Americas | existabovethenoise

Where do I begin? For those who are not familiar with Trinidad and Tobago’s Carnival, the two days prior to Ash Wednesday people from all over the world come together to celebrate life in every sense of the word. Starting from the 18^th century, the French would have elaborate masquerade balls in Trinidad. Because the slaves were banned from such festivities, slaves would host their own mini-carnivals in their backyards. With the emancipation of slavery, these celebrations moved to the streets and since that time Trinidad Carnival is highly regarded as “The Greatest Show on Earth.” Carnival season begins from Christmas onwards, with many cultural events leading up to the street parade where you “play mas” on Carnival Monday and Tuesday, including j’ouvert. J’ouvert kicks off carnival Monday with crowds of people dancing covered in mud, oil and paint in the streets in remembrance of the emancipation of slavery. The english translation of j’ouvert is I open and the tradition of oil, paint and mud stems from the slaves not wanting to be recognized in such activity by former slave masters. So, with the history out of the way, now let me tell you what really goes down (or at least what went down Feb 20-21 2012).

I am obliged to say that this was my very first Trinidadian Carnival experience. Though I have participated in other carnivals, including Toronto’s Caribana, Montreal’s Carifiesta, Notting Hill in London, Labour Day parade in New York and DC Carnival, there was absolutely, positively nothing like THIS carnival experience. With only 2 hrs of sleep on Sunday morning, I was ready to jump up for d’original breakfast fete. It was literally the crack of dawn and yes, where I was staying, roosters where actually crowing. By 6am there was a sea of brown, yellow, white, black people eating, limin’ (chillin), whinin’ and drinking like fish in the ocean of fete. There was no bacon, eggs, pancakes or coffee, but rather there was jerk chicken, roti, doubles, and liquor. I never saw anything like it. People of all ages, sizes, from all over the world were gyrating from left to right to soca and chutney music in sweet, sweet T&T. With women rollin’ their bumpers, tipsy, teasin’ and pleasin’ all the men responding and often “rising” to the challenge. Sun beating down, soaking wet with sweat and everyone’s “head nice.” And then when you felt like the whining was done, there was more soca to come and the fetin’ went on and on. It’s now midday and time to cool down by either heading to the beach or taking a quick nap before the “Lara fete.” Sunday night, again scores of people were looking grown and sexy (in sandals, of course) on the grounds of the infamous cricketer, Brian Lara. Tickets are always hard to come by, but I was ready to dance the night away until j’ouvert morning.

Thousands descended on the streets of Port of Spain to play with their respective J’ouvert bands. The alcohol was flowing, flags and rags were in the air with everyone getting on bad, covered in a mixture of oil, mud, and paint placed on their entire body by strangers in the early morning breeze. No time to be tired after 6 hrs of j’ouvert – time to get in costume to play mas in your band of choice or spectate and enjoy the show cause “It’s Carnival.” The energy was palpable as persons playin’ mas cross de stage in their elaborately designed, yet revealing, costumes – dancing as if their lives depended on it. You could feel the beat of the drums from head to toe and there was a certain exhilaration in saying hi and bye to complete strangers with a common goal of having fun “chippin down de road” during the bacchanal. People say it’s a once in a lifetime experience, but I say it’s an annual one. There is no question where I will be next February. Like any good vacation, it is not cheap by any stretch of the imagination. Mas costumes start at $500 USD and inclusive fetes average between $100-200. Nonetheless, there are truly no words or pictures that can truly capture the spirit of Trinidad Carnival. So, I encourage you all to see it for yourself.

This month’s guest blogger is Charlisa Gibson. Bahamian by birth and well traveled by design, Charlie has lived in the US, the UK, Canada and the Caribbean. When she’s not wukkin up, she’s making the rounds – doing her medical residency in Washington, DC. She is also Nafeesah’s birthday twin, which clearly indicates that she is some kinda woman… watch out now!

São Paulo (Sampa) is not known for carnival. In fact, it’s not known for being much more than a bustling metropolis – the New York City of the Southern Cone. It’s all business, all traffic, all urban spread and all urgency. It is a far cry from the vision of Pão de Açúcar and Cristo on high that most people expect of Brasil. There are implants and big butts among this 10,659,386, but the “for sale” sign doesn’t dangle from people’s necks quite like it does on the banks of Copacabana. Sampa ain’t for you sleepers. And since it’s always felt enough like home for me to settle in real sweet at night, I decided a good carnival fête was in order this year.

Escola de Samba Vai Vai originated in a neighborhood called Bixiga. This neighborhood is centrally located to the chic parts of town, but it isn’t a member of the same score. Vai Vai is an institution that serves much of the same purpose as a historically black college – sometimes quality fades, but legacy trumps all. It’s been around since the 1930s, and it’s predecessor union dates back years before that. It was established as a football club, turned samba school, turned social network organization that would support this predominantely Black neighborhood as it grew ever encroached upon, ever in self-denial, as the Brazilian eugenics movement encouraged European immigrants of all nations to whiten the country. Attempts to make Blackness disappear in São Paulo, the cultural and financial capital of the nation, have left a strong legacy of reactionary Black militancy here. But since racism in Brazil isn’t defined by rules of law, but by social taboos, it’s in the heart of social organizations where culture, identity and preservation live or die. The jury is still out on whether or not a samba school should have to hold up the weight of a world, but the coffee leaves (the slavery cash crop) in the regalia reminds the window shopping sambista that this school has a history.

This is only part of Vai Vai’s story. And Vai Vai’s story is only part of the carnival story. And the carnival story is only a sliver of São Paulo’s story, but this is what I walked into. Perhaps years of visiting this place have left me with a keener understanding of why there are so many interracial couples. Why the theme of these schools will always be very “Black centric,” no matter how integrated the schools have become. Why a Nigerian babalawô seems to be hovering behind the scenes while the Brazilian pai de santo glides through the crowd with his blinging ileke on showcase. There are Baianas and clowns, warriors and naked women, dieties and porta bandeiras – man, these people are too clever for the cachaça flowing through my river and the 45 minutes we have to walk through the samba drome.

The samba drome is a Brazilian phenomenon, I’m told. It’s where all the samba schools must go to be officially judged for the carnival contest. Each group only has 45 minutes to pass through and each school has their own scheduled time to make an appearance. Vai Vai’s was at 3am on Friday, February 17^th. I don’t have pictures because those of us who were dressed up and competing weren’t allowed to take pictures or show our cameras. There were floats – an Oxum to die for. There were well-stacked women sambaing and old ladies glowing under the glare of the stadium lights. I can’t say that the 45 minutes of fame, while dancing in the very last section of this samba choir, weren’t worth the 375 Reais and the clown suit. The view from the inside isn’t as pretty as what I saw on tv re-runs. But there are some things that must come off the bucket list and, for that alone, they are worth their weight in gold – lifted off your shoulders.

I say all this to say, I did it. I checked the box. And I smiled the whole way, screaming “O nha mãe Oxum, LI-BER-DA-DE,” while trying to keep my clown hat from falling from my crowned head.