Play Mas’ January 24
Once upon a time, Lime was a fruit, Wine was a fermented grape, Mas was where Mum dragged us on Sundays, Pan was a Spanish custard, Calypso was the nymph that imprisoned Odysseus, and Carnival was the place to find Carnies, the seediest and creepiest of all American people.
Time for a new vocabulary—Carnival is coming.
The sixth of January, Dia de los Reyes, marked the end of the Parang-Christmas season and the beginning of preparation for Carnival, all building to the ultimate bacchanal on the Monday and Tuesday before Lent, when Mas' is played. Play masquerade. This is when the Calypso and Soca champions perform on the Queen’s Park Savannah. Weeks prior to these events, tents and panyards around the island showcase talent and choose representatives for the final competitions. Saint James, Woodbrook, and the Petit Valley Panyard are the closest camps to me, so I venture out for brief view before the arrival of frenzied dancing mobs.
Mas Camps serve as headquarters for the major Carnival bands, where sound and art are designed to fit some particular theme. For much of the year these factories lie dormant or serve some other purpose, but, come January, costume wires, sewing machines, feathers, and sequins come out of moth balls, in preparation for the Savannah Grandstand on Fat Tuesday, in March. The following day, Ash Wednesday, everything created is destroyed, dust to dust, and the camps return to cold storage.
A blanket of snow-white tents are being erected across the street from the National Academy of Performing Arts, the most modern structure on the Savannah rotary. The steel domes of the modern hall resemble the embedded jet turbine of some enormous crash landing. I order a Roti from one of the street venders on the commons, and wait—a flour wrap of potato, channa, bajji, spiced gravy, and a meat referred to as “yard fowl“, a bargain at $18 TT—and wait. This dense curry burrito is going to be good, because I happen to be starving.
The Savannah is going to become a madhouse over the next few weeks. J’ouvert, or Dirty Mas, is a messy affair that happens during the earliest hours of Carnival Monday. Pronounced Jew-Vay, the patois translates literally as “daybreak,“ and in Trinidad it signals the official start of Carnival, the Sunday night before Lent. At 2 am, the fete ends, and all players coat themselves with baby oil before getting covered in mud of various color and consistency. This is not garden-variety mud but special goop harvested from mud-volcanos located in the southern seismic zone, where it is regarded as a mystical earthy cleanser—sort of like a messy Roti. Then everyone takes to the streets in masquerade. Meanwhile, the port-o-johns are on a moving truck, so you must chase your bathrooms—disembarking is especially treacherous for the seriously drunk.
All clothing must ultimately be discarded with everything else, so wardrobe is provided as part of the steep admission cost to a camp, at least $1000 TT. You are warned to keep clear of the Oil Devils, costumed fiends that splash crude petroleum on the unsuspecting, which requires a kerosene bath to remove. Cocoa Devils do the same with bitter chocolate. When day finally breaks, the filthy festive crowd marches through French Street and Ariapita Avenue to share their stains and indulge their sins. Car interiors are ruined by the stuff, those with sensitive eyes are blinded, pigmented Devils give chase, and everyone pays for the opportunity. The following day is Monday Night Mas, which is the same manic concept as J’ouvert but not as messy for the players.
The prospects make me dread Ash Wednesday more than ever.