Photo: Blue Devil: Bertranad De Peaza

Carnival as we know it was forged in the angry furnaces of African slavery, using as its raw material the more genteel festivities of the Christian slave-owners of two centuries ago, who traditionally greeted the coming of Lent with one last, live-it-up fling (carne vale, farewell to the flesh). In the slaveyards, the workers did the same, celebrating by mocking their masters.

After emancipation in the 1830s, the festival moved onto the streets, an expression of wild and by no means genteel abandon that made the plantocracy cringe behind their fine wrought-iron gates. Singing, dancing, drumming, stickfighting and generally licentious behaviour scandalised the colonial authorities, who tried everything within their power to suppress the festival, with no success.

Like the phoenix, Carnival rose time and again from its own

Photo: Singer: Bertrand De Peaza

ashes, each time stronger, more sure of itself. And today, stripped at last of antagonism and enjoyed by every sector of the population, it has attained a phoenix-like magnificence: fiery, magical, invincible. It is an outpouring of creativity and fraternity; a time for shedding cares and inhibitions; an overwhelming sea of people and music and brilliant costumes.

Today’s multifaceted festival is highly organised. Panyards, calypso tents, mas camps, massive public fetes, a flurry of different competitions — each has its part to play. Even the children are not left out: they enjoy their very own Kiddies Carnival.

And the best thing about Carnival is that it’s not just a spectator sport: anyone can play. Buy a costume; hang out in a panyard; party yourself silly — it’s all what you make of it.
Donna Yawching

Calypso: satire and bacchanal
Perhaps no other art form defines Trinidad and Tobago so well as calypso, a pungent combination of social and political commentary, oral history, and (often) just plain mischievous rudeness, all set to a lively rhythm.

The experts still debate whether the word calypso was derived from the Hausa kaiso, the French carrousseaux or the Carib caliso. Whatever its linguistic roots, the artform itself has become world-famous — and its brazenness alone marks it as unmistakably Trinidadian.

No-one is immune from the satire. Calypso has been used to praise, ridicule or inspire since the days of slavery. Chantwells, the earliest calypsonians, led the earliest Carnival bands, each trying to outdo his rivals in improvised song-duels, a skill which lives on in today’s Extempo competitions. Similarly, the chantwells’ leggo has evolved into the contemporary Road March (the calypso most frequently played on the Carnival days).

Photo: Carnival Reveller: Kenneth Lee

In recent times, calypso has assimilated new rhythms and influences to mutate into variant forms such as the faster-paced soca, the Indian-spiced chutney, dub-soca, and so on. These tend to be popular on the party scene, and are more concerned with keeping their listeners “wining and jamming” than with social comment.

Originally, calypsos were performed in tents; today, the venues are actually large halls and stages, but the old name still prevails. As soon as the Christmas tinsel is packed away, the calypso season begins. Night after night, crowds flock to the tents — there are several in the Port of Spain area and in San Fernando and Tobago — to cheer such well-known favourites as Black Stalin and Cro Cro, Shadow and Chalkdust, Machel Montano and invading singers from Barbados, and to appraise the newer talents. The tents are the irreverent, often bawdy, debating grounds for everything from love and lust to politics and scandal. You may not understand all the words, but you’ll certainly get the message! (DY/MK)

Panyards: the music factories
This is a guarantee: you’ll never forget the first time you hear a full steelband in action. A hundred musicians, 400 pans, a righteous thunder of melody and rhythm that will possess your very soul. A complexity of sound that you would never expect from an instrument that started life as nothing more than a discarded oil or biscuit drum.

That was in the 30s and early 40s, when steelband evolved right here in Trinidad as an accompaniment to the wild Carnival jump-up. In those days, it was the music of the dispossessed, the steelbandsmen “badjohns” with flasks of rum in one back pocket and switchblade knives in the other. Over the years, however, the steelband has attained respectability and commercial sponsorship, and pan (now exalted as the “national instrument”) is taught in many schools, even in Britain and North America. Today’s “panman” is quite likely to be a woman; and she might easily hail from one of the city’s posher districts.

The place to imbibe steelband music in the raw is in the panyards, where — in the weeks leading up to Carnival — the bands rehearse for competition. Most of the players do not read music; notes and phrases are learned by ear. Considering the range, complexity and speed required by the average steelband arrangement, this is truly an incredible feat.

Visitors are welcome at the panyards during the Carnival season, when the energy level is at its highest and the players exhibit an almost divine frenzy. Some of the best panyards can be found in the Port of Spain/Woodbrook/St James area: All Stars, Renegades, Phase Two, Invaders, Starlift, Desperadoes on the Laventille hill. For Trinis, any of these will constitute a favourite Carnival “lime” . (DY/MK)

Mas camps: the drama factories
A visit to a mas camp is like a visit to a beehive. Workers — most of them volunteers — scurry around putting the finishing touches to vivid feathered head-dresses, flowing robes and bikinis that dazzle with sequins and beads.

Photos: Carnival Reveller in Gold Paint: Bertrand De Peaza

This is the “engine room” of Carnival, the place where literally millions of bits and pieces come together — somehow, and usually at the last possible minute — to form that amazing, unbelievably beautiful spectacle that is a Carnival band.

The mas camp is where it all starts. Bands are launched around November with a big party to present costume designs to the general public. Masqueraders choose their favourites and pay the requisite fee to sign up. Three months later, they pick up their costumes, some of which, these days, can fit into an envelope.

Carnival bands range in size from 100 to more than 3,000 masqueraders; costumes start at a few hundred dollars for the most basic designs and soar into the thousands for the more elaborate showpieces. The Kings and Queens of the bands, the designers’ highest flights of fancy, represent major financial investments: but for the dedicated mas-player, they are worth it.

Often towering 20 feet (six metres) high and incredibly intricate, these regal creations represent the ultimate moment of Carnival glory as they dance their way across the Grandstand stage on Carnival Sunday night, competing for the year’s titles.

It’s usually possible to join a band at the last minute; so why not? Check out a mas camp, choose your colour in sequins — and play mas! (DY/MK)

Kiddies Carnival
Carnival Saturday belongs to the children. This is when the masqueraders of the future come out to play, dressed in costumes no less elaborate or splendid (in fact, many will argue much more so) than their adult counterparts will be sporting two days later.

On Carnival Saturday, thousands of excited children, from tiny tots to teenagers, take to the streets, their proud parents waving enthusiastically from the sidelines. DJ music blasts from the street corners; the sun blazes down on a sea of bright colours as the nation’s youth leaps and gyrates and generally has a great old time — just “playin’ mas”. (DY/MK)

J’Ouvert morning
Carnival proper starts here. Monday morning, 4.00 a.m., and the city streets — St James, Woodbrook, downtown Port of Spain, not to mention those of San Fernando and other major centres — are alive with strange creatures of the night .

J’Ouvert ( pronounced “jouvay”) comes from the French, and means “opening of the day”. For Carnival revellers, this is the starting signal for two days of complete “freeing up”.

In former times, the slaves used the masquerade (mas, for short) to mock and mimic their owners. J’Ouvert was a kind of exorcism of evil spirits. Now, it’s an opportunity to go incognito; to behave outrageously under cover of crowds and darkness. The music, from steelbands or gigantic deejay trucks, is thunderous. Beer and rum flow as thousands of revellers leap and dance, act out grotesque jokes and puns, and daub each other with mud, grease or blue paint.

It’s not a place for the faint-hearted. This pre-lenten bacchanal is for those who enjoy shedding their inhibitions and expressing themselves with a touch of daring. Join a band with a devil costume of horns, tail and trident, or smear yourself from head to toe with oozing mud. And surrender to the primeval, till break of dawn. (MK)

The masquerade
Once J’Ouvert is over, the stage is clear for Carnival’s climax, the culmination of weeks of parties and preparations, competitions and controversies.

On Monday, the mas’ bands start to materialise on the streets around midday, many of their members still dazed from the excesses of J’Ouvert. Few of the masqueraders will be wearing their full costumes: they save this ultimate glory for Tuesday, the grand finale. Monday is for easy-going fun; Tuesday is the day for competition. (Though it’s possible that in 1998 judging will be spread over both days, which will make a radical change from the tradition.) On Monday evening, an even more informal night mas’ takes to the streets, enjoying the cool of the evening.

On Tuesday, the bands come out in full strength and in full costume: the Band of the Year competition is taken very seriously. The top bandleaders try to time their on-stage appearances so as to catch the best light for showing up the particular beauty of their bands; spectators crane from bleachers and grandstands, windows and balconies, cheering on their favourites.

In Port of Spain, the bands cover a circuit that takes them through Woodbrook and the downtown core to the Savannah and across the main stage. Music trucks blare, commentators tally up the Road March contenders, masqueraders seek out the TV cameras to display their best “wine”. From every corner of the city, the bands wind their way through narrow streets, infiltrated by hordes of costumeless partyers. The essence of Carnival is participation.

And then it’s Last Lap, the final Tuesday evening fling. At midnight, Carnival ends, and it’s all over for another year, except for the competition results (and the inevitable controversies), the post-Carnival fetes, and one or two post-Carnival shows (Champs in Concert, the Talk Tent). By which time, bandleaders and designers are already turning their thoughts to next year’s creations. After all, a year goes by in a flash. (DY)