Caroline Taylor remembers the year that she tried to do almost everything for Carnival…
Is a vibe coming outta we soul
Everybody take up yuh role
This year we playing brave and bold
Jumbies coming out ah dey hole— Machel Montano, “Jumbie”
Picture it: Port of Spain, 2007. For a plucky 20-something, it is the first full Carnival season back in Trinidad after several years in the cold. Greedy (and hubristic), she looks upon the tantalising buffet of Carnival experiences, and resolves that none shall go unsampled.
It started sensibly enough — a reasonably spaced series of mandatory Carnival activities. Panyards. Pan semis. Calypso competitions. Viey La Cou. Some fetes. But the week before Carnival is . . . different. The quasi-hermit who could be counted on to shimmy out of almost every social invitation was instead seeking out as many pre-Carnival activities as could reasonably be attended without physical expiration, linking up with seven different posses of friends on the final sprint to Ash Wednesday.
The ambitious pre-mas itinerary was Tribe Ignite; then the Kambule Riots re-enactment in town at 5am; traditional Carnival character competition at midday; then Soca Monarch backstage. And this was just until Friday night.
Saturday morning was the critical re-fuelling point before Panorama finals at the Savannah, immediately followed by Insomnia fete at MOBS 2. There would be no cat naps. And the friend who was joining me on my mother and her friends’ annual pan pilgrimage was also coming with me to Insomnia. Bailing was not an option.
I cherished the pan. Among the lime that night were All Stars, Phase II, Renegades, and Despers die-hards, all fiercely cheering and arguing for their bands, but with a magnificent camaraderie in celebration of our resplendent instrument, our defiant resilience and creativity. Listening to the pan, with a view of the lights flickering on the surrounding hillsides under that cool, crisp night air, has always been an experience that fills me with tremendous gratitude, no matter the victors.
Still high off the music, my friend and I persevered through the gridlock entering Chaguaramas. I was grateful for the company, despite my hermit tendencies beginning to flare from lack of sleep, too many bananas (they’re so useful for hangovers), and having far exceeded my weekly peopling quota.
At some point, hours later, when the sun was well into the sky, I made my way happily but wearily back home. Not even black-out curtains could fool my body into believing this was sleeping time. All I could do was remain horizontal, giving my aching feet and sore back a chance …
That night, as I took in the final Dimanche Gras performances, I shut down a brief flirtation with the idea of making a last-minute J’Ouvert costume, settling instead for old clothes, lathering up in baby oil, and making the rounds to collect a couple of friends before heading to meet 3canal.
This was the first time I was driving myself to and from J’Ouvert, so my delight at successfully dodging the bands assembling on Long Circular Road and securing a park in Woodbrook was short-lived. Because Jesus knows the speed walk back to Ariapita Avenue after crossing the Savannah stage is a gauntlet when there’s no music truck, no alcohol, and the sun starts assaulting your weary body.
Later, I hosed down, showered, hydrated, closed my eyes for a five, and then readied myself for Monday mas. I hauled my behind to the car . . . which would not start. My battery was dead. It wasn’t until my dad gave me a jump that I could see why: one of the friends I’d collected for J’Ouvert (who’d been putting finishing touches on her costume) never switched the dome light off after we met the band. I had to laugh. I took it as a sign to ask my dad for a lift to be on the safe side.
Several groups of friends were playing in Island People that year, so with a few SMS messages I was able to link up with my section. We jumped the afternoon away, got some great photos (including blue paint still leaching out of my skin — several showers later — onto my white Monday-wear shirt). But I knew my limit. I needed to ice. And to hydrate. And to get one full night of sleep before the final push.
I met the band downtown early Tuesday. There’s one particularly sleepy-looking photo of me from that morning, somewhere near South Quay. The rest of the day was a blissful blur, right through to Last Lap by the Stadium — all powered by soca, salts, and spirits. There was a photo that came out in a Carnival magazine afterwards that took me years to figure out. And then I realised: Dip in de centre / Do de jumbie dance / Lean back and reverse / Do de jumbie dance …
It was that — the perfect immortalisation of the year I was fully (or almost fully) outta body, then back to myself. We ready for mas again?
A version of this story was originally published in issue 168, and is republished here as a Last Word