the seawall along the coast. Then they extended the plantation drainage system, putting in sluices, kokers and dams to control the tides, rivers and stormwater. Oh yes, very clever people, the Dutch. The sugar industry used the canals to move the cane. Here in town we use the stormwater to flush the canals.'

‘Thanks for the briefing,' said Matthew.

‘You are very welcome. Guyana is an interesting country to study. So many European influences from the colonists. Add in the
African slave people, we East Indians, the Portuguese, the Chinese and the Amerindians who are the indigenous people, and you see we are quite a mix. I'll show you some old houses that have multicultured architecture.'

‘Now that's something I recognise—multiculturalism.'

Matthew stared at the chaotic throngs of people on bicycles, on foot and in ancient battered and much-repaired cars. Occasionally an expensive German or American automobile, the occupants screened by tinted glass, pushed its way through the crowd. Once Main Street had had pretensions to a boulevard, with a green dividing strip planted with flowering saman trees dropping red and gold blossoms. But the chaos in the streets detracted from the graceful design planned by the original city fathers.

‘There you are, some of the original planters-style houses,' said Prashad. ‘They were built up off the ground because of flooding and to make a place for animals. Now that bottom area is generally laundry and servants' quarters.'

‘I like the verandahs and the woodwork,' said Matthew.

‘The verandah is an important fixture. Very necessary in our heat to catch the north-easterly breezes,' enthused Prashad.

Like grand ladies fallen on hard times, the houses retained an air of grace and splendid occasion despite the present ignominy of genteel poverty.

‘Now that place looks good, what's that?' Matthew pointed to a large double-storeyed building with spacious verandahs, manicured lawns and flowering trees hanging over a high concrete fence.

‘Ah, that is the Georgetown Club. Very posh, very hard to get into. Number one club. Always has been. Of course in the early days only the British went there.'

‘And now . . . what's it take to get in?'

‘The committee decides . . . money, standing, position. But it's good. All sorts of people belong. More mixed. You tell Mr Johns to get AusGeo people in.'

Matthew smiled, knowing Stewart Johns would never make it a priority. ‘Where else is there to go?'

Prashad chuckled. ‘Oh, many places now. People like the Palm Court, number one restaurant on Friday nights. And over there is the Park Hotel . . . good value. Three course meal and drink less than one thousand dollars.'

‘Ten dollars Australian, that's value all right. Hey, I like the look of it.' The Park retained a colonial air without being grandiose, with a wide upper verandah, colonnades and comfortable cane furniture.

‘We Guyanese like a good time. Tonight, you will see a typical Guyana party, eh?'

The AusGeo team had been invited to a reception at the residence of the Guyminco general manager, Lennie Krupuk and his wife Roxy.
Matthew hadn't been anticipating a raging great time. These sorts of receptions tended to follow a formula. The reception line of officials in descending order of importance, their wives stuffed into overdone dresses, hair lacquered into obedience by an afternoon salon visit, catered finger food and a mixture of government people, businessmen, social-scene setters and economic officers from various embassies.

The US Stars and Stripes caught his eye as the car cruised past a low simple box-like building. ‘That was the old US embassy, before they built the Hotel Hope.'

‘Hotel Hope? You mean that cream Fort Knox?'

‘Yes. Everyone goes there hoping. Queues start first thing every morning, everybody hope for a US visa.' Prashad shook his head. ‘It's no good. All the people want is to make enough money to go to Miami, New York, Canada, London. No one wants to stay here and work and fix up this country. We need good people here.'

‘And you Mr Prashad, do you want to get a US visa too?'

He shrugged. ‘If I had money, maybe. To give my children an American education. Everyone in Guyana has a relative outside, eh?' He nudged the black African driver who grinned.

‘Dat for sure.'

Matthew had the distinct feeling the driver had put in time in the queue at the Hotel Hope.

‘So what goes on in the old embassy?'

Prashad gave him a broad smile. ‘Information people. Spooks, you know. That's what they call the spies.'

Matthew laughed. ‘No secrets in this town, I see.'

‘No secrets and plenty of rumours and gossip. Sometimes true, sometimes not . . . but always worth repeating,' chuckled Prashad without malice.

The car glided past the impressive High Court with its red roof faded to rusty orange. Like the other elaborate wooden structures in the city, peeling paint and shabbiness dimmed its unique attractiveness. Queen Victoria gazed blankly above the seething throngs outside the court's wrought iron fence. ‘The Queen has lost a hand,' noted Matthew.

‘Lucky she didn't lose her head. She had been lying for years in the grass, in the back of the Botanic Gardens after being knocked down. The new regime brought her back to court. It is the Victoria High Court after all,' explained Prashad.

At the northern end of the broad Avenue of the Republic they swung around the pride of the city, St George's Cathedral, a wooden Gothic fantasy which had survived fires that destroyed many of the city's important buildings since its construction in 1892. ‘The tallest wooden building in the world,' declared Prashad, and Matthew smiled.

They skirted the seedy Stabroek Markets which sheltered beneath a bright red roof and fancy wood trim. The open ground in front of the markets was a teeming bazaar of vehicles, bicycles, pedestrians, peddlers and smaller stalls that couldn't afford to shelter in the great shadowy confines of the marketplace.