IF YOU happen to be in the area of Orange Walk during the daytime, one of the most exciting experiences and services — at the price of the dictates of your conscience — you will encounter is that offered by Adrian, a Venezuelan national who has been living in Guyana for the past two years or so. Adrian, whose service is comparable to that experienced in 1960s London and New York, initially came here to work on a mining claim with some of his compatriots, but began using illicit drugs and lavishing his hard-earned money on loose women when he came to the city on a sabbatical.
And on crown it all, he could not return to the ‘bush’, as they say in local mining parlance, since he could not even remember the name of the company with which he worked, much less that of the manager or his fellow countrymen.
However, thanks to his familiarity with the lingua franca, being of Latino extract himself, and a burning desire to earn his keep, he was able to obtain a few small jobs from time to time from members of the local Brazilian community, who often paid him precious little for the numerous tasks they asked of him. Disappointed no doubt by this turn of events, he began to rely more and more on heavy drugs.
We had a little chat outside the Sweet Point bar after I saw him providing this exciting service to Guyanese as they enjoyed a few beers and conversation on sports and other social issues with friends and family members.
He had a variety of different ideas on what he was doing. Asked where he developed his skill or got the idea from, he refused to answer, playing the usual language barrier game. When I asked him the same question in Spanish, he smiled and answered readily.
Adrian said he cannot remember which part of Venezuela he had originated, but what he clearly remembers is that he came to Guyana to work on a gold mining operation with his friend, Sammy. Asked if he remembers what Sammy looked like, he smiled and shook his head from side to side, indicating that he didn’t.
The conversation became increasingly interesting as he kept focusing on my shoes, a Majestic Collection pair of high-top black boots. He wanted to offer his services to me. I took a seat on a stool next to the bar, and allowed him to render his services; and for me to have the true feeling of the guys I saw in movies in London and New York, sitting on a stool reading a newspaper and smoking a cigar as their shoes were being shined by someone on the busy pave.
When I thought I was the only one who knew of Adrian’s skill, I was joined by my media colleague, Mark Young, who told me that Adrian has an excellent touch for the job he was doing. Adrian completed my left foot and commenced my right as I looked into the white paint pot to see the tools he was carrying, but saw nothing surprisingly strange but three tins of shoe polish (black, brown, and neutral), an old rag, a toothbrush, and a razor blade.
Adrian was through in about five minutes, and my shoes looked like I was about to attend a military inspection at muster. When he asked for his money, extending his open hands, I asked him in English what was the cost, and he again played the language game, refusing to answer. I then asked him some more questions in Spanish, and in reply, he told me that he had a feeling I was trying to be smart, given the questions I was asking; that he felt  cornered; and that he had the distinct impression that I was about to arrest him, as I had an air about me of an immigration officer.
Having shown him my media credentials, I then asked him if he could read English. He shook his head in the affirmative, and smiled broadly when I gave him $300. He also collected the same amount from my media colleague, and told me that he was going to get a smoke and see some other customers in about another two hours’ time, when he would have gotten more money to buy himself a meal and a small bottle of high wine.
Asked whether he was willing to seek help in returning to his homeland to be  reunited with his family, he replied that he could not even remember where in Venezuela he came from.
Adrian said he preferred to live here in Georgetown, and usually sleeps on cardboard boxes at the corner of Cummings and Regent Streets at night. Pressed further into saying whether he would be willing to enter the Government-run night shelter, and if he had friends here, since he spent all day on the streets, Adrian said he preferred to peacefully exist in his own corner, and not have any problem with the other vagrants who also occupy the same pave with him.