When the Singing Stops Page 5

  The beefy gold man flexed his muscles. ‘Yeah. Who’s goin’ up?’

  Matthew glanced behind him to where a rickety staircase led above the boisterous rum shop and bar.

  ‘Up?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah. T’Candy. She be waitin’ for yo.’ He grinned and gave a mock bow. ‘Let de white man pass, bro,’ he said to an unseen figure in the shadows.

  Matthew went up the stairs to a landing and dark hallway where several doors were closed save for one which stood partly open, a red light glowing inside. ‘Candy?’ he called.

  ‘In here, handsome . . . I hope you’re handsome!’ The woman gave a throaty chuckle.

  Matthew stepped inside the door and, for a minute, thought he’d walked on to a bad movie set. Except it was too tacky. Red velvet thrown over a chair and bed, cushions with tarnished gold tassels, a red fringed lampshade, the bulb covered with red cellophane paper casting a sickly pink glow over the bed and its occupant. She sat centre stage, centre bed, hand on rolls of hip, one fat leg crooked, the other stretched along the bed bulging over red fishnet stockings—holed—a garter straining against black thighs that emerged from a short satin skirt. Breasts cascaded from black lace. Oiled hair, thunderous lipstick, some glittery cheap jewellery, and a smile that told him she was enjoying every minute.

  ‘You’re Candy?’

  ‘Candy Deee . . . light.’ She laughed again. ‘You want somethin’ from me, right man?’

  ‘I guess so,’ Matthew grinned. ‘Whose move next?’

  ‘Honey, I ain’t movin’, dat’s for sure. Come closer . . .’

  He hesitated. Candy leant provocatively towards him revealing a slip of paper jammed between the bellows of her breasts. ‘Come and get it, fella.’

  Matthew reached out but couldn’t extract the paper without inserting his hands between hot slippery flesh. ‘That’s the biggest thrill yo gonna get tonight, honey,’ she laughed.

  Matthew glanced at the paper, relieved to see it had an address on it. No more searching. He was getting hungry. ‘The night’s still young, Candy.’

  ‘Then maybeeeee we see yo later. Bring yo money with you!’ She laughed again, rolls of flesh rippling. ‘Man, this is the quickest and easiest gig I ever get.’

  Matthew escaped, wondering if he should have tipped her, but realised he had no Guyanese cash on him.

  Sharee looked wide-eyed as he related the episode. ‘What if one of the girls goes up there?’

  ‘Candy won’t bite . . . Unless you pay her, I guess.’ He found himself laughing Candy’s laugh and handed the address to Benji.

  The dinner party, this time at the large sprawling home of Guyminco’s finance controller, was in full swing. More than half the guests had so far found their destination and were relating tales of escapades and misdirections. The band had moved here too and so had Roxy, who was overseeing the food spread on buffet tables in the floodlit garden. A dance floor had been set up and a bar serving cocktails was surrounded by revellers. Lennie Krupuk, looking very unlike a general manager, in a wildly patterned calypso-inspired shirt, came towards them. ‘So you got here . . . didn’t get sidetracked by Candy, eh?’

  ‘No, the riddle of the rubber had us stumped for a bit,’ Matthew said.

  ‘I made one blue,’ said Kevin, coming up with Viti to join them. ‘I told the lighthouse bloke to send the key down, which he did, in the basket. So I opened the door, went all the way up the stairs and asked him for the next clue . . . once I got my breath back. And he points down the bottom to Viti and says, “I sent it down to her in the basket”!’

  They sat down to a feast of spicy food, a lot of starchy vegetables, fruit and rum-soaked puddings. The drinks kept coming and the band played faster. Sharee and Viti became lost in the swaying crowd while a string of girls kept showing Matthew and Kevin how to dance calypso style, pushing their hips to feel the rhythm, flirting and laughing. They pocketed a lot of telephone numbers as the night wore on, sometimes jotting them down while still gyrating to the hypnotic rhythm. The evening became a noisy blur as the excess of rum took hold of everyone’s senses.

  Matthew and Kevin were driven back to the Pessaro by a taxi very late, or very early if you looked at the soft light rising above the horizon.

  In his bedroom, a euphoric Matthew stripped off his clothes with fumbling fingers, staggering slightly while trying to stop the room from spinning. As he collapsed on the bed his last thoughts were, these Guyanese sure know how to party, and I’m going to have a terrible hangover. He fell instantly asleep.

  THREE

  The luxury motor launch Roxanne nosed away from the wooden jetty in Georgetown and out into the Demerara River. In contrast to the darkness of their jungle surroundings, the cruiser flashed like a jewelled pin on a plain dress—plush fittings including crystal glass, flamboyant animal skin print upholstery, accommodation for six and state-of-the-art radar and navigation equipment. The six men on board in casual shirts and dark glasses, wore an assortment of hats—Panama, baseball, Aussie Akubra and a Guyanese straw confection that drew some critical fashion comments. Matthew was hatless and quickly moved into the shade of the cockpit. ‘Think I’ll be investing in one of those Stabroek market hats like Kevin. Might look ridiculous but that sun is hot.’

  The boat had been bought for Guyminco by Lennie Krupuk, who hailed the tall African skipper at the wheel. ‘Hey Skip, you have a hat tucked away there for our friend?’

  ‘No, really. It’s all right,’ protested Matthew as Lennie, who lacked the genuine warmth of his wife Roxy, took the wheel. He was a light-skinned man of East Indian and Portuguese mix, loud, bombastic and relentlessly cheerful. ‘Nah, I know we got some there. Even blacks burn you know,’ he roared as the silent skipper lifted a seat cover and pulled out a canvas hat, handing it to Matthew.

  ‘You look like you’re going fly-fishing,’ said Kevin with a grin. Kevin had olive skin tanned from years of surfing and the sun had bleached streaks into his brown hair. ‘This sun’s twice as hot as Sydney’s, mate,’ he said.

  The skipper’s offsider handed around iced beers and rum punches. Stewart Johns’ mouth tightened and he pointedly asked for something soft. ‘We have work to do even if it is orientation,’ he said a little firmly, to remind everyone there was a reason for this day out.

  Lennie was unfazed. ‘This is all part of getting to know the Guyanese way of doing things . . . where possible enjoy life!’

  Johns turned away for a quiet aside to Matthew and Kevin. ‘A nice idea to get to MacGregor by river but I guarantee we’ll lose most of the day the way this guy operates.’

  ‘He’s been minding the shop and I’d say that was all,’ said Kevin with a raised eyebrow. ‘Isn’t he due to leave when the new deal starts?’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Johns quietly.

  ‘The execs out here certainly know how to have a good time,’ said Matthew. He absently rubbed the side of his aching forehead. ‘Lennie and Roxy’s party was quite something.’

  Johns grinned. ‘Glad you enjoyed it, you’ll be lucky to have a weekend off from now on.’

  Matthew let the observation pass. He’d had a great night and looked forward to more of the delights that the social round in Georgetown had to offer in what appeared to be attractive abundance, although he resolved to avoid hangovers as severe as the one that was making this trip quite hellish.

  The motor launch rode smoothly up the broad Demerara and the men relaxed and fell silent as they swept around the curves of the river that looked as dark brown as the sugar that bore its name. The water was clear, not soupy despite its rich colour which resulted from the dyes of vegetation, roots and minerals washed in from the surrounding jungle.

  Lilies, palms and a tangle of creeper-laden evergreens lined the banks screening what lay beyond.

  ‘What do you think is in there?’ mused Matthew. ‘More of the same, I suppose,’ replied Kevin. ‘Perhaps villages, camps—not much.’

  ‘I’d like to explore this place. Go up the
rivers. There is a huge water run-off from the high rainfall in the ranges. A massive complex of waterways apparently.’

  ‘They don’t call it Land of Many Waters for nothing, I guess. I can see you in a pith helmet and breeches paddling up the Amazon,’ laughed Kevin.

  They passed an aluminium fishing boat laden with crates of beer and supplies, the people on board giving a hearty wave and thumbs up as the Roxanne overtook their chugging outboard. Closer to the shore a wooden dugout canoe with an Amerindian family aboard lazily made its way down river, the father steadying it as the wash from the two boats chopped up the water. Two small children, perched between piles of vegetables, looked at the large boat but didn’t return Lennie’s big wave.

  It was a pleasant trip and Lennie, ever the genial host, talked of how glad he was he’d invested in this ‘company craft’ and used it to get from Georgetown to his ‘weekender’ up the Essequibo River. ‘Of course, the company owns the place, unbelievable fishing. Hunting too if you want. Swimming, rafting, hangin’ out on the old deck with a rum . . . great place . . . I feel like Hemingway when I go there.’

  Matthew and Kevin exchanged a glance but said nothing. Neither looked at the boss. There was clearly going to be a cultural problem with their CEO. He was never one for mixing pleasure and business.

  Soon the thick vegetation thinned, and finally they saw the roofs of MacGregor township glinting in the sunlight. Rising above the town were chimney stacks from the calcining kilns where the bauxite crystals were washed and heated to reduce them to white aluminium oxide powder, alumina, that looked like castor sugar.

  Johns immediately noted only two of the stacks were in use. A bad sign. ‘Production must be on the low side today.’

  ‘Not so much dust about the place, eh?’ said Lennie. ‘Don’t worry, the senior people and expats live up wind.’ He laughed. ‘There’s the stelling, right in front of the company houses and our clubhouse. Give the girls a blast, skipper. Tell ’em to start getting lunch ready, eh?’

  The skipper obliged and sounded a long blast on the launch’s siren. Johns glanced at his watch. ‘I’d like to show Matthew around the plant first. Give us some ideas to discuss over lunch.’ Stewart Johns was determined to keep to business.

  Matthew was entranced with the beauty of the scene. There was a row of large wooden houses, all painted white and separated by spacious gardens that rolled down to the water and a small jetty—or stelling to use the favoured Dutch word.

  ‘How many expat families are left up here?’ asked Matthew.

  ‘The engineer Robbo, that’s Andy Robinson, along with the operations manager and their wives. The government brought them in to help run the mine.’

  ‘How do the women find it out here?’ asked Johns.

  ‘They like it well enough . . . no choice really, eh?’ Lennie laughed heartily, then added, ‘Nah, they don’t mind it. Go to Georgetown every so often with a driver, servants, nice lifestyle, they find plenty to gossip about’.

  Matthew was trying to visualise Stewart Johns’ elegant wife, a Sydney North Shore type, in this place. That led him to think of his sister, Madi. She’d love this strange multicultural country, he reflected. She’d really get a buzz from this incredible scenery and the parties too. He decided to write to her that night.

  At the wharf there were brief introductions to other company employees and some confusion as transport arrangements were sorted out. They then headed to the mine itself, twenty kilometres away. Here the bauxite ore was blasted out of two deep open cut pits and loaded by a dragline onto old 35-ton haul trucks.

  The Australians were glad to see the focal point of their assignment from the various lookouts which gave an overview of the mining operation. But they were each becoming uncomfortable in the oppressive humidity and glaring sun, and Lennie’s commentary was more in the jovial tourist style than an informative recitation of facts that would really interest the newcomers.

  ‘And now we have the big bang of welcome,’ he announced and waved his hat in the direction of what appeared to be no one in particular. Within seconds one of the mining ledges erupted in a long cloud of ore and dust, and a great rumbling roar of exploding dynamite rolled over them.

  ‘How about that?’ shouted Lennie, waving his hat in apparent acknowledgement to the unseen miner controlling the blast. ‘As good a bang for the buck as you’ll get anywhere,’ he shouted and slapped his thigh in obvious enjoyment at the whole thing.

  Kevin, always the engineer, whispered to Matthew, ‘Probably used far more explosive than was needed. And it didn’t move that much ore. The drilling of the blast line probably wasn’t right.’

  When they reached the plant service area, a smiling Vivian Prashad greeted them. ‘I am Prashad. Assistant operations manager. Engineer. University of Georgetown,’ he announced to Stewart Johns before Matthew or Kevin had time for a more formal introduction. ‘So nice to meet new engineer friends. It is very good that you are helping us achieve world-standard work practices at our mine.’ He shook hands with them all, bobbing his head and smiling broadly to show perfect white teeth.

  The Indian conducted them around with a more focused commentary than Lennie’s and the team left it to Johns to ask the hard questions while they made occasional notes.

  To each of them the first problem was obvious. The equipment looked dangerously shoddy. Proudly Prashad pointed out the skilful and inventive ways staff were making repairs to the crumbling equipment.

  ‘Very admirable,’ murmured Johns. ‘Normally the procedure would be to replace, not repair, such parts.’

  Vivian Prashad shrugged a little defensively. ‘Oh yes, quite so Mr Johns, quite so. But when there is no money for parts, we use whatever resources we have—and that usually comes down to the men’s skills.’ He smiled widely. ‘You will find that we are very good at making do, as you say in Australia. Yes, making do is important in everything in Guyana.’

  Lennie interjected. ‘Did you know that, some years back, to keep the locomotives running here, the railways supervisor had the men taught to rewind traction motors. One mechanic left Guyana and migrated to the USA and got a job with Amtrak. There he found they threw away failed traction motors. He showed the foreman how to rewind one and the Amtrak company saved heaps of money. When the foreman asked where he learned to do that, Amtrak sent an executive to Guyana and recruited everyone who could do the job.’

  Lennie roared in delight. ‘Clever workers, aren’t they? Be careful though, they can be a bit too resourceful . . . like burning out cable so they can rip out the copper and sell it.’

  They moved into the administrative section, to a room where an accountant was using a calculator and writing entries in a big ledger. Two female clerks were at work at old manual typewriters. In a larger office next door, eight staff sat behind gleaming computers.

  The CEO, who had clearly not been in this area before, stared in amazement. ‘What the heck is this?’

  ‘My initiative. Putting everything into the system. Hasn’t all been programmed, of course, but they’re working on it.’ Lennie beamed around at the row of computers.

  ‘Why? And why do you still have people writing stuff in ledgers and typing things on 1950’s Remingtons?’ asked Johns softly.

  Lennie was defensive. ‘Hey . . . this is Guyana. The power fails regularly, the computers go down, bingo, we lose the lot. And besides, these guys are still mastering the system. But hey, you’re getting there, right?’ he demanded of the harried and silent employees attached to each machine. They all smiled and nodded emphatically. Kevin itched to sit with any of them and just see how far down the track they really were in understanding the equipment in front of them. Matthew made another bet with himself. ‘My money’s on the Remington.’

  They were given a quick tour in a company bus that spluttered around the township, but Stewart Johns, his brow furrowed and deep in thought, scarcely seemed to notice the surroundings.

  Matthew nudged Kevin as they passed over a
bridge with a bold notice forbidding animals to cross ‘unless they are working’. Several goats and a cow stood in the centre of the bridge in a confrontation with shouting horn-blowing drivers. The engine of the bus died and the driver jumped out to fiddle under the bonnet, at the same time kicking a goat that ambled over in curiosity. Matthew leaned across the aisle to his boss. ‘Do you get the impression that they’ve got a couple of problems?’

  The CEO grinned and rolled his eyes in affirmation then mimicked Vivian Prashad. ‘Oh yes, but do not worry, Mr Matthew. We are very good at making do.’

  Matthew chuckled then became serious. ‘Did you see the state of some of the vehicles around the plant? They had to be so cannibalised, I reckon the only original part left on any of them was the number plate.’

  They were driven to the Guyminco management housing compound which included a beautiful old guesthouse called Wanika House where they would stay overnight. Wanika House was decorated in what Kevin described as ‘Guyana Grand’. It had guest accommodation for visiting dignitaries, social rooms and entertainment facilities. A few staff members were eating in the main dining room but a private dining room had been set for luncheon for ‘General Manager Mr Krupuk and Party’, according to the inscription on the small stand by the elaborate double wooden doors.

  Before lunch Matthew and Kevin were shown upstairs to their rooms, which were tropical colonial-style suites reminiscent of the days of Somerset Maugham. Large rooms with high ceilings swamped the very basic furniture. The floors were polished wood, and the sluggish ceiling fans and louvred window shutters made an attempt to cool the temperature. A wide upper verandah, enclosed by glass louvres, was set with lounging furniture and an intricately-woven Amerindian tibisiri mat.

  Matthew looked out to the river, just fifty metres away. Huge mango and palm trees dotted the lawn that ran to the glassy water. The water level had dropped, leaving muddy exposed banks. A voice behind him followed his train of thought.