Snaking away from Inniss Street in Salybia is a dirt track littered with gravel and sharp stones. Following an upward gradient, the track crescendos after a minute’s walk before it goes into a gradual decline, abruptly ending at a makeshift bridge made up of four shabby planks of wood. At the end of this arduous trace, at the top of a hill lives 66-year-old Harry Sookhoo, a man with no legs, all alone against this unforgiving terrain.
As Sookhoo came into view, his bare back muscles stood out in the midday sun. Glistening with sweat, they coil and uncoil like rope as Sookhoo wielded his cutlass, clearing away the tall wild grass on his land.
Every swing of the blade was done with a precision that tells the story of a real bushman.
But without his legs, Sookhoo now uses his arms to crawl about his yard. Clearing away one heap of tall grass which towered over his now drastically reduced frame, the elderly man lifted his upper body with his arms planted firmly on the ground and using them almost as crutches, he swung his torso to move to his next location.
Again, the blade made light work of the offending greenery before the process was repeated.
A strenuous task even for the physically whole.
Taking a break from his labour, Sookhoo crawled under a tree next to his one-room galvanise shack, furnished only with a grubby mattress.
It was in this shade that Sookhoo lit a cigarette and told us his story.
Like many people in Salybia, Sookhoo depended on the sea for a living. However, a domestic dispute in 2004 landed him in jail for almost a decade.
At the end of his sentence, Sookhoo said he gave his life to God.
“I see a gate open, I stepped out and there it was, the church,” he said with a reminiscent smile.
But Sookhoo’s newfound lease on life suffered a crippling blow in 2015.
“I went in the bush, hunting and barefoot. Some bone chook me below my foot and I didn’t take it on. I come out of the bush, I went by the doctor he gave me a treatment, it didn’t cure, I treat it, it didn’t cure, and it start to rotten the flesh,” he said, subconsciously feeling for what was once his right leg.
“Doctor said it was a poisonous bone. Only a snake or crapaud bone, if you mash it that does keep the poison,” said the knowledgeable bushman.
“They said a kind of black disease does take your foot, I can’t remember the name,” he added, before macabrely mentioning that the infection was so bad the hospital staff was forced to amputate his right leg.
Tragedy struck again in 2021 when Sookhoo said he noticed a chunk of flesh growing in between the toenails of his left leg.
“You ever see growing flesh on a turtle? Something like that,” he said, attempting to describe his ailment.
“My girls cut it with a razor blade, it got swollen and started to decay. The hospital tried cutting it too before they told me that they had to replace one of the veins in the leg. But after that, the foot started to rot and smell so they had to cut off that one too,” Sookhoo explained.
But with a sudden burst of defiance in his voice as if attempting to chase away any feelings of pity, Sookhoo raised his arms, coated in dirt, and said with pride that he still fends for himself, even if he must crawl to get what he needs.
“I does raise and move. I does make distance too. I does go down the beach. From Rincon to Matura River mouth, how far that is?” he asked a curious neighbour who we gathered was his friend.
“About six miles? Yeah, I does make that in about three hours. No load though. If I have to go with load on my back, with my little groceries and thing, it would take longer. Could be a two hours or three hours more.”
That day, his triceps were not up to that task.
“I feeling a little weak, so I say let me stay home, clean up the place and plant something,” he said.
But to get his necessities is not only a laborious task but a treacherous one as well, particularly in this quintessential countryside where pavements are a luxury.
“Yes it is very dangerous because my back turn to at least one vehicle and the one passing close to me, sometimes the driver does not have any mercy,” he explained before adding with a chuckle, “But I does make it from here to the beach in the eyes of God just praying something wouldn’t run into me.”
But Sookhoo lamented that on days where there is heavy rainfall or when his strength is waning, he depends on others to help him out, aid that comes at a cost which the pensioner can ill afford.
“They will take a $40 or a $50. The fellas will want something because it’s a hill they have to come up,” he said.
“So, I sometimes have to bring things in piece by piece if I don’t have any money to pay them,” Sookhoo added.
But Sookhoo’s suit of armour showed a chink when he listened to the waves crashing on the rocks, an ambient sound familiar to the community.
It was then he cried while reflecting on his vulnerability.
“When I go on the beach and see them fellas going out with their big boats and big engine, and they not carrying me! And I was a man who carry them in the sea when they were small!” he wept.
“That one does hurt me!”
“That is what I does be going for, for a fish to eat but they don’t ...,” Sookhoo could not finish the sentence.
Taking a deep breath he wailed, “Look how I get nah boy!”
The shack where he lives does not have running water or electricity.
Only a torchlight stands between him and the night.
Sookhoo believes a motorised scooter would drastically improve his quality of life. He explained that he tried using a wheelchair but the steepness of the track leading to his home does not make it a conducive solution. Sookhoo said he would even help pay for it from his pension in instalments if someone could facilitate that option.
Looking at the many callouses on his knuckles due to the pressure placed on them to keep him mobile, he said there are a couple people in the community who would help him pave the track to his home for a smooth journey if he gets the scooter.
The Salybia man said he would also appreciate assistance from the state for an electricity supply to his home.
Anyone wishing to assist Sookhoo can reach one of his daughters, Ameera, at 475-3687 or Annie, a trusted neighbour, at 348-8678.
