Most of our economic traditions began before Independence and envelope symbolic evolutions of Political iconography that become bigger than life, resisting change and even the discussion of adjustment. Much like the traditional cavalry that endured from the dawn of human warfare and could not by the logic of its romantic value be relegated to the history books but rather was launched against the un romantic machine gun and was massacred in both WW’s. The waterfront became the embodiment of Hubert Nathaniel Chritchlow, the ultimate stevedore who launched the Nation’s first indigenous political movement, in the same way the Sugar Industry though its beginnings were etched in the blood of African slavery. It would in modern Guyana become the embodiment of Indian indentured political growth and a symbol of the PPP and of Chedie Jagan. But time always challenges the sacred icons of humankind, the religions of our distant fathers and mothers become the mythology of our time. The symbolisms remain with us but the rituals are different. The same applies to our economic culture. We have experimented half-heartedly with the different, but never paid enough attention to develop and sustain the experiments of our clothing industry, our fledgling movie productions, ceramic industry or arts potential which includes music, for local and export mass production, why these experiments did not work were simply because in most of these areas political administrators were placed to oversee categories of development they could hardly comprehend, much less expand upon. Thus, as the experiments fade away through the indifference and cluelessness of its bad managers, so do the traditional Industries in the face of new technologies and innovations in accustomed areas of the traditional work force. Today, the ‘Call on Centre’ on Lombard Street no longer is the busy dispersing point of tough stevedores; they are all now the ghosts of another age, the same is happening one by one with the Sugar Estates. Some time ago I wanted a photograph of the Kingston Water Street Koker. I drifted off while in conversation with a friend who was boasting of his Kurass catch, the last thing I could remember telling him was that Kurass is kinna to me, I then drifted off into the memory of the nearby old Rice Marketing Board, where I used to work, the fun times I had, the characters, fights and sweat that made that flashback come alive. If you didn’t know it before, did not have that experience, and looked at it in January 2017, then all you would see are the ugly ruins of some forgotten place or the other. These industrial effigies faded, and nothing replaced them. Young men watched their Fathers retire and became security guards, with no health benefits, only a meagre pension, not enough to buy a cheap fragrance or proper detergents to wash his disappearing wardrobe, no support efforts from that place they had to give 33 years to earn a pension, no housing plan, nothing… even the overtime could not suffice, too many children, nobody thinks about the family planning chat with the people who need it most, the job market depletes and the ‘Job’ itself loses its aura. So the next page is turned words like ‘Hustle ‘ and ‘Runnings’ become aligned with progress as the world of the unprotected artisan dwindles. Then, the Genie steps out of the Green Bottle, She is the promise of the Narcotic trade, she promises a better life, as for the wornout old folks, the mother who was a hard working self sacrificing maid at the Hospital or a charwoman at some Ministry, she and her Waterfront/Cane cutting Husband , the Genie describes as ‘losers’ , take a chance, mek real money, buy nice things, live yuh life, even help the retired sad old folk. This is the call of the Genie, and the vacuum that the elders of society have neglected to plan for, and fill with the crude potential staring at them from the talents of the people, to be managed into attractive new Industries is then filled by the mirage of the Genie, and the simple world is no more, the world of the Narco-Genie has no empathy, no compassion, no holistic substance, it cannot build, it inflates egos and destroys everything, through a duration of violent time.

The natural human gifts will bear fruit if its intuitive seed is recognised and nurtured, from poet to artisan, all we are in the world of 2017 began with the bard, the artist, the spear maker and the gatherer of healing roots and flowers upon the plains of Africa countless millennia past. This is the context of our beginnings, many seasons have ebbed, but its symbolisms if understood are still the formula of healthy human development. The Genie feeds on the neglected through its clever brokers, but the vision of enlightened society can intercept its course. New options must be nurtured; we have denied our children the right to dream, they are not connected to any interactive local realms of imagination, we have denied them that, because no one has thought of it for forty years and those who have, cannot influence the keepers of the door to open new frontiers, or even listen to them. So the youthful delinquent of 2017, he or she, if grilled will have no other references, logic or perception but the materialism of the Narco-Genie that has enveloped his growth for the past three decades, for he or she is the Nation’s youthful predicament. But now, knowing and understanding this macabre fact, among others that have not been addressed here, can we intercept the door keepers with new possibilities and salvage the children of the Nation’s youth?