Caroline Taylor remembers the year she tried to do almost everything for the Carnival…
It’s the atmosphere that comes from our souls
Everyone plays a role
This year he plays bravely and boldly
Jumbies comes out-Machel Montano, “Jumbie”
pICTURE IT: PORT OF SPAIN, 2007. Plucky is the first full carnival season in Trinidad after a few years in the cold for his 20s. Greedy (and hubrifying), she sees an appetizing buffet of the carnival experience and solves that no one has been sampled.
It began wisely – a series of essential carnival activities that were reasonably spaced. Panyard. Pancakes. Calypso competition. Viey la cou. Some fetuses. But the week before the Carnival. . . different. The semi-Hermit, who can rely on Shimmy from almost any social invitation, instead seeks as much carnival activity as they can reasonably participate without physical expiration, tied up with seven different possessions of friends in the final sprint on Ash Wednesday.
The ambitious pre-trip itinerary was the tribal Ignit. Then, at 5am, the Cambre riots were re-enacted in the town. Traditional carnival character competition at noon. After that, the Soka monarch behind the scenes. And this was up until Friday night.
Saturday morning was a key re-fueling point before the Panorama Finals in Savannah, and soon followed an insomnia fete in Mobs 2. There are no cat naps. And my mother and her friend who had joined me on the annual bread pilgrimage, had also come with me to insomnia. Relief was not an option.
I took good care of the pot. Among the rhymes that night were all the stars, Phase II, Rebellion, Depards, all the stubborn cheers and discussions of the band, but there was a grand friendship in celebration of the instruments of the glorious national, our rebellious resilience and creativity.
Listening to bread (the only acoustic instrument created in the 20th century) – watching the views of light on the surrounding hillsides under that cool, vivid night air was an experience that filled me with incredible appreciation, regardless of the winner.
I’m waiting to be on stage at Queen’s Park Savannah’s Panorama Final. Photo by Jason C. Auden
My friend and I still endured the ditch that went high from the music and entered the chaguarama. Despite my hermit tendencies starting to burn out from lack of sleep, I thanked the company, too many bananas (they are very useful for hangovers), and well beyond my weekly people’s quota.
At one point, a few hours later, when the sun was often in the sky, I was happy to go home and tired. Even the black outing curtains tricked my body into believing this was time of sleep. All I could do was level, give me painful legs, hurt the chance…
That night, when I attended the final Dimantigra performance, I shut down a short cheating with the idea of ​​making a last minute j’ouvert costume and instead settling down for old clothes, whipping up baby oil and rounding it up to gather a few friends before meeting the 3 canal.
This was my first time in and out of J’ouvert, so it was short-lived, assembled on long circular roads and avoiding the band securing a park in Woodbrook. Because Jesus knows speedwalk return After crossing the Savanna Stage, Ariapita Street has no music tracks or alcohol, and is a gauntlet when the sun begins to attack your tired body.
After that I hosed down, showered, hydrated, closed five eyes, and then prepared for my Monday MAS. I carried the back of the car. . . It won’t start. My battery was dead. After my dad gave me a jump, I knew why. One of the friends who gathered for J’ouvert (who had the finishing touches on her outfit) did not switch the lights in the dome after meeting the band. I had to laugh. I took it as a sign to ask my dad to lift to be on the safe side.
That year, a group of friends were playing with the people of the island, so with some SMS messages I was able to link to my section. We jumped over the afternoon and took some great photos (the blue paint still oozes out of my skin – some showers later – on my white Mondaywear shirt). But I knew my limits. I needed ice. And hydrate. And to sleep overnight before the final push.
I met a downtown band early on Tuesday. Somewhere near Southki, there is one particularly sleepy photo of me from that morning. The rest of the day was a blissful blur with soca, salt and spirit, all until the final lap of the stadium. After that, there was a photo that appeared in a carnival magazine.
And I realized: Immerse yourself in the De Center / Do De Jumbie Dance / Tilt the back and the back / Please do de Jumbie Dance…
Island People (2007). Courtesy Caroline Taylor
That was it – the perfect immortality of the year I made my body completely (or almost completely) and back to myself. Are we ready for MAS again?
This version of the story was originally published in issue 168 and was republished here as the last word
