I am a Carnival Baby. No, I was not born in November. I was not conceived to the background soundtrack of the iron and the bass. My mother was not a huge Carnival lover (though she did love it in her own way), and I do not know what my father’s opinion was of this festive time of year. Yet, I am a Carnival Baby. How, you ask? Well, let me tell you a story. There is no definitive start date to this story/love affair, and its end has yet to be written. But the story starts off in what used to be a sleepy suburb of Port of Spain called Woodbrook. Why “used to be”? Well, Woodbrook is now a beehive of activity that more closely resembles St. James on any given night. But once upon a time, Woodbrook was largely quiet. It was the domain of the elderly, and the young. Except for 2 largely floating days out of every year. Then, all hell would break loose.
My earliest memories of Carnival involve me being rudely awakened at 4 in the morning, by my great-aunt, to go see Jouvert. I couldn’t have been older than 7 at the time. Yet I do know it was a yearly occurrence. Every year, I would get dragged out of my bed, forcibly get dressed, and then be forced to head down to the stands on Independence Square. Why? To see my mother cross the stage as she played Jouvert with my aunts and their friends. Let’s disregard the fact that we couldn’t see shit from where we sat, just for brevity’s and common sense’s sakes. Let’s also disregard the pitying looks I received from people wondering why a 7-year old was up and out at that hour. Finally, let’s disregard the fact that waking me up at 4 in morning on what was ostensibly a public holiday, pissed me to fuck off. And the torture did not end there. Oh no. After reaching home at 7 in the morning, I then had to be back up by at least 9:30, to go up the stands in Adam Smith Square, to watch the bands. There was no one to leave me home with, as my babysitters both loved taking in the parade of the bands. We then would be out there till roughly 6 in the evening. Even though, my younger cousin would be with me through out this entire ordeal, you would think I had more than enough reason to actively despise Carnival. But that’s the funny thing. Except for the getting up at the ungodly hour part, I ate that shit up. I loved Carnival. I was hooked. And I have remained hooked ever since.
It’s hard to describe what Carnival does to me. (You can stop snickering now. I know I run a blog. I know it’s filled with diatribes about how the vicissitudes of different events have affected me. So, yes, I see the irony. And yes, fuck you too :p). The best description I ever heard was given to me by my then-girlfriend. She spent the entire weekend at my place. On Carnival Sunday night, we made a chaser run (and if you have to ask what a chaser run is, you really don’t know me). On the way back, we passed across Ariapita Avenue. Everywhere, there were people setting up bars, selling clothes, DJ’s doing sound tests on their music trucks. People were already hanging out at the established bars, drinking and wining. I mean, it was 9 ‘o clock on a Sunday night, and the Avenue was
alive. When we stopped at a traffic light (which happens to be at the same corner with 2 VERY popular bars), she looked at me and asked, with just a tinge of awe: “You can actually feel the energy, can’t you?” And I knew exactly what she was talking about. The energy she referred to, it doesn’t just sustain you. It drives you. You feel it seeping in through your skin. It is the greatest stimulant in the world. For 2 days, you literally feel no fatigue. And that’s if you’re just passing through. I have lived in the heart of Carnival Central (Woodbrook) all my life. (Woodbrook has the largest Mas Camp per capita ratio in the world. Hell, our oldest and most notable bar is named
De Mas Camp Pub). That energy has been infused in me, since my birth. It is part of my life-force. For 10 months out of the year, my life is made up of hitting bars and house limes. I avoid clubs and parties like the bubonic plague. It has even proven to be a minor strain on a couple of my past relationships. I basically go into hibernation, from a partying perspective. And then, a funny thing starts happening around Christmas.
Now, with all due respect to the birthday of our Lord, Christmas is not my favourite time of year. Christmas lost a lot of its luster for me, roughly 5 years ago. It tried to make a very strong comeback last year, but then basically gave up the fight this year. So, it’s practically dead for me in terms of being a festive holiday. It does, however, signal the beginning of my season. I actually start listening to the radio. I slowly begin rounding into drinking shape. (An especially important fact this year, taking into account that Trinidad actually has a breathalyzer for the first time ever). I start becoming liable to wine on a woman at the drop of hat. A partner’s co-worker was rudely introduced to this fact when we were liming at the usual Friday after-work drinking hole. (My excuse at the time and exact quote: “Oh gaaaaaaad, de hubby not here yet!!!!!!!”) I’m not sure if she has recovered from the shock yet. I start turning into an insomniac. I try to hit every fete imaginable, health and finances permitting. Basically, that energy starts to power and flow through me. And I feed off of it until midnight, Ash Wednesday morning.
I’m not going to get into all my stories here. This post is merely supposed to be the introduction to a series of posts on why I love Carnival, my opinions of some of the major players, and where I think it’s going. As usual, they are just my humble thoughts on something that I truly love and cherish. And the best part about it, is that it comes around annually. With that being said, let me bring this introduction to an end. I have 8 contractual hours to fulfill before I can go shock another woman by randomly yelling, “Oh gaaaaaaaaad…”
