No scene.
Anywhoo, as some of you may have known by now, I currently reside in Tampa, FL. There are few, if any, links to real Caribbean culture here. That said, I was pleasantly surprised last November when there appeared an article about Trinidad Carnival on the Tampa Tribune. However, I had since misplaced said article (seeing that I had more trustworthy sources for Carnival info.... yes Saucy, I mean you...lol). I later found myself contemplating whether or not I should share the article, seeing that it was from an outsider's perspective. I began scouring the Internet for it, finding next to nothing... granted I had nothing to work with, since I had forgotten details such as the date, newspaper section (common sense guesses were just NOT cutting it...doh ask...ah shame too bad) and whatnot ... meanwhile refraining from even mentioning it, since I like to show AND tell. Soon, I give up, and devote my energy to more pressing matters...
... Carnival comes and goes...
I check the website printed on the article (turns out, during my internet search, that I was looking in the wrong place altogether)... and discover, much to my tagrin, that I had to PAY for the article (?!!) . So, seeing that I own a scanner (thank God!), I finally save these newspaper clippings of this article, and now I share them with you...
The Article reads as follows:
By Blane Bachelor
Tribune Correspondent
The Streets go crazy during Trinidad and Tobago’s Carnival. It’s one serious, nonstop party.
Port-of-Spain, Trinidad and Tobago – It’s about 4 a.m, and a stranger is slathering my arms and legs with silver paint.
No, this is not some random, raunchy encounter (although the guy doing the slathering is quite cute). Instead, it’s preparation for a huge, pre-dawn parade called J’Ouvert, one of the highlights of what some say is the best street party on the planet: Carnival in Trinidad and Tobago.
Like every other aspect of Carnival, J’Ouvert (pronounced JOU-vay; it’s Creole for “daybreak”) is rooted on Caribbean traditions dating back to the 19th century. Slaves would mimic the Carnival parties, or fêtes, and the posh costumes of their French masters by dressing in rags and covering their faces in ashes.
My fellow travelers and I, too, have been warned to wear our most disposable clothing for the event – and it’s soon apparent why.
Sufficiently paint-smeared, we stumble through the streets of Port-of-Spain, the country’s capital, behind a truck fixed with huge amplifiers that jar the lingering sleep from our systems via the soca and calypso music blasted at ear-splitting decibels.
Almost immediately, we meet other revelers wearing devil-themed costumes and bearing pots of paint. Before long, color is flying everywhere, giving new meaning to the way Trinidadians describe themselves: “We the rainbow people,” they say, referring to their diverse cultural heritage.
Indeed, Trinidad’s ethnic mix lays the groundwork for one of the most welcoming celebrations in the world. Upon arriving in the small country, which is made up of the islands of Trinidad and Tobago, it’s quickly apparent that unlike Mardi Gras in New Orleans or Carnaval in Brazil, this extravaganza focuses on participating instead of observing.
Visitors, as they’re referred to here in place of the less-flattering term “tourists,” are not only allowed but also encouraged to take part in every event: watching steel bands practice, “playing mas” by marching in costume, and “wining” and “liming” – dancing and hanging out – with locals at every step of the way.
On the flight to this dot of an island, seven miles off the coast of northwestern Venezuela, it becomes quickly apparent that participants – both native Trinis and those who have become Carnival converts – take this party SERIOUSLY. I sit next to an American man who has been coming to Carnival for years and a Trinidadian woman who makes an annual pilgrimage to her home country for the festivities.
They’re part of the estimated 50,000 international visitors who pass through the country’s airport for Carnival, and are both brimming with excitement and advice.
“There’s nothing like it in the world,” says Ken, who lives in Atlanta with his wife, both of whom are admitted Carnival addicts. He warns a second later: “You can count on not getting much sleep.”
The evening we arrive, our group gets its initial taste of local culture at one of the huge fetes at open-air festival grounds around the city. By midnight, a light rain has started to fall, but it’s apparent nothing will dampen the spirit of this lively celebration. People are gyrating, singing, and swaying en masse to the relentless beats of a soca band onstage; by 4 a.m., I’m told, the party will still be going strong. We learn early that pacing yourself is crucial to survive the next few days of nonstop merriment, and when the sun beats down hot and unforgiving on the Kiddie Carnival the following morning, I’m glad I didn’t overdo it on the rum drinks.
Though Trinidad’s main costume contest, the Kings and Queens Competition, gets top billing, the junior version is not to be missed. In a colorful, vibrant parade that lasts all morning and into the afternoon, children of all ages sport stunning, elaborate costumes, from butterflies to dragons to mystical sea creatures. Each costume is as adorable and unique as the next.
Whenever I start to get bothered by the heat, I just look at the hordes of tots, seemingly oblivious to their stifling garb as they laugh and dance to the booming music. It is, in a word, delightful.
And when a pack of children enclosed in elaborate quilted ensembles that look like horses – complete with tall wooden stilts – trots around the corner, I can’t help but gasp. The children are elementary school age, yet they perch like Old World royalty at heights up to 7 feet. They’re followed by groups of even more daring stilt-walkers, who tower above us from at least 12 feet high.
Steel Panorama
Beyond the constant visual stimulation, the festival also is a feast for the ears. The steel pan, or drum, originated in Trinidad, and there’s no grander tribute to its spellbinding, distinctive sound than Carnival. Pan yards are free and open to the public throughout the celebration, and we drop in at several to get a firsthand taste of this mesmerizing music. It’s like having a front-row seat at an outdoor concert as bands squeeze in their final practice sessions before the big competition, Panorama. The music’s rhythms and melodies were intoxicating. The rows of players seem to be having the time of their lives as they twirl their mallets over as many as nine different drums.
J’Ouvert, the pre-dawn parade, is a sensory overload of the highest degree. We drag ourselves out of bed at about 3 a..m., bleary-eyed and sluggish. By 5 a.m., we’re covered in colored mud and dancing like maniacs through the neighborhoods of the city behind the music and drink trucks. The thunderous beats pounding through the neighborhood announce the rolling party in deafening defiance of anyone who dares to remain in bed.
Though I’ve slept for less than four hours, I get into the spirit of the festivities with a rum and pineapple juice. The cocktail instills enough courage to attempt the risqué, rump-shaking technique of the signature Carnival dance – the wine. Vanessa, a local, shows me the basic move: stand with knees shoulder-width apart, bend your knees, dip down low and gyrate your hips wildly. I apparently have it right because she exclaims: “Girl, yah sure dis yah fuss time at Carnival? Yah wine like yah a Trini!”
Each day’s activity builds up anticipation for the granddaddy event, the Band of the Year competition, although they’re not so much bands as organized groups of costumed participants. Ours is Tribe, a newer band that has chosen “What Lies Beneath,” referring to the underwater world, as its theme. We don our elaborate – but skimpy – hand-crafted costumes: a bikini and headpiece plus arm and leg bands, all adorned with hundreds of beads and designed to look like a fan coral. We take to the streets with thousands other revelers, who are also wearing little more than bikinis, beads, feathers and glitter.
All day, we “chip” – a form of short-stepping – through the streets to the beat of Carnival songs now etched forever into our brains. We alternate between rum cocktails and bottled water from the drink trucks edging along in the parade, a combination that keeps us hyped up and hydrated. Bit by bit, we work our way to the stage at Queen’s Park Savannah, a massive, open-air venue in the middle of Port-of-Spain. By 2 p.m., the moment has arrived – our band will cross the stage in front of the judging panel, which will award us points on how much spirit and soul we exude in a fleeting 15 minutes.
Before I know it, I’m swept up among about 2,000 sweaty, costumed partygoers, all booty-shaking and hip-dipping like crazed heathens. I can’t help but join the action, my hind side taking on a life of its own to the reverberating rhythms of the music blasting across the stage. It feels simultaneously shocking and liberating. Ken from the airplane was right – I have never experienced anything like this in my life. As quickly as we swarmed the stage, we were ushered off, another band eagerly taking our place.
Late that evening, we make our way back to the hotel, through streets littered with a mishmash of bottles and remnants of costumes, sipping our last beers and chipping to the fading soca rhythms. The next morning, we’ll board an early flight back to the United States, while locals head to churches to have their sins absolved and to promise good behavior – at least until Carnival 2007.
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