Boobs & Bums Oh My! - Final Carnival Post Mortem

This confirmed Minshall-ite has also played bikini mas, last year in fact, so this is not a diatribe against it. In 2007, Minshall did not bring out a band. So, I went to Brian Mac Farlene’s Earth for succor and found it too depressing a concept for me. Emotionally and spiritually I was far too full of optimism and all I wanted was to project and manifest positive, hopeful things. The ritual of Carnival packs too much potent cosmic energy for me to use it to manifest the pestilence, sandstorms and oil spills that inspired Mac Farlene’s sections.



"My “Tantalize in Teal” last year was simply that, tantalizing the eye with shiny teal and my glorious big black behind, nothing more."

I also found it insulting that the adults had to be the portrayers of the world’s problems "Cries of Despair" and the children (Rosalind Gabriel’s band) got to be the sole bearers of the “Wings of Hope”. What are they trying to say exactly? I’m sorry but I do not support relegating the responsibility to the next generation for making this earth a better place. In fact, without our guidance, they are completely lost and unable to turn things around. Or perhaps I am intellectualizing this whole thing way too much.

Okay, so of course, I appreciate Mac Farlene’s conscious and artistically sound work. How could I not? But after five years of living abroad (3 years in staid St. Lucia and 1 year in the bleak UK) I did not want my reunion with my darling Merry Monarch lover to be anything but jubilant. So in 2008, for the very first time, I choose pure frivolity and forked out thousands for a costume that would shame meh mudda.

But when I played in my beads and feathers it was with a band that made no attempt at an intellectual statement, historical representation or artistic portrayal. My bikini band was Evolution and the theme was Colours. There was Red, Teal, and Silver etc. You can’t get more honest than that. Let me explain.

When you and your partners playing with Mc Farlene or Minshall, a typical conversation would go like,
“I playing Fulani Woman, I hear you playing Zulu Warrior yuh better hurry cause it almost sell out.”
On the other hand, in a bikini band, no matter the theme, Birds, Persian Empire, Candy Shop, it always boils down to,
“Ah playin in de green section yes, the price cheaper than the gold section.”

The band leaders may be trying to fit into the judging mould with exotic themes and the judges play along but the bandleaders are not fooling anyone really. That was abundantly clear this year when on Carnival Tuesday, a certain male television commentator had to be repeatedly nudged out of his boredom by his female co-anchor as he struggled to come up with original things to say about the endless sea of sequined sameness in front of him. The bandleaders are not fooling us masqueraders either. We also know fully well why we choose beads and feathers. We prepare for it for months in the gym, some of us at least. We know we are just there for party and pappy show, not any kind of profound portrayal. My “Tantalize in Teal” last year was simply that, tantalizing the eye with shiny teal and my glorious big black behind, nothing more. I had a great time and I found the spiritual energy in my joy. I didn’t even care to cross any stage or be judged. Besides, I knew Brian Mac Farlene was taking top prize and deservedly so. He is now his own competition. Unless Minshall returns (we can only hope).



"If these were ancient times the contribution of people like Minshall, Bailey and Mc Farlene would be the invocation ritual with all the accompanying ceremonial pageantry, conducted by the priests and priestesses before the masses joined the festival with their drunken orgy."

At this point, we really need to separate the party bands from the artistic bands. Give them separate routes and separate audiences because they really do serve two separate purposes. Brian Mac Farlene and Minshall like the great designer poets before them, pay homage to the Muse and all Gods and Goddesses of wisdom, art and expression. This too is integral to our festival and its traditions.

If these were ancient times their contribution would be the invocation ritual with all the accompanying ceremonial pageantry, conducted by the priests and priestesses before the masses joined the festival with their drunken orgy.



I would never forget a story by Margaret Samuel about playing with Minshall’s River. Masses in a sea of pristine white were passing through downtown on Carnival Monday and lo and behold were greeted by the oily pitch black, diabolical looking Burrokeets on South Quay. For a moment, there was a hesitation. Would the drunken, misbehaving, black oiled devils soil the river of purity? To Margaret’s great surprise, the Burrokeets parted like the Red Sea (or Black Sea in this case) and a river of white ran through, untouched, serenaded by Pak! Pak! Pak! If that is not a magical ritual, I do not know what is!



Only Divine art conjured up by high priests and high priestesses can disperse the darkness and clear out the ritual ground before the colours of the Dionysian revelry can be unveiled. Perhaps, the early morning, right after J’ouvert is the time for Mac Farlene and Minshall. Their presentation should be viewed with all the national pride of the Olympic Opening Ceremonies. In fact, in my humble opinion, the televised climax of Carnival for general audiences (Rated: PG) should be Traditional Mas, Ole Mas, Artistic Mas, Kings and Queens on the road and all the small artisans who lovingly put together original presentations year after year accompanied by the splendor of Panorama’s finest. This is the true artistic foundation of the Greatest Show on Earth on Carnival Monday and Tuesday.

The other part, is really an annual fertility rite that releases the kundalini energy of hundreds of thousands into our cosmic space. First within a context of darkness, chaos, earth and water (J’ouvert), then within a context of light, creation, air and fire (Pretty Mas). The dutty, diabolical, debauchery of J’ouvert as it presently is (all-inclusive, secure bands) and the masses of near naked beautiful bodies in a frenzy of bacchanalian release on Monday and Tuesday should be treated and marketed for what it truly is- a fantastic, transcendentally beautiful ADULT street party. That does not make it any less poignant.



Tantric yogis and priestesses of Goddess worship rotate their hips to connect to Mother energy. So really, a wine is not just a wine. Imagine the collective power of tens of thousands of people rotating their hips down into the ground and up again, summoning that energy and perhaps you can understand why Trinidad is not yet an entirely corrupt despotic Venezuela or a ravaged, impoverished Haiti. The fact that two “respectable” career-women I know, like many others, make it their business on Carnival Monday and Tuesday to wine like there is no tomorrow; wine with a mission; wine with a vengeance, wine till every bad vibe is exorcised is why we have every reason to hope we can turn this country around.



"When the Minister of Culture, the Honorable Marlene Mc Donald, announced (to an audience that was obviously a little brain-dead and sycophantic judging from their immediate applause) that she intends to, “Separate Carnival from bacchanal” I wanted to burst out laughing."

Yes indeed, when they say God is a Trini, it ain’t the Old Testament Jehovah for sure. It is only when we do full veneration to our TRUE patron God, and lift our culture up on high as worship, that the world will finally give our country its rightful seat up among the great nations. Just as they flock to casinos in a tacky neon covered dessert in worship to the Goddess Fortuna, they will flock here to bow before Bacchus, Anansi, Loki, Shiva, Pan, Dionysius, Isis, Aphrodite, Ashanti, Jah Rastafari and all the Dieties of music, art, revelry, creation and sexuality. If we keep on running from Them, we will never find ourselves, our true selves.

When the Minister of Culture, the Honorable Marlene Mc Donald, announced (to an audience that was obviously a little brain-dead and sycophantic judging from their immediate applause) that she intends to, “Separate Carnival from bacchanal” I wanted to burst out laughing. She is a hefty mama but I doubt she has the stock to take on the wrath of a scorned Carnival Jumbie, which by the way, is a real Entity. We can either honor It and receive It’s gifts or repress it and feel Its wrath. Besides, how exactly does she intend to take the bacchanal out of Carnival? If we allow the Government to dictate our Carnival, they will do to it, what they do to everything else, f*** it up.

"What always amazes and amuses me every year post-Carnival are the graphic details in the complaints of the sanctimonious and prudish. They were WATCHING the debauchery and could not look away. That says something."

We may not yet grasp the powerful concept that the Government belongs to “we the people” and they are our servants. We may still treat them like anointed tribal chiefs with powers to which we must helplessly submit. But for damn sure, we Trinis grasp that Carnival belongs to WE, every man jack, who navel string, real or symbolic, buried here. Even those who wish to disown and distance themselves from the festival for religious reasons still cannot resist the pull, if even to pass judgment.

What always amazes and amuses me every year post-Carnival are the graphic details in the complaints of the sanctimonious and prudish. In one letter to the Editor, a lady waxed poetic about the bum bum angle, leg position, duration and intensity of a particularly naughty grind on television that riled her righteous soul to the core.
But the real question is, why was she watching it to begin with and kept watching once the man purposefully mounted his mampee? I could just imagine it too because it reminds me of my childhood with my evangelical Christian family watching TTT’s coverage and all the comments by the hypocritical, secretly titillated adults.
“Eh eh! Look at that! My God!”
“Look at how these people behaving! Disgraceful!”
“Lord ha mussy! What is dis?”
Yet they LOOKING and cannot stop LOOKING.

For that poor woman and possible endorser of the Minister of Culture, that heat stirring her soul was displayed as outrage only because of her own guilt, shame and self-righteousness. Under different circumstances that same heat might have instead stirred her loins and left her (and perhaps someone else) with a lovely post-orgasmic smile on her face instead of the dry-up expression I imagined her having while penning that detailed letter.



"If all that is needed is some form of skimpy costume, security, food and drink. Why can’t we just recycle? Or make membership in a “party band” about the security, food and drink, offer an unadorned bikini and headpiece frame for a pittance and allow the masqueraders to customize it themselves or hire someone to customize for them?"

The one complaint I would have against bikini mas, apart from the sham of “artistic themes” is the waste it creates and importation of pre fabricated costumes, denying thousands of local craftsmen a source of income. If a bikini mas bandleaders can find a way to make it more eco-friendly and use more local craftsmanship, I would support them wholeheartedly more often. I still have my costume from 2008 and I do not see why we need to keep making sequined sequels of the same old thing.

If all that is needed is some form of skimpy costume, security, food and drink. Why can’t we just recycle? Or make membership in a “party band” about the security, food and drink, offer an unadorned bikini and headpiece frame for a pittance and allow the masqueraders to customize it themselves or hire someone to customize for them? Not only will more people play Mas but craft and mas supply stores now have added business and craftsmen now have independent employment dealing directly with masqueraders. “Finished Costume Making Done Here!” signs will appear all over the place. It becomes personal between masquerader and mas maker once more. The masquerader can spend a little or a lot for an extravagant display. They will conserve on materials and re-use where they can to avoid wastage too.

In the spirit of fun I accepted the soca lyric challenge by Winston C Kam from Toronto in his Letter to the Editor “Only Boobs and Bums in Bikinis” in Tuesday 3rd March Express Newspaper and wrote this little ditty. Maybe someone will give it a melody one day and give bikini mas celebrants their rightful due. So ends my Carnival-post mortem this year. Till the Jumbie bites again!

The Widening Class Divide In The Caribbean

I am not at all surprised the post mortem of Carnival revealed that street vendors and licensed temporary vendors suffered low sales of their food, crafts and other goods for Carnival.

Long before Carnival, I have colleagues who think I am crazy to go to the market in Charlotte street. That is how scared some people are. Some of it is justified some of it is fuelled purely by paranoia and post traumatic stress.

It was bound to happen! The culture of crime has bred nationwide apprehension amongst the middle class and they have segregated themselves in all-inclusive bands and parties. Not even for J’ouvert will they enter the downtown Port of Spain area and be the potential customers of struggling working class vendors. A growing generation will never experience Ole Mas on the South Quay because all they know is chipping around St. Clair, surrounded by security.

Long before Carnival, I have colleagues who think I am crazy to go to the market in Charlotte street. That is how scared some people are. Some of it is justified some of it is fuelled purely by paranoia and post traumatic stress. A female workmate instantly locks her car doors or crosses the road when she sees a group of black men approaching. She explained to me before I took offence that she was not racist but she had been assaulted, robbed and carjacked not once but twice by a gang of young black men in the space of two years.

While I feel for her, imagine what these reactions do to the self esteem of innocent, hard working people are now marginalized purely by how they look and speak as, “that criminal type” from “those violent communities”. Peter pays for Paul and the poor innocent Rasta corn soup man on Carnival Monday seeing no business by his stall. The segregation of the classes clogs the wealth flow and keeps poor people poor. Worse than that, the lack of interaction dehumanizes each class in the other’s eyes. The “haves” become “hoity toity, oppressors” and the “have nots” become savage degenerates.



Do you remember when the classes mixed freely without fear? I do.

Do you remember the days when upwardly mobile families would invite the kids of less fortunate families into their home? When I was growing up, I interacted with children who were less fortunate and more fortunate than I. My father took disenfranchised kids from our community with us on our family outings and included them in our family pool limes at Petrotrin sports club. They played in our backyard, ate at our table and picked fruit from our garden. The thought of being robbed never crossed my family’s mind. Then again, this was down South, over twenty years ago. Socializing across the class divide made me appreciate my good fortune and develop empathy for those who did not have the same opportunities I did. They got to see a small window of a life they might want to aspire to through hard work someday. But more than that, they were made to feel, “You are worthwhile just for being you and are every much as good as we are.” That has to be one of the biggest self-esteem boosters ever.

Even if your family never went that far to be inclusive, I am sure you remember when the poor and working class aspired to one day, through hard work become middle class citizens and in return, the middle class patronized the burgeoning efforts of those struggling to lift themselves up through entrepreneurial endeavors; the corner shop, the parlor, the nuts vending, the craft making, the seamstress work, the cabinet making, the fry fish stall. Your family might have been richer than theirs but it did not mean they had any less class than you. How many of you could name someone who turned their shack into a big house and sent their children to university through those efforts?

Those days are dying fast.


The middle class and poorer classes now eye one another suspiciously across an ever widening chasm. Today as I watched a group of Mucurapo boys stare at a Fatima boy being picked up by his daddy in a bright shiny SUV, I suddenly recognised the expression on their faces. It was envy and anger. They are witnessing a life they believe will never be theirs. I would love to comfort them and say, “That is not true. Of course it can be yours! With hard work and determination you can succeed!” But I would be kidding them. Besides, can our planet and our country really cope with a hundred thousand more successful drivers of SUVs on the road? We somehow need to start redefining success as spiritual and not material based to all our young people, no matter the class. We all have to re-discover simple pleasures and inner contentment and slow and steady progress that is holistic and humane to all.

A new generation has lost all context of what promotes success and so the young people in the schemes and gang ridden communities have started to attribute the success of the middle and upper classes solely to luck of birth and/or law breaking. Their reasoning is, “You must have been a former oppressor or done something evil in Babylon system to be prosperous and so I should be able to take from you with a clear conscience.” This sentiment is being reinforced daily by their dance-hall music that speaks to their disempowerment and demonizes those with wealth and/or power. In addition think about what the young generation born into poverty and unable to envision a way out are learning from the corruption, power grabbing and ostentation displayed by our leaders and the brutality of the police. In their minds, “If the Ministers and CEOs could behave so, why can’t I?”

Unless pure academic brilliance affords them the chance to attend a “prestige” school, they will never be exposed to any alternative window because no longer do the classes mix in Trinidad and Tobago. Envy stems from a feeling of lack and disempowerment and that feeling is somewhat justified among the poor because they were abandoned. Very few Trinidadians descended from anything close to aristocracy and old money. Like Anthony Hall put it, “We are all gutter people!” and it is true. Just two generations back in my family is the gutter of abject poverty. Perhaps it is three generations back in your family. But whether it was your great grandfather or your great, great, great, great, great, great grandfather that broke through into a higher class, we abandoned the rest of our countrymen and those who just recently emerged from the lower classes are the most guilty of doing so.



There are only a handful of families in Trinidad and Tobago who descended from wealth and status. According to Anthony Hall, we are all "gutter people" deep down.

Our lack of historical context, self-esteem and patriotism made us so wrapped up in our egos that we could not come together to proactively meet our nation’s evolving social challenges with proper social interventions. We ran away to keep up with the Jonses in the first world and eventually began to stick up our noses at people stuck in the same muck our parents and grandparents crawled out of many years ago. We did not provide enough mentors. We got complacent and self-absorbed. Some of us are also guilty of taking advantage of unfair opportunities and political favors for our own enrichment thus enabling short-sighted, immature, grasping, undeserving people to take power. These people crippled and exploited the desperation of the poor even more with “work-ethic paralyzing” programmes like CEPEP and failed to intervene with pro-active social services where needed.



How do you explain communities with over twenty churches; Holy Revival This, Bible Faith That and Kingdom The Other, all of which receive tithes and financial offerings and enjoy tax exemption and yet the community in which they operate continues to be crime ridden and disenfranchised year after year?

The religious community is not blameless either. They failed to evolve spiritually and sanctimoniously applied the same old simpleton sermons to ever complicated social and family issues. They allowed intellectual laziness and wolves to fleece and rape the flock, breeding distrust for spirituality among the youth. Of course, there are true spiritual champions out there toiling against amazing odds. But how do you explain communities with over twenty churches; Holy Revival This, Bible Faith That and Kingdom The Other, all of which receive tithes and financial offerings and enjoy tax exemption and yet the community in which they operate continues to be crime ridden and disenfranchised year after year? I thought true spiritual succor is supposed to radiate out and transforms lives. So what kind of succor are these communities getting from all the religious organizations in their midst?



We do not live in a country big enough for young people to be raised in a complete class bubble like Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie.

My message to the middle and upper classes is this, Trinidad and Tobago is not New York where the rich and poor live in different boroughs separated by miles of highway, rivers, bridges and rail. You cannot pretend to be like a socialite in Westchester who apart from her hired help, never has to see, speak to or interact with anyone poorer than she is unless she goes out of her way to interact with them. In our country, the rich and poor live on the same hill and when you open your UV coated designer bay windows in your gated community the stench of some single mother’s desperation is just a whiff away.

Trinidad and Tobago is too small to cope with a widening class chasm. So save that ostentatious posturing for your second homes in Miami. There you have loads of people in that niche to compete with. But over here, you look like a ridiculously obese fish in a small pond. Ignore all you like, one day like Marie Antoinette; you will be forced to pay attention.

Trying to live a life of luxurious exclusivity in Trinidad and Tobago is like trying to show off with a slice of six layered, Belgian chocolate cake amidst starving Sudanese children. If you can feel comfortable doing that you either suffer from severe small penis complex or you are an unadulterated bastard, plain and simple. Who are you showing off for? Our roads are too small for your Hummers and too traffic and pothole ridden for your Porches.



Saw a Hummer parked outside Trotters the other day, taking up all the pavement and half the roadside and I felt exactly like this guy did. I would love to make "I have a small penis" bumper sticker to put on all these vehicles.

I am not saying to take a vow of poverty. By all means, live a good, comfortable life but do you really need to leave a carbon footprint the size of the Queen’s Park Savannah on the planet? I too fully intend to become wealthy in every sense but I can be perfectly content to come home to an eco-friendly, solar powered, wooden two bedroom shack by the beach, a second hand bio-fueled jeep and enough land to plant my own food, even if I had millions in the bank and could travel the world. In addition, you bet your bottom dollar my community will become an extension of my home and my positive values will be shared along with my wealth. What is the purpose of wealth if not to feed others? Why would anyone want to wear a suit of steaks and venture out amongst hungry wolves every day? Why not at least entertain the idea of living simply and generously in the one place where it makes sense to do so. Trinidad and Tobago is too small to cope with a widening class chasm. So save that ostentatious posturing for your second homes in Miami. There you have loads of people in that niche to compete with. But over here, you look like a ridiculously obese fish in a small pond. Ignore all you like, one day like Marie Antoinette; you will be forced to pay attention.

If you thought that it is not your business that those “hoity toity” people over the hill are being robbed and assaulted by young men from your neighbourhood, think again. It should matter to you!

My message for the struggling entrepreneurs hailing from crime and gang ridden neighbourhoods who are depend on patronage from the upwardly mobile is this; Did you really think you can afford to nurture crime in your community and not see the impact come right back to bite you? Everything is a cycle. So if you thought that it is not your business that those “hoity toity” people over the hill are being robbed and assaulted by young men from your neighbourhood, think again. It should matter to you! If you were tempted to feel some kind of “equalizing justice” because you struggling to make ends meet while they flying abroad and blowing four thousand dollars on a Tribe costume easy, easy. Think again!

Some of you

know

who the gangs are. You know who has the guns. You know who has stolen goods in their home or for sale. Take responsibility! Be like the women of Liberia who stood against an entire militia that outnumbered them ten to one because they were fed up with the violence.


In my work-place of middle and upper-middle income people, I was perhaps the lone sympathetic voice to the cause of the struggling man in my office. You see, I have met many millionaire clients who made me cringe with their crassness and ignorance and many an office cleaner with inner dignity, manners and honesty. In my heart I know that lower class does not mean low class or low morals and I still feel that way. That does not mean that after being pick-pocketed during Panorama I will put myself at risk again in that crowded mess where those vending stalls are. We all need to do something now to improve our communities’ images and maybe we can rebuild some trust and share once more like we used to.

In my heart I know that lower class does not mean low class or low morals and I still feel that way. That does not mean that after being pick-pocketed during Panorama I will put myself at risk again in that crowded mess where those vending stalls are.

Bitten By The Ole Mas Bug

Carnival is over!

Now I have to confess something. I have been bitten by the Ole Mas Bug. Here is how it happened.

I was going to play in Brian Mc Farlene’s AFRICA, Her People, Her Glory, Her Tears. Then the financial forecasts made me act with more restraint and I changed my mind. There were invitations to join several J’ouvert bands, among them Coco Devils at $450.00 per person. I was tempted because I love J’ouvert and playing with my partner is not safe, unless we move with a big crew. Still, that would mean shelling out $900.00 just for some cocoa, rum and doubles along with a feeling of security. But I say what, I was willing to do it just to play. I had not played J’ouvert in over five years, having been abroad and as the soca tune put it, “Ah Tusty!” You could imagine my disappointment when on the day I went to pay, everything that could go wrong did including the Coco Devils contact not showing up to collect her money. I took it as a sign, “This is not meant to be either!”

So there I was, Carnival Friday, band-less, costume-less and desperate to immerse myself among the throngs of people in order to conduct my part of this orchestra of human energy. When I thought all was hopeless, my darling Muse visited me and I knew exactly what I had to do. I had to play Ole Mas.

Still, I knew I had to participate in Carnival in some way, especially after Panorama and 3Canal’s Joy & Fire Show at Queen’s Hall. The Jumbie had bitten me hard and after seeing Machel’s show, well, it was J’ouvert or die! I was feeling like this year more than any other year, I needed to be out there. I could skip the all-inclusives, in fact I did not go to a single one this year, even though complementary tickets were offered. I could skip playing pretty mas but this year, J’ouvert was essential.

You see, there is a profound spiritual ritual that takes place during this time. The steel drums call upon the Great Mother. We dance with the abandon of Shiva. The drinking and dancing are odes to Pan and Bacchus. As an eclectic pagan, I know this festival is more than meets the eye. It is one of many important collective human energetic processes around the globe. I won’t go into great detail now but I believe our Carnival is a sacred thing even if all some see is debauchery and sexual expression. I am also not alone. Among the reveling throng are conscious souls who know what is truly going on at this time and we focus our energies on connecting the spirits of everyone with our Mother, Father and lift up the light, heat and sound to heaven and send it down into the womb of the soil for the good of this land and our people.

Ole Mas has skipped several generations and the public servants of our culture have relegated it to a brief competition on South Quay. Ole Mas is no longer the essential part of the living breathing humanity of Carnival itself that is used to be. We have turned everything into a party and everything outside of that, we shove away in a place few can witness it.

So there I was, Carnival Friday, band-less, costume-less and desperate to immerse myself among the throngs of people in order to conduct my part of this orchestra of human energy. When I thought all was hopeless, my darling Muse visited me and I knew exactly what I had to do. I had to play Ole Mas.

Now, I have seen what is called, “Performance Art” all over the place, from angels gliding through Brighton on Segways hidden under their long gowns to street theatre and stunts. You don’t have to go to the Edinburgh Festival or ride the New York subway to see performance art. Right here in Trinidad and Tobago, we have performance art too during the Carnival season but it is dying . The reason for this is because Ole Mas has skipped several generations and the public servants of our culture have relegated it to a brief competition on South Quay. Ole Mas is no longer the essential part of the living breathing humanity of Carnival itself that is used to be. We have turned everything into a party and everything outside of that, we shove away in a place few can witness it. A growing generation will never experience Ole Mas on the South Quay because all they know is chipping around St. Clair, surrounded by security.

How lucky are we Trinbagonians to have on this special time, the chance to become clowns, prophets, minstrels and mockers and be respected for it! We can become anything we want from four am to around 10 am in the morning!

There are other ways to blow off steam than drink, chip, wine and jam behind a music truck. Many often find that even after the full abandon of J’ouvert, they have not really released all their pent up steam. That is because of artistic malnourishment leading to a deficiency of individual creative expression.

How lucky are we Trinbagonians to have on this special time, the chance to become clowns, prophets, minstrels and mockers and be respected for it! We can become anything we want from four am to around 10 am in the morning! Men can dress as women. Women can dress as men. Always wanted to wear a diaper and run through the town incognito screaming, “I POO! You POO! We all POO!” well here is your chance! Yet what do we wind up doing? Blending back into the masses like the whipped followers we have allowed ourselves to become. This living breathing humanity of course, now chip through the suburbs in security protected bands and perhaps never see an Ole Mas portrayal all season long. Sad isn’t it? That is not true release or at least complete release.

There is a way for two women to go out on the street at four am in the morning and be safe outside an all inclusive band. That way, is to transform oneself in costume and become a performance artist and that my friends is exactly what I did.
On J’ouvert Morning I became...

“The Recession Devil”.



I wining and you wailing
It is my time of reckoning
You like the luxury of a nice big bumper
Come for a juk if you eh fraid de endless picker
The juicy things we want will be painful to enjoy
But that should not mean the end of your joy.



To drive the point home, I made a mocking sign saying, “Come For A Juk!” The men who tried that morning found it a hilariously difficult challenge.

My partner became an ex-Clico executive sporting a “$10 B Hole” by her bottom and she wielded a sign saying, “Recession Juking Meh Ass!”



Of course, I had spikes on my sign and I was following behind her, pretend-jukking her along the road. As the morning wore on, we removed her Clico tie pin and label and cleverly altered the sign to simply read, “Recession Meh Ass!” to which we received cheers of jubilation. Yup, we laughed in the face of this recession and said, “You will NOT defeat me!”

We did all that, plus maintained a pleasantly sweet lucid inebriation and broke loose with friends we met on the road, some who paid one set of money just to look and act like everyone else. Most importantly though, we made people laugh. The memory of two Trinidadian men who now live in New York, falling on the ground and rolling with laughter when they saw us and then coming to give us a “bounce” of approval was better than any prize money and all the justification I needed. One lady, so drunk, she had a permanent come hither expression, yelled, “You DAMN right! They cannot stop we! Recession Meh Ass!”

If we want Ole Mas to survive, more of us need to stop joining bands and start blaizing our own trails. Stop waiting around to be entertained and put on your own show for all to see. Think about it, all year long, we have to conform to what people expect and I will be damned if on J’ouvert morning I also have to conform again.

When we were too tired to go anymore, we crashed by an old friend Mikey who told us that years ago, he used to put on a full doctor’s suit and stetoscope costume and turn into Doctor Gramaxone for J’ouvert. He would carry a bottle of green coloured liquid with the skull and cross bones label on it and approach people, pretend to examine them with the stetoscope and then prescribe them a few teaspoons of his “Gramaxone”.
“You look like you need some Gramaxone, here take this and have two teaspoons a day with meals,” he would say, serious as ever.


The weedicide was of course was just rum with green food colouring. You see, the thing about Performance Art is that it does not have to make sense to everybody. Those who got it found it gut splitting funny. Those who didn’t get it just found it weird and that’s okay too. Dr. Gramaxone was not done for competition but just as a form of personal expression amongst the J’ouvert revelers.

If we want Ole Mas to survive, more of us need to stop joining bands and start blaizing our own trails. Stop waiting around to be entertained and put on your own show for all to see. Think about it, all year long, we have to conform to what people expect and I will be damned if on J’ouvert morning I also have to conform again. Mickey better be ready to resurrect Dr. Gramaxone next year because I coming out with Nurse Racket and Warden Warahoo and we taking on the dotish and deficient local health system.