Canboulay Riots March 2
At 4 am, Charlotte Street teems. Tattered men stumble about, tripping over those asleep on the sidewalk, while prostitutes outside the private gentlemen’s clubs spill onto the pavement. Fruit venders ignore the squalor and prepare for morning deliveries, but the narrow downtown lanes are otherwise free of drivers. I have to swerve to avoid running over a curvy ma’am in smeared cherry lipstick.
Marching with purpose at a brisk if somnambulant pace, to keep the scavengers at bay, I decide to speak Spanish if addressed directly. It seems only fair that, since I can understand no one here, no one should understand me either. “Yo Necesito Ir A Un Alboroto“—I am going to a riot.
On Piccadilly Street, at the the base of Laventille Hill, the Saint Anne’s River trickles through a concrete canal, where homeless wrecks can find some urban solitude, away from other desperate men, among the rank refuse that accumulates in the dry season. Something is burning down below.
Piccadilly Greens may conjure images of pastoral parkland, but the only nature in view is coarse humanity. Police with helmets and big guns have detained a gaggle of disruptors along the curb side. Hundreds of early-risers assemble at the designated muster point for an annual reenactment of the 1881 Canboulay riots, a flashpoint in Carnival history. Moko Jumbies stand 12 feet tall on bamboo stilts at the entrance to the pre-dawn event, while extortion masqueraders play a different game than the beggars on Charlotte Street only a block away.
“Mandingo!“ shouts a ragged character. The drums roar, the dancing begins. Pierrot Grenade is the sly jester who provides piquant commentary on social justice, both historical and current. His wardrobe is composed of small colorful pieces of cloth stitched together. At this venue, he is the only otherworldly presence. Everyone else plays 19th-century characters, some dressed in shabby leftovers from the plantation, others as feathered African chieftains, skirted warriors, and redcoats with white masks. The pounding is steady and menacing, as barefoot dancers “chip“ across the pitchstone. Cane torches light the scene before cement bleachers crammed with families of all ages, mostly black, while Pierrot launches a narrative of hardship, brutality, and ultimate triumph through a sputtering microphone.
The August 1 anniversary of Emancipation was the original occasion for Carnival. Only later did the church try to exercise control by moving it to fit the ritual of repentance. Very quickly it grew like bamboo, with ribald fetes that scandalously paraded men and women wearing masks. To the British, the chantuelle music, the emphatic dancing, and terrifically mysterious raucous were bad enough, but the Kaiso tents presented a special problem. These were the places where articulate spokesmen could critically examine subjugation before an eager audience, only barely concealed by the fact that the sharpest barbs for the big shots were often in song.
One of the first actions to limit Carnival was to make Poui-stick-fighting illegal in the 1860’s. Another was to ban sugarcane torches—Cannes Brûlées in French, Canboulay in Patois—which evoked destruction of the cane fields. The celebration was shrunk to three days, then two, then one; but, until the arrival of Captain Arthur Baker in 1881, enforcement was lax. Police cracked down on the revelers, beating some to death. These were refugees from servitude, desperately poor, seeking a bit of joy and release, and the catharsis was not to be denied. Rage at the persecutors volatilized like kerosene breath.
Tension builds with the rising sonic pulse of the drums. Captain Arthur Baker’s name is mentioned by Pierrot, and the crowd jeers. When British troops confront the mob, rocks are thrown, sticks and torches raised. The crowd cheers. Shots are fired, a boy is killed, causing stick fighters and torch bearers to storm the oppressors, in masquerade. The Mas’.
“What do we got to lose?“ cries Pierrot.
“Not’ing!“ shouts every soul in the bleachers.
The colonial governor quells the uprising by meeting awkwardly with the players and agreeing to restrain the zealous captain, but Arthur Baker outlasts the politician in office and eventually reinstates draconian rule. The tension between Carnival and the powers-that-be has never gone away. Resistance remains key.