Go Caribbean: Louise Eastdidn't know what to expect when she was invited to join the carnival in Antigua. She soon found out when she spotted the colourful costume she had to wear
IT’S 9PM on a Sunday evening in a suburb of Antigua’s capital, St John’s. Thunderous singing and clapping from the nearby Pentecostal church competes with the sound of radios, all tuned to the same station.
Despite the noise, the narrow streets are empty and the house windows dark, except for one small bungalow which is lit up like a fruit machine. Inside, every surface is covered with sequins, scraps of gold lamé, marabou feathers and five-litre vats of glue. One wall bristles with hundreds of glitter-and-feather-encrusted pikes, as though Cromwell’s army is getting ready for a night out at Studio 54.
This is the “mas camp” of the Revellers, one of 17 mas groups (short for masquerade) taking part in the carnival the next day. Unlike Rio, which goes nuts in early spring, Antigua’s carnival is held in July to celebrate the passing of slavery in 1834. Like carnivals the world over, it’s also a celebration of partying, and the locals take their responsibilities very seriously indeed. For the Revellers, who have been playing mas together for 35 years, this carnival is particularly important as they’ve won the large band title for the last nine years running.
Weeks ago, a representative of the Antigua and Barbuda Tourism Authority had enquired as to whether I might like to join the Revellers for their 10th attempt at the crown, and I’d agreed with the alacrity of someone who hears the words “Caribbean”, “holiday” and “free”.
Now, looking at the costume designs pinned up on the mas camp wall, I wonder whether I should have asked a couple more questions. I spot a tiny scrap of yellow lycra and a head-dress which looks as though a Muppet has been taxidermied in the act of eating my head. On the basis of the costume, it seems eminently possible that “playing mas” means serving cocktails in a Muppet-fetish girlie-bar.
“What exactly will I be doing?” I ask the tourism authority lady, who laughs in a not entirely reassuring way.
“You’ll see,” she says. “Tomorrow, you’ll see.”
At 6.30am on the streets of St John’s, I do see. “J’ouvert” is the opening session of the carnival, and although we got up at 5am to be here, everyone agrees we’ve arrived late. Usually, “j’ouvert” kicks off at 4am, but this year the St John’s police declared they were going to shut it down at 10am, so everyone started jammin’ at 2am.
Jammin’ is a word you hear a lot during carnival and it seems to contain within it the idea of partying hard, dancing, and grinding your buttocks into the lap of another man or woman. During “j’ouvert”, jammin’ is done wearing T-shirts shredded and sliced until the concept of T-shirtness is purely philosophical, with the addition of a liberal coating of bright blue or fox-red paint.
We take up position on a side-road called Soul Alley, and watch a riotous parade of people jammin’, laughing, drinking Guinness from glasses shaped like cowboy boots, and trying to hitch a ride on one of the lorries decked out with speakers and sound systems.
I try to practice a few moves, but give up when someone hollers, “Girl, what you doin’?”
“She’s going to play mas,” the helpful tourism lady shouts back, and everyone agrees this is a splendid joke.
By 4pm, the quiet streets around the Revellers’ mas camp look like the results of a controlled explosion in Liberace’s wardrobe. A woman in a tiger print cod-piece straightens the life-sized fish suspended in an arc over her son’s head.
A lady with grey hair pulls at the edge of her fluorescent lime mini-skirt and someone points out the prime minister of Antigua, Baldwin Spencer, who will be playing mas with the Revellers, in a natty red outfit with custom-made lame flames.
Unnoticed, a harried-looking man slips through the crowd. This is Colin M Wanga Martin, the leader of the Revellers and the man responsible for designing the costumes. This year, the Revellers’ theme is “In Retrospect”, the kind of wonderfully vague name which allows a man to get creative with animal print, neon pink leotards and carnivorous Muppets without having to answer awkward questions.
Unlike many of the other mas troupes, who buy in costumes from Trinidad, Martin insists that all the Revellers’ costumes are made in Antigua, a task which takes several months.
Up close, many of the other mas troupes have superior costumes – I am particularly envious of a lady who has jewelled pheasant feathers erupting from her knees – but Martin's eye for pageantry has undoubtedly given the Revellers their winning streak. It's hard to argue with several hundred feathered standards, the prime minister dressed as a Catherine wheel, a hell of a lot of Lycra-clad buttocks and one knock-kneed Irish Timesjournalist.
At 4.30pm, the music is cranked up and the Revellers move off from mas camp, heading towards Carnival City. At first, it’s curiously subdued, and everyone ambles along the road as though they’re off to fetch milk, but as the crowds gather and television cameras swoop, the energy picks up.
Tomorrow, there’ll be a longer parade but today is when the judging takes place, so it’s time to crack this jammin’ thing, once and for all.
I position myself in the middle of my section, stick my bum out, and imagine I’m stomping on ants while sitting on a washing machine.
Nobody points and cries, “Look at whitey dance”, so I workshop a few mas variations I call “Energetic vacuuming”, “Attracting the barman’s eye come closing time”, and the simple but effective, “Wow, my bum really does look big in this”.
Somewhere along the way, I forget I’m practising and start having a very good time.
I hope that it is here the news cameras catch up with me, or possibly later, when I am pogo-ing around the stage with the rest of the Revellers, the night sky turned Technicolor with feathers, sequins and fishnets.
All I know is that the next day, someone will inform the tourism authority lady that we appeared on the evening news.
I will say, hopefully, “So, I must have really impressed them”, and she will laugh that not entirely reassuring laugh and tell me that the Revellers retained their title for the tenth year anyway.
What to do if you're not jammin'
THE ISLAND OF Antigua has long been the Caribbean isle of choice for the kind of celebrities who want to get into the jungle, not out of it.
Eric Clapton, Oprah Winfrey and Georgio Armani all own houses there, and John Travolta and Prince Charles and Camilla are regular vistors. That Antigua boasts some 365 beaches, most of them white of sand and milky-blue of sea, is undoubtedly the chief attraction, but there’s lots to do and see if you manage to leave your lounger.
Those green-soaked hills (the highest of which, Boggy Peak has recently been re-christened Mount Obama) are best viewed from above. At the Antigua Rainforest Canopy Tour (antiguarainforest.com) they’ll strap you into a wildly unflattering harness and send you whizzing through the trees to a series of wooden platforms high among the leaves.
Sugar was long the clockwork on which Antigua ran, and the ruins of old sugar mills (right) dot the island like truncated windmills. At Sugar Ridge, a new boutique hotel, a local guide, Vorn Johnson leads walks up into the hills where his grandmother used to live, pointing out aphrodisiacs with names such as “man bettah man”, herbal cures and trees laden with mango and passion fruit, along the way.
Sugar is also indirectly responsible for the island’s historic centre at English Harbour. As a young man, Nelson was stationed here to defend Britain’s colonial interests in the Leeward Isles, and although he described Antigua as a “vile place”, he gave his name to Nelson’s Dockyard (antiguamuseums. org) the world’s only working harbour of the Georgian period, now restored.
Close by is Shirley Heights (shirleyheightslookout.com), formerly a military look-out, now home to a legendary party on Sunday nights. Hardly a secret affair as it features in all the tourist guides, the wonder is that the stunning views from Shirley Heights when combined with an excellent steel-drum band, obscenely good barbecued ribs and a hefty rum punch, still cook up a proper party atmosphere.
Where to stay
Sugar Ridge. St Mary's, 001-268-5627700, sugarridge antigua.com. Half the rooms at Sugar Ridge, a new boutique hotel in the hills, have private plunge pools alongside the day bed on the terrace. No direct beach access, but a delightful pool, an Aveda spa, and an eyrie-like terrace from which to watch the sun set compensate.
Carlisle Bay. St Mary's, 001-268-4840000, carlisle-bay.com. The most elegant hotel on the island, with heritage grey trimmings and lots of cool white stone. The beach here is one of the best (a coral reef just off shore makes for great snorkelling) but if you get too hot, copy former guests, Oprah Winfrey and John Travolta and head to the blue-leather screening room for a private viewing of Grease.
St James's Club. St John's, 001-268-4605000, stjamesclubantigua.com. The non-snooty option, with lots for the kids, two beaches, a couple of pools, and a relaxed vibe. Keep your eyes peeled for turtles, which sometimes lumber up on the beach.
Inn at English Harbour. St John's, 001-268-4601014, theinn.ag. There's a homely air to the Inn at English Harbour, if your home is stuffed with four-poster beds, tapestry cushions and Penhaligon's toiletries. Smashing beach and views, with an old brass telescope in the library.
Go there: British Airways (ba.com) and Virgin Atlantic (virgin-atlantic.com) fly to Antigua via London Gatwick. United Airlines (united.com) flies to Antigua via Newark in New Jersey.
Louise East was a guest of Antigua and Barbuda Tourism Authority, visitantiguabarbuda.co.uk