More Carnival ...

Dipped and dived, ear plugs in and avoiding the main drag which thumped and ground at an almost standstill so close to the flat I thought the windows might break. Purple paint, the many colours deciding after much deliberation to become this one deep violet haze coating everything. Two girls walked past and I couldn’t tell what parts were naked. Fishnet, bikini, t shirts and skin. From my window, Jab Jab mas returning from their dawn parade, horned helmets and chains and taking their own pace against the tide, Black skin slicked with black oil, one after another in a line dragging chains, heavy iron rattling on road. Magnificent. I found myself like a carnival homing pigeon returning to the spots I used to love, Talbot Road and Ledbury, Gaz’s Rock and Blues. There I met A & H, like homing pigeons too and we laughed at how old everyone had become; same hats, different faces. Up on the stage, M could be spotted as usual. And suddenly there was J and his mates and I did my best to get them all up on the trailer, too, but those days of sneaking past security are gone. Thumping bass and live band, brass and MC and round the corner harder jungle rave. In Colville Terrace a stage and queue to get in, the park packed. Coming out of my flat later, a family on the doorstep, three little kids and their parents. I took them upstairs to use my bathroom; toilets are at a premium at carnival. Family Day meant children everywhere though in decibel it felt pretty adult. There’s so much I don’t see. The workshops and barbecues and children’s parties. The procession of electric blue wings and sparkles; only seeing tired small faces, frilled and sequinned with tiaras in their hair and hands loosely up to their mum or dad, gave clue to the day they’d had. Bumped into IO and L and S in one of those crowded moments when you turn around and there they are, as if planned. Will wonders never cease. We hugged a lot. And finally D & L & D at the Tabernacle and my legs giving in to the trance-like sweat and beat of ancient reggae on ancient turntable, 45s dropped onto record player, needle miraculously not jumping except when enthusiastic fans placed a hand on the tower and the whole thing slipped in a haze of crackle and stand back, don’t touch. And the garden was lit with looping fairy bulbs and the air a fine chatter of laughter and I kept thinking, this is how it could be always and how astonishing that this momentous cultural celebration isn’t magnificently celebrated as the national institution that it is. Imagine Brazil sidelining Rio as a fringe event that is annually threatened with closure. Absurd, insane and stupid. I walked back through streets echoing with voices, dustbin men and women already bulldozing the crazy mess of hundreds of thousands of revellers into piles to take away. A lone figure in the middle of the road, too far away to make out clearly, seated, spread like wings at rest, occupied the central ground. Eleanor This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit eleanoranstruther.substack.com/subscribe