GET IN YUH SECTION

My first exposure to carnival was the kiddies Mashramani (Mash) parade in nursey school. In Guyana Mash is the celebration that was instituted to commemorate us achieving Republic status in 1970, and with its street parade, floats, which were often spectacular instances of crafting gone garishly wrong, and costumed revellers, is the closest thing we have to a carnival. I was the lead in a section of a float and paired with a fellow kindergartener of the male variety. I never really took part in Mash again, either as a participant or bystander, until University. You see, despite what the Wikipedia article on Mash says, the celebration was a very racially divided one. Sure, many ethnicities lined the parade route, although conservative families didn’t do even this, but the persons in the parade were largely Guyanese of African heritage. The donning of short pants or skirts and tramping down the road was discouraged in East Indian heritage households. “Decent” girls didn’t take part in Mash as far as they were concerned. Mind, the costumes back then were like nun habits compared to the ones we wear now, and the amount of wining was comparatively restrained.

This tameness/lameness of the Mash I was exposed to, which was a watered-down version of what was experienced in the capital city, didn’t really activate my instinct to push back against the prevalent notions. I was interested in what the big deal with carnival was though. Michael Anthony’s book King of the Masquerade made it seem mysterious and alluring, which was not what I saw in the color and vibrancy of Trinidad carnival on television. The Hindu ‘pen-friend’ from Trinidad couldn’t help clarify matters as when I asked her what she did for Carnival she said her family didn’t believe in it. I might be paraphrasing, but it seemed “decent” girls were being kept home-bound in the twin island republic too. My first year of University I was living away from home and finally had friends who were going to Mash, and in the city! The fact that pictures will show my hair done up in “pepper seeds” (Bantu knots) could be an entirely accidental instance of cultural appropriation or a subconscious reflection of an attempt to fit into the predominant ethnicity that participated in Mash, but I couldn’t tell you what I was thinking then or who did my hair. We weren’t wearing costumes, had alcohol in abundance, and by the end of the parade route had joined a band and were “mashing” along. It was an amazing time.

Five years later and I had moved to Barbados. I thought this move was temporary and wanted to experience all the island offered so I signed up for a Crop over band even though I had no one to jump with me. The experience was middling and only brings to mind losing both big toe nails. A few years after, I was still in Barbados and decided to jump with the Blue Box Cart band because that was the band all my friends were in. This jump was light years more fun than the previous one. I found it mildly disturbing that the band had mostly white folks, but I didn’t feel uncomfortable or excluded, so it was all good. Years later, as my consciousness and understanding of anti-blackness and the race politics in Barbados improved, I would have discussions about how problematic this band is. My reasons for continuing to jump with them (sporadically) are in order: they reach ‘down the road’ first (and by after lunch I’m ready for home), their costume prices are among the cheapest, and their drinks service is excellent. The optics of a majority white band essentially leading the kadooment day parade, the denouement of a festival rooted in resistance to the oppressions of enslavement, is disheartening to put it mildly. I’ve asked why they’re allowed to do this and received the response that no other band wants to finish that early anyways. So here we are. If I’m entirely honest I also feel a bit less self-conscious in Blue Box Cart as opposed to some other bands where only the fittest of the toned preen and parade. It’s not that you won’t be allowed a costume, but the eyes that size you up there, versus being in a band where everyone starts drinking from the assembly point and just mind their friends, are more anxiety-inducing.

Guyana has recently started a Trinidad-style carnival to commemorate Independence, while still retaining the Mash celebrations a few months earlier. There were critics, but I think there’s space for both. Experiencing Barbados’ Crop over celebrations has aided in my personal liberation. Even with the class issues (costumes getting more expensive every year), race issues, body colour (dark-skinned women somehow never end up in those photographs summarizing the day) and body size issues, the tradition of carnival has tremendous merit. We could and should explore solutions, and the move to the more affordable and inclusive j’ouvert parades is one of those naturally happening shifts that can further the conversation. The freedom of being on the road in joyous abandon, thinking about how much your feet hurt only to forget it ten seconds later as the song changes to your (fifth) favourite song for the season, has few parallels. In spite of the divisions, everybody deserves a truly “decent” chance at experiencing a carnival.