Carnival makes entrepreneurs of us all, there is money to be made, so, over the last few days, black bins have been acquired, best not ask from where, chickens and goats curried and jerked, the family next door have been running a samosa assembly line and even the men whose usual day to day rhythm is bookies, bar and blues have plans to make money, cash, dollar and the supermarket has already sold out of bags of ice.
The hairdresser has been open since 7am, doors wide open to manage the heat from every hair dryer on high, old school reggae blasting from speakers, a prelude to the sounds that will shake the streets and teeth later.
Carnival is serious business, outfits planned for weeks, nails be-jewelled and dagger sharp, hair sharper still, statement lipsticks and faces that say “ Today I am royalty”
The smaller girls are imprisoned between adult knees, clamped into immobility while perfect corn rows are furrowed onto heads, they learn quickly that wriggling is not acceptable, will result in a slap, but as soon as they can, escape to the street, stand close to cooking pots big enough to swallow a small child whole, learn again that reaching out for dumplin or deep fried plantain will earn them another slap, wait for the call back into the terraced houses, the shoe-horning in perfect frocks, shiny shoes placed on feet, the instruction to sit on the sofa and not move a muscle, not get dirty.
The neighbour at number 46 has decamped from the rocking chair that lives outside his front door from April until October, the chair from which he surveys the street, a can of red stripe and a single skinner always on the go, is instead today stacked with bags of whistles, bandanas, baseball caps. Everything is red, gold and green. “ I and I will be making money today “ he says and then because he cannot help himself, opens up one of the bags and hands out whistles to the boys who have been standing, watching his every move for the last half hour.
And Chandos St erupts with the first whistles and whoops of the day – soundtrack of carnival, on the parade, on the park and hours from now, as families trail home, hands sticky from candy floss and sugar cane, there will still be enough energy left for a final tuneless toot until children carried on shoulders lose their grip on the now grubby green, red and gold laces and let the last of the whistles drop into the gutter.
The parade is late leaving the Neighbourhood Centre, the parade is reliably late leaving but there are still baby mothers running past the supermarket, somehow managing to run and carry a bag stuffed with wet wipes and cartons of smart price juice while perfecting a kiss curl right in the middle of the forehead of the smallest child bound for a float. Hands reach down and hoist these tiny confections of lace and net into their places.
“Smile” say the baby mothers “ Smile” and they walk alongside, newest baby in the buggy, a middle sized boy holding tight to the handle, carrier bags just balanced, just so, one step away from tipping over.
And for one day, Highfields becomes a tourist destination for our neighbours from more affluent, less ghetto suburbs. They , thinking they are in the know, are prowling our streets, looking for carnival colour. They think it’s cheaper and safer to buy food, booze and weed here, in this grid of streets of two ups, two downs than on the park, than at carnival itself, which is mostly true, but only because no-one here has paid a pitch fee, just plonked a black bin full of ice and cans of beer and those tiny bottles of strange white wine, wine that only ever appears at carnival and everything’s a pound, because, well, why not.
We watch them, sell to them, smile and smile and smile. We are serious about providing the colour at this, the other end of carnival
The chickens from number 78 have been a sound investment, not just once, but twice, , first in fresh laid eggs and now served with rice and beans, soul food eaten with a plastic fork.
And this, this tune is everywhere today. Walk slowly, but slightly faster then the floats that stop and stutter up London Rd and you will hear it in full, each sound system out of sync but the music carries on, rewinds, starts again.
“Jump around, jump around”
Even the mighty AbaShanti, he of purest roots reggae, legendary sound system supremo, godfather of the blues parties for half a lifetime, even he lifts one finger, nods, dreads flicking in time to the beat of these white boys from half a world away.
.
“Feelin’, funkin’, amps in the trunk and I got more rhymes
Than there’s cops at a Dunkin’ Donuts shop
Sho’ nuff, I got props
From the kids on the hill plus my mom and my pops
I came to get down, I came to get down
So get out your seat and jump around!”
Phoenix Writers Group
Rubies and Duels 