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!

It’s not that funny although it is true.

So the other day I’m talking to a friend of mine and I happen to mention the policeman who had stalked me for a (thankfully) very short time. On hearing the story my friend comments that for as long as he has known me at any given point in time I have been stalked or harassed by someone. I laughed and then I got depressed because it’s true.

When I was younger I used to wonder if I had a sign on my forehead. Wherever I went, some freak would make contact with me. I remember once I went to church, yes church, and during the sign of peace segment where you have to shake hands with other members of the congregation this guy walks up to me. Now the weird thing is that I wasn’t in the church. I was actually outside observing and listening to the proceedings. When the man came out of the building and made a beeline towards me at first I thought nothing of it. He could have been going to his car for all I knew. Instead he came up to me and introduced himself. Apparently he was a theology student and he invited me to a retreat in Salybia where they all go to get closer to the Lord or something. I don’t know, I never called him and actually I don’t recall ever going back to that particular church. Go figure.

One of my more disturbing stalkers actually was the friend of a friend. You know people always say when socialising try to do so only with those you know and their acquaintances for safety reasons. The people who say that are talking up their asses. Anyhoo, I met this one through my only female friend at the time. He practiced (and still does for all I know) kickboxing and was a very interesting, entertaining fellow. We would all hang out together and it was actually a very cool scene; until he got fixated with my feet. Back then I didn’t know about fetishes. So my boy started calling me at all hours of the night. He wanted to know where I lived to ‘visit’ me. The last straw was when he told my friend and me a story about some girl (a neighbour) who accused him of rape. He said he didn’t do it (don’t they all), but the allegation is enough for me. Last I heard he had turned his attentions to our mutual friend.

At least it would seem that my stalkerbility is decreasing as I get older. This year, apart from the police officer, there was only that strange bag-boy who seemed to have a sixth sense in finding me in the supermarket. He offered to write his number on one of my grocery bags and invited me on a date to a juice bar. What the hell is a juice bar? I’ve never heard of or seen one in Trinidad. And that bitch had a talent of appearing out of nowhere. I swear he rivals the best bandits out there. But he’s nothing compared to the gentleman who showed me his gun last year. Yes, his gun. Tucked into his waist band. Right next to me in a taxi. He said he was on his way to handle some ‘business’.

The scary thing about being stalked or otherwise harassed in Trinidad is that no one takes it seriously. If you go to the police (and I’m speaking from experience here) inevitably they just pass it off as a case of puppy love: “Oh gorsh, a nice girl like you. De fella cyah help heself. Give him a chance nah. He like yuh.” They’d probably say the same thing at my funeral. I remember telling another male friend about my predicament and he responded that I probably encouraged them. He may as well have said that rape victims ask for what they get and battered housewives deserve homicidal husbands.

I admit that I have become somewhat paranoid in my interpersonal reactions and most likely, this is why I have limited my social interactions to non-existence. My aunt says I should live my life and not be scared all the time, but it’s not a matter of fear. I just don’t think I could handle another St. Ann’s candidate yap to me about what issues or personal demons they may have.