No place like home

Hasty preparations were reminiscent of Trini Carnival: one of the girls was in the backyard spraying her boyfriend’s hair the colours of the Trinidad flag. Another one was mixing colours, trying to come up with the exact shade of lilac to match her costume. "Are we travelling like this?" I asked, pointing to my bra with gold spangles sewn on the front and short skirt.

"Why not," they responded. "Not to say anybody knows us and besides, in this country, nobody really takes you on you know."

On the train an old woman sat next to us, eyed us up and down as we sat demurely (for now) with headpieces on laps. I imagined that she was wondering what the hell had happened to good old Britannia and what was the world coming to, when women could appear in public in their underwear. "Your costumes are lovely," she said, flashing a smile and stroking a feather on one of our headpieces. "Really very lovely."

Occupying the end of one of the carriages on another train was a group of young black men. They had their own little rhythm section going, were drinking copious amounts from various bottles of alcohol and, obviously, had been at it for a while.

They began harassing us from the moment we boarded, their voices that grating, rasping cockney that reduces the English language to a dialect that’s ugly and incomprehensible. We hoped they weren’t going where we were but realised the odds were good that we would. Apparently no country has cornered the market on stupidity.

Walking to meet Poison was like strolling down the corridors of the United Nations.

Every possible shade of skin was exposed to compete with the costumes, every possible language exclaimed at the masqueraders. Cottage industries sprung up overnight selling an assortment of items, hoping to satisfy some need at a tidy profit. One boy walking with his family passed us with his eyes as big as saucers. "Those are some really nice costumes," he said, punching the air to accentuate his words. I feel like an ambassador, the UN delegate for Trinidad and Tobago in native wear.

And then, it starts. In the distance we hear the opening bars of Onika Bostik’s "All is yours" and it could only be one thing: a big truck. It turns out to be one of the Poison trucks and suddenly we are surrounded by hundreds of writhing, sweating, gyrating, wining Trinis by birth, by extract, by volition. And the music is blasting and the sun shining — nice and warm but never really getting to roasting point — and everyone has a drink in their hand, Guinness, the closest thing to home since they couldn’t get Carib or Stag.

Red women glide by in the fuchsia and saffron Tansi costume, brownings in the lavender flowers and feathers of Venus, I in part of a Red Sonja costume. It’s the closest I’ve come to being homesick since I’ve got here, remembering falling asleep at the mascamp Carnival Friday, going to the beach on Saturday, resting up on Sunday and exploding on the streets of Port-of-Spain Carnival Monday and Tuesday, partaking in the mass ecstasy (pun intended) that seems to grip the nation for that entire week.

The streets are different, the masqueraders different (too many white people, unless, of course, you’re playing in Harts or, judging from their Web site, Tribe) but it’s sweet anyway because it’s soca and sunlight and a baseline rattling every bone in your body. We chip and wine our way along a path I do not know and don’t really care because for a brief moment, a tiny, infinitesimal period of time I’m reminded of one of the most sublime experience anyone can have.

And then it’s over.

The security moves and the spectators are free to enter the band and they do so in droves. One man grabs my bottom. Another tries to kiss my neck. A few minutes later one of the girls hits a man for grabbing her crotch. And the imitation is exposed for what it truly is: a cheap reproduction of the real thing. Dozens of men crowd around us, bullying us to have their photos taken among us.

Catcalls and degrading comments are shouted and, as the sun sets, Notting Hill carnival has been ruined for me and I just want to leave. When it comes to carnival, at least, there’s no place like home.

Comments? Please write

suszanna@hotmail.com