Ravi the Unknown Prince (3 page)

He also told me that we would all travel together to the capital to get our Visas when my passport arrived.

Shortly afterwards, they were all leaving for the sunset prayers, and I left with them. We all rode our bicycles avoiding the ditches on the road.

As we parted, I said, “Remember me in your prayers,” they answered InshaAllah [If Allah wills].

Muslims in my country do not speak about their religion to anyone, even to an enquiring mind like mine.

Next morning I looked in the mirror and saw my reflexions looking back at me. I thought, who am I, where did I come from, where was I going, and what purpose was I here for on this earth?

There were so many unanswered questions; I was an orphan, no doubt about it, but not by choice.

I worked for my daily livelihood since I was ten years old; no extended family came forward since my parents had passed away. Sometimes it was better, that way I was left alone.

After the tidal wave that struck 13 years earlier, relatives came forward and took a few orphans away.

Their treatments were harsh; one boy returned to our village and told his story. He was put to work straight away in the rice field and never went to school again.

He ran away a few times and hid from his uncle, who used to beat him and the other children when he got drunk. I do not know what became of him.

I began to wonder why Ismael and his family were willing to help me. Was it because of my great grand-father and my grand-father’s generosity, or was there something in it for all of them; like the saying, one good turn deserves another.

If I couldn’t make it in America in 5 years, I would return home. By then I would be 23 years old, and could enter the Police force.

In the evening I would go down to my favourite place by the sea, walk through the wood-lands and on to the white unspoilt sandy beach, where wild and colourful plants grew.

The remnants of seeds were brought in by the tide and when they were emptied on the shore-line, some unusual plants would spring up, which no one had ever seen before.

It was my time for reflexion, at the awesome beauty that surrounded me. I was going to miss all of this when I left here, including the friendly sea-cow, but nothing lasts forever.

I was moving on and leaving my past behind me; but not forgotten. Somehow these sad and happy memories would always be with me.

The rain water from the Savannah brought down by the river, and emptied into the Atlantic Ocean could be seen clearly. They ran side by side with the sea-water, but somehow they never mixed.

It was remarkable to watch these two bodies of flowing water, one dark in colour and the other lighter, moving in the same direction.

On a clear day, Crab Island can be seen in the distance. It was given that name because of the different species of crabs that were found on that patch of land, at certain times of the year.

The waters around that Island were treacherous. It was where the Atlantic Ocean meets with the Berbice River. The oil tankers and cargo ships would avoid crossing that stretch of water.

One afternoon I was on the ferry crossing at New Amsterdam, two men were in a boat, they lost their paddle.

One of them jumped in to retrieve it, but could not swim against the dangerous tide; he went down a few times and never surfaced again. The ferry released a rescue boat for the other man.

That afternoon the tide was out and the sea was calm, with a gentle breeze blowing in from the Atlantic Ocean.

Sea birds were flying over head and some were busy feeding in the muddy waters at the outgoing tide.

By 3pm the tide would return again, and this whole process would continue as it has been since the beginning of time.

It remains a mystery to watch these daily phenomena which took place on a regular basis.

Two months later, and my passport arrived everything worked at a slower pace out-here.

The following week, Ismael, his wife Maymun, son Harun, daughter Asma and I left early one morning for Georgetown the capital for our Visa to America.

The taxi driver was a local man and we all knew him, he told us that recently many people he took for a visa were turned down.

They told him that there were a couple of people who were very difficult when interviewing them.

One was a white man and the other a mixed race woman. ‘Pray you don’t get them brother Ismael’ he remarked.

Our journey took us two hours, on arrival we had to wait in a queue to get a number.

The people who were sitting there were all seeking a Visa for America or to the United Kingdom.

Many were leaving disappointed, while others were smiling, the looks on their faces could tell their story.

I was wondering what our out-come might be, would we be leaving smiling, or despondent.

When it was lunch time and all the interviewing staff left, Ismael decided we should all go somewhere for lunch.

As we were not familiar with the city he asked an elderly passer-by where to find a good restaurant.

He gave us some directions to Aladdin’s Cave restaurant. He said good food, good host the best; Ismael thanked the old man.

As we all continued to walk, he told us that we should never asked a young person if ever we get lost or in a strange city.

They will most likely take you some-where and rob you. It happened to people he knew he told us.

We were country folks coming to town he said. They can spot us a mile away. Don’t trust anyone especially in this capital.

He was giving us good sound advice and I appreciated it, but we were all laughing at the way he came across with his words.

When we got to the restaurant he ordered, rice with baked and steamed fish and salad for all of us, the dessert and drinks we chose ourselves.

On the menu there was chicken and mutton, but he did not order those dishes. I had eaten so many fish they were coming out of my ears.

Out of curiosity I said, “Uncle Ismael why did you not order any meat dishes.”

He remarked, “We Muslims only eat Halal meat, our animal must be slaughtered in a different way, my son, and I did not want to ask any questions because they would not speak the truth.

They are only interested in our money, especially us country people; they can tell by the way we speak.”

Ismael seems a good and trustworthy man, from my limited knowledge of people.

During our meal, Harun said, that if he knew that Miss Price was giving private tuition to school leavers, he would have joined me.

Asma then asked, “How many of you were in her class, and how much did you had to pay?”

I wished she had not asked me that question, now I was compelled to answer her.

“There were two others and myself,” I answered “one boy and a girl, both black. I do not know what they paid, but I bartered with food for some of her text books.”

I had done most of the work myself. I only saw Miss Price when I could not fully understand an equation in mathematics.

After I had left school, one day I met Miss Price in the market place buying fish, she asked me what I was doing, and I told her that I was a fisherman as well as doing all sorts of jobs to survive.

My parents did not leave much money and six years on and I had spent it, although people still owed my father for tables and chairs he had made for them so I had to sell whatever the land produced and live on that income.

She told me about the Government funded Institute, which was in New Amsterdam, and if I was lucky to be admitted I would have to cross the ferry five days each week for the next two or three years, and I could not afford the ticket for that length of time.

She also said that she was giving private lessons on a few subjects. I asked her if I could join her class, doing only three subjects, which would at least enable me to get into the Army.

I told her I could not afford to pay her, but I could supply her with provision which the land produced, and fishes from the sea.

We agreed on those terms, and I joined her class in Mathematics, English, and History and I went three days to New Amsterdam.

“What grades did you get Ravi,” Maymun asked.

“Aunty, I got three A’s with Miss Price, one B and two A’s with the Institute.”

“You are clever as well as handsome,” she remarked.

“Thank you, aunty,” I answered.

“What profession would you like to take up,” Asma questioned.

“I like Mathematics and I think I would make a good teacher,” I replied.

Ismael said “InshaAllah” then he explain to me what it meant, [if Allah wills it].

“Everything we achieved in this world has been written down for us, for example like today, if all of us were to go to America, we would get that Visa without any problems,” he remarked.

“I did not know that,” I answered.

I had little knowledge of that family who had suddenly taken me under their wings.

Ismael was a tall and well-built man, around forty years old. He was a farmer and worked closely with his older brother Yunus.

They both owned their own home, a tractor and a herd of cattle, and some milking cows.

He seemed honest and trustworthy, from my limited knowledge of people. Maymun his wife was a soft spoken woman.

She told me that she was a typist for the Sugar Cane plantation export market, before she got married and that she came from the Canji district area another part of Berbice.

Their son, Harun was slim and slightly shorter than I was; he looked more like his father.

He was good with his hands, in making and assembling all sorts of things. He wants to learn Arabic and to memorise the Quran.

Asma the 15 year old, seemed bossy, liked asking questions, and to have a say in everything.

She was slightly overweight for her height and age, pretty and looked more like her mum.

I guess that if everything goes well, I would be living with this family, so I would have to get used to them.

At the end of our lunch I offered to pay my share of the meal, but Ismael said it was all right and that I was now their family.

After we left the restaurant we took our time going back to the Visa issuing office; they opened at 2pm until 4pm in the afternoon, and 9am to 12noon in the morning hours.

We missed the morning session and we were hoping to get an appointment for the afternoon.

When we arrived at the office, we sat together waiting. It was the only time Asma kept quiet.

At 2.30pm, a woman called us all into a room. Each one of us sat on a chair waiting our fate and the outcome of that meeting.

Shortly afterwards, a black woman came in and sat behind the desk, she was smartly dressed in a white shirt and navy blue skirt.

She looked neat and elite, like the bill-board advertisement everywhere along the road side approaching the capital, and free Mandela written on the sea wall.

Her hair was straightened was a hot comb. I once saw Miss Price having her hair done by another woman; what went through my mind when I first saw that bizarre hair styling.

What if she burnt her skull with that red hot comb just out from the fire; black women would go through heaps of punishment to look good.

This woman was staring at each one of us; I was sitting next to Harun at the end of the row.

Ismael took out all the passports and the documents he had in his possession and handed them over to her from across the desk.

She looked at the paper-work and said, “All the family going over?” Ismael replied, “Yes madam, my wife, two sons and daughter.”

“Where in New York will all of you would be residing?” she questioned.

Ismael told her that his sister and brother-in-law got him a house in Richmond Hill Queens.

The woman said she had a brother in Queens; he works and studies. As she was talking, she started stamping the Visa into the passport, only looking at the photograph on the passport.

When she looked at me and stamped the Visa and signed it, I began to wonder, ‘‘What if she had looked at my surname and saw that it was different from Baccus?’’ “What excuse would uncle Ismael come up with?”

I was relieved when she had finished with us and put all the passports and documents together and handed them over to uncle Ismael and said, “Good luck.”

Uncle Ismael replied, “Thank you, madam,” and we all left quietly. When we came outside and into the street, Ismael said, “Alhamdulillah.”

Harun explained to me that it meant, “All praises are due to Allah [God]”. I was beginning to acknowledge that this family was religious.

They were trying their level best to stay focused on their religion with whatever they were taught by their elders.

On our way to the taxi rank or stand we stopped to have some ice-cream. I offered to pay, but Maymun said it’s her treat for all of us and Ismael told me that it was alright.

Afterwards we caught a taxi that was taking passengers along our route, Ismael and Asma sat in front, and three of us at the back.

Ismael was chatting with the driver about the dry seasons that we were all experiencing and how the farmers were waiting for a rain cloud to appear.

In the back seat the three of us were falling asleep, with the long journey ahead of us and the heat of the afternoon sun.

Asma had asked me to teach her some Maths before her final exams and I told her that I would do that for her to get a better grade.

When we were approaching my village, Maymun asked me to come home to their house for supper.

I told her politely that I was tried, I had food at home, and I must feed my poultry and let them out for a few hours, before they bed down for the night.

Asma asked when I was going to start her Mathematic lessons as we only had 10 weeks remaining before we left Berbice. She could come over tomorrow afternoon.

Ismael said, “No you don’t.”

“But Ravi has got the text book,” she insisted.

I told them that I would come over with my books on Wednesday at about 4pm.

The following day I was going to be busy. I was going to put up a fence around my parents, my brother and sister’s graves, so that cows and other wild animals would not tread on their resting place, and at the same time write their names on a piece of stone.