THE SANITY OF BEING INSANE

THE SANITY OF BEING INSANE

Harry Bissoon  3/27/2023

I closely followed the behavioral patterns of a neighbor of mine in the 70's, who earned the classification of being the village 'character'. He was, for many people, including the village doctor, a 'mad man', who roamed the village streets, minding his own business. 

He lived with his father in a peaceful setting, in a house surrounded by an expansive vegetable garden which was also abundant with fresh, sweet smelling flowers, reminiscent of an idyllic, pastoral enclave. 

His name was Misir. He was my friend. He always sought me out, coming to my gate, eager to chat and talk about current events and things that were relevant to the village. There were times when he would fantasize, wrapped up in a world of euphoria. He would be lost in some other time zone, coming back to my presence when I called his name. 

He would, almost every morning, stand at his gate, and wave to me as I rode by on my Raleigh bicycle, on my way to work, calling out to me in a pleasant tone of voice. His "Good morning, Teach", meant so much to me, that if I didn't hear it, I felt empty and disturbed, wondering where he was. 

One afternoon, on my way home from work, he stopped me on the road, saying that he had something important to tell me. He said, "Harry, I would like to walk over the Canje Bridge. No one wants to take me. I have asked many taxi drivers, even the bus drivers, and they all refused, because they say that I am a madman." I promised him that I would do my best to see that he makes that trip.

He had heard about the bridge and how it opened to allow ships to sail pass as they plyed the Canje Creek which emptied into the Berbice River. His childlike fantasy was to see the swingbridge as it opened! 

The villagers  misunderstood him, and felt that he really wanted to go to the mental Asylum, which was located just over the Bridge, on the right, traveling from Upper Corentyne to the town of New Amsterdam. 

Several days after his enthusiastic conversation with me, and while I was resolutely negotiating with a well known taxi driver to take my friend and I to the bridge, I spoke to his father. I hadn't seen him for a couple of days!

I was told that he had left home to go for a long walk. He had done this several times before, and would return after a while, his father explained.

My friend's father, Mr. Sharma, was a little distraught.

 He said, "I already checked with relatives and friends along the coast. They had seen him walking towards New Amsterdam, and they told me that he had stopped in to spend time with them. He told them that he was making a long trip to the Canje Bridge!" 

Maybe it was coincidence, or fate, but the next day I had to make an urgent business trip to New Amsterdam, and as my taxi approached the bridge, I saw Misir walking in the pedestrian lane, going over the bridge!

I stopped the taxi and came out to talk to him. He was surprised, even delighted,  and seemed full of accomplishment, wanting to tell me all about his journey. I asked him if he wanted a ride to New Amsterdam, but he said no. He pointed to an expansive, colorful flamboyant tree that offered ample shade,  at the end of the bridge. Misir said that he will sit in the shade and wait for the bridge to open. Someone, he told me, had informed him that it will open in an hour. 

The impatient taxi driver beckoned me to make haste since he was holding up traffic!

Misir had a broad, animated smile on his face, as he pointed to the Asylum, saying that he was glad that his father didn't place him in that mental institution, but felt sorry for the people who stayed there! A sad countenance crept over his face. 

I hurried back into the waitng taxi and asked him to wait for me under the flamboyant tree. 

I shouted to him as the taxi drove away, "I will pick you up on my way back and take you home!" 

He did wait. 

I took a bus back home, keeping a seat for him.  

He had walked 44 miles in four days, and had slept at people's bottom houses. They had given him food, and told him to bathe at their outdoor 45 - gallon steel drums which collected rain water from galvanized zinc roofs. 

Misir was my friend and I never thought that he was insane, but, rather, a man of sanity, who exhibited some insanity, or abnormality, in moments when his mind broke free and became unchained, with freedom to roam in unbounded restraint!

 NOTE: I look back now and feel that many people like him could have been helped back to full normalcy with the right care.