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Play Is De Ting March 7

“Yuh must take dee powda’,“ says Ferdy, frequently.  Meanwhile, blobs of gelatinous paint are flying on my shoes, launched by some entranced players in the wandering J’ouvert Mas.  I see now why the women on the sidewalk are wearing shower caps.  One even has goggles.  This Mas is called the dirty one for a reason.  

In the darkness, Tragarete and Ariapita are closed to cars, allowing unobstructed passage for reveling bands like Red Ant, where, somewhere out there, Ferdy and friends are an ecstatic mess.  Meanwhile, I am merely a disoriented one.  Wandering westside tribes are converging at Hasely Crawford Stadium, surrounded by food stalls selling buckets of fried-chickened fixings, corn soup, and precious fresh water.  By 6 am, the bacchanal should be winding down in the wake of a four-hour fete, but determined partiers continue to clog thoroughfares.  Road surfaces are broadly splattered with technicolor pigments and oil slicks.  Soca blares, hips shake, splashing plastic cups are raised in approval.  Walking against the throng is like swimming up a river of pudding.  Sandwiched souls wreak of sweat, booze, and reefer.  Sloppy bamsies “wine on“ passersby—the only provocative act is not to comply—although the marching has been reduced to a shuffle, as smeared exhausted revelers slowly make their way toward sleep before the Pretty Mas’ begins later in the morning.

Tuesday is the big parade.  Fifteen-thousand is the estimate here in Woodbrook, another seven in D’ego Martin, the Savannah reportedly uncountable.  Parade routes vary and occasionally intersect, creating impassable jams, trapping cars on cross streets for hours.  Sudden closures are enforced by cops in berets and young men who are decidedly not cops—one brawny guard sports a gold watch and chains as large as the irons at Fort George.  There is no place to put the cars, and no public transportation, so walking or staying put are the best options.  This small city is experiencing awesome use.  Trash piles sprout like spring tulips.  The stench of urine chokes residential side streets.  

Nevertheless, silver-sparkled ladies with wings and high heels charge through the refuse to rejoin the band, makeup freshened and costume repaired.  Some headdresses extend like sails, others like entire man-o’-war schooners.  Men and women of every color, shape, and size are strapped into padded harnesses, sturdy enough to steady the structure, yet light enough to permit the player to dance for miles under a hot sun.  They are magnificent spectacles, and there are thousands of them.  

Commissioner Griffith visits at one point to pose with supporters and make sure his troops are not wining with Caesar’s Army.  Barrel-chested commandants in pressed khaki uniforms administer stern instructions with gleaming silver-tipped wooden batons.  These are the big wigs of the security establishment.  They are also some of the biggest men I have seen in Trinidad, as if each had to fight with rivals, mano a mano, stick to polished Poui stick, to achieve his high rank.  They jump to action when a train of black SUV’s cruises through carrying dignitaries, including Stuart Young, who recognizes me as his uncomfortable neighbor and waves.  Heads in the vicinity turn toward me.  I sincerely hope no one is considering an assassination of the National Security Minister at this moment. 

The DJ has turned the sound system up to eleven on the passing trailer, and I believe that the umpteenth rendition of “Savannah Grass“ has damaged my hearing.  My organs vibrate, my cotton shirt resonates with ripples.  For those who have achieved the desired state of higher consciousness, this is the greatest moment of the year, and the promise of its return is what will sustain us during the hard days and months ahead.  Carnival is the celebration of life in the face of tragedy and despair, a reenactment of the human condition, in intricate masquerade.  It is “the living ritual,“ as Congo Jacko likes to say, and these wondrous filthy streets are its temples.

My own temples currently pound with some kind of epiphany, and with a faint high-pitch whistle in the left ear.

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