Carnival Country

Not everyone is talented. This is why I work. At a real job. With bitches. Real live bitches. The majority of our soca entertainers should consider that.

Although I don’t fete, wine or drink, I like Carnival. It’s the only time of the year I can mount my high horse and look down my nose at those Canaval Jumbies with self righteous disgust. It’s quite addictive actually and I’ve never missed a year. Now I know how Pastor Cuffie feels.

Have you seen the cost of tickets for the average Carnival fete? Hell I could eat for two months with that moolah. And I’ll be eating good too. So they’re all inclusive. Big deal. The kind of prices I’m hearing, even a career drunkard couldn’t get his money’s worth. And too besides, all the live entertainment does is instruct the audience to ‘raise yuh hands in de air!’. When I was little that was used a punishment in school. I find it hard paying upwards of $500.00 to be punished when I could get the same - and worse - for free on the streets. Another thing is this bloody counting. If the soca tune is two minutes, you’ll be hearing 15 minutes of the performer counting to three.

I watched the Soca Monarch finals on television and it took away what little happiness I had gleaned from the knowledge that I have no work on Monday and Tuesday. What could possibly cause such abject despondency in a carefree, happy-go-lucky creature such as myself? Well it’s because I learnt that I’m not an independent woman. According to a number of contestants, my stationary pelvic area has set back my gender God knows how many decades. But I’m not worried; from the amount of dancing girls who displayed their autonomy onstage via jooking, rolling back and plain old wining, methinks the feminist movement is in good hands. Hazel Brown would be proud.

What truly irritates me about the season is the influx of foreigners. It’s like a disease. Not the tourists mind you – the obnoxious Trinis who spend a couple years abroad and show up with the attitude that we should be grateful to hear their grating hybrid accents. It’s easy to tell a fresh water tourist from the bonafides. They’re loud. Insufferably loud. And they talk slow. Real slow. So we natives can keep up of course. I’m sometimes tempted to ask them if they remember what it’s like to be a newly landed Trinidadian in a foreign land but I’m always afraid they’ll respond with “WHAT? WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?” at the equivalent speed of a snail rushing home to catch re-runs of Sex in the City.

One show I would have loved to attend was 3Canal’s ‘Shine’. I was able to get a glimpse of it on television. (Local natch; no $300.00-per-month-and-no-movie-channels for this shrew.) Even while the calypso tents are going through their various controversies and kaiso gets less objective and more inclined to the calypsonian’s political bias, 3Canal and the rapso artistes are probably the only authentic Carnival experiences remaining in the land of Machel, all inclusive fetes and imported bikini mas.

But why ponder on these irrelevant issues when there are still fetes to go to, big trucks to follow and bumpers to wine on? So grab yuh rag and on de count of three: 1...2…1,2,3 Waaaavvveee!

Sunday Morning - two ay em.

The time is now 2am. I haven’t seen my house since 7:30am.

The thing about foreign-based family members making the obligatory trip home is that more often than not, they forget that we actually have things to do besides lime. I mean hey, I’m glad to see you too - I may not know you, but I’m glad – however let’s face it: we can’t squeeze four years of weddings, funerals, christenings, births, divorces and other bacchanal into a couple hours.

One of my mother’s brothers is in the country for two more days. He seems to be a relatively pleasant person, but I won’t put my head on a block for that. At least I can now say that I’m on speaking terms with one of the Trinimerican family. The others can still suck salt and die for all I care. No I don’t mean it literally…

Anyway so this relatively newfound uncle landed up. I had met him previously but it would seem at that time neither of us made much an impression on the other. All I know is that mumsy told me we had a family get together to attend since H_ was in the country. I was actually in the cinema taking in 30 Days of Night. I wasn’t impressed. Both with the movie and the idea of family. However since I have no argument with this side and honestly I had no plans for the evening I gave it a shot. Besides, mum had already decided that if she were to suffer so would I.

We got there at seven. My uncle J_ was greeted us because, well, it’s his house. E_ and M_ soon followed, so it was just a matter of the guest of honour to show up. This was about 8pm. Two hours, a number of phone calls, some frayed nerves and numerous jokes about Trini Time later uncle H_ finally graced us with his presence.

I reiterate:- he seems to be a very nice man. We talked, laughed and had a fun old time albeit short lived. M_ eternal joker that he is, ribbed H_ throughout about his sense of time and although some of the barbs did seem a bit vicious, I’ll blame fatigue.

In all I wasn’t upset that mum saw it fit to drag me along. Granted, I wasn’t pleased either – my sleep is important to me, more so since I think my insomnia’s returning- but as the lime ended with the usual lies about keeping in touch and the ritual of phone number taking, I had to marvel: so this is what normal families do. I still don’t see the big deal and I’d be perfectly satisfied if I don’t see them for another couple years.