Looking for Willie George

Having struck out in New York, I went back to La Crosse and tried to pick up with other friends and new acquaintances — with mixed results. I knew I couldn’t replace the friendship part of my relationship with Isabella with just one person, so I found myself spending time with a variety of people, or, at least with what passed for variety in La Crosse, Wisconsin.

So I went out to a stilted lunch with Prof. X….and then had a delicious dinner at the home of Y… and then finally for drinks and some laughs with Z and her friends.

But I still couldn’t give up on the idea of re-connecting with Willie George. We’d understood each other from the first time we’d spoken. Finally, I decided the only real way to find him would be to go to British Guyana myself. It sounded like a beautiful diversion in any event.

I spent that bitterly cold Wisconsin winter reading about Guyana’s pristine rainforests, tropical wetlands teeming with exotic birds, flat-topped mountains and alluring Atlantic beaches. But the tour book also described it as ‘Conradian and raw’ and noted a history of ‘inter-ethnic tension and political instability.’ Hell yeah, a trip to this obscure English-speaking equatorial land of 800,000 residents seemed to be just what I needed to get out of my mid-career, mid-life Midwestern slump!

It was a bit expensive, but I had a free round trip flight to Quito that made it all affordable. I could catch a direct flight from Quito into Georgetown, which the book described as the country’s ‘crumbling colonial capitol famous for its edgy markets.’ That got my attention, and filled me once again with adrenaline and wanderlust. Perhaps I’d even be magnanimous and call on Isabella and Miguel? It was just an after-thought, but something about the whole trip seemed healing and right.

The first leg of travel, to Miami and then on to Quito, went perfectly smoothly. But the leg from Quito to Georgetown was delayed. I had two and then three hours to fill, so I dialed Isabella’s number. She wasn’t home and her away message was hard to comprehend.

I was so taken with hearing her honey and lemon voice in Spanish, that I may not have heard her right. I was only half listening so that I wouldn’t have to hear her say the dreaded word — Miguel. I wanted to call again, just to hear and understand her beautiful voice, but I couldn’t think of what to say in a message.

“Your friend Wilfred George was from Georgetown?” He was about my age and of Asian Indian descent like a plurality of Guyanese.

“I understood that his family moved there from New Amsterdam in his teens.”

“Was he a cricket player? There was well-known college player of that name when I was growing up.”

“He played but didn’t distinguish himself in the sport that I know of—”

He handed me his card. “Start at the records office that I mentioned. I work in the Government — please feel free to call me if I can be of any assistance.”

“Thank you very much, sir.”

“And welcome to the Co-operative Republic of Guyana.”

“Well-named,” I said, and he let out a deep laugh.

After two days pouring over birth records kept in the old school microfiche rolls that I loved, it began to dawn on me that Wilfred George might well have been a made up name. There was simply no record of anyone of Willie’s age being born in the two or three years before and after the age he’d told he was.

I gave up the Willie George quest and enjoyed the tropical rainforest, waterfalls and mountains of Guyana. The rainforest was a spectacular green spectacle, and one million or so acres of it had been set aside — to be managed by British conservationists in exchange for foreign aid.

I bought some amazing first British edition Penguins of Graham Greene novels, and took these books to a café and sat reading them as I enjoyed the delicious Caribbean coffee and sun.

I had seen the search for Willie George through — all the way back to Georgetown, British Guyana, and I was now very ready to move on with my own life. I had a layover in Quito and would stop in and wish Isabella well.

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