Junkanoo

We arrived at a cluster of brightly painted shacks at the edge of Elizabeth Harbour. More than one contained a bar or place to buy snacks and meals. On the road, groups of people were gathering and a magnificent structure could be seen. It appeared to be on wheels…a sort of miniature float…about three metres high and almost as wide. It was decorated with bright paper, shiny studs of various sizes and shapes, brilliant feathers, pro-black slogans, brilliant papier maché figures, and, dead centre, the grinning face of a black man. It beggars description.

It was just standing there. We walked over to it, observed it, wondered about it, then went to get Kevin his drink. I wandered off, exploring the shacks and their contents. I finally asked two young men what this place is. “Fish fry,” one said, his accent at first making me think he’d said “first rite”. We sorted that out. It seems there is a fish fry there every night but, this being Saturday, there was something special happening. Junkanoo.

I continued my explorations and, up by the road, I found a troupe of drummers, mostly young boys, preparing themselves and their instruments. I asked one who had made the magnificent float. He pointed at two men across the road. The older man wore a huge Rasta hat, the younger sported trousers covered with layers of yellow, red, and green paper fringes. I asked them if they had indeed made the float.

“Yes!” said the younger. “You want to take a picture?”

Alas, I didn’t have my camera with me, but I promised to return the following Saturday. I asked them about how they had built the float and how long it had taken them. “Oh, a little while,” said the older man. The black face grinning from the middle is Marcus Garvey (whom Rastafarians declare to be a prophet) . He said the disparate groups of musicians forming up along the road would get together and perform as an ensemble in the Junkanoo. It would start soon. They had to get ready.

Well, how to describe the indescribable. The drums are of oil drums covered with goat skin, which means they are heavy. Wide straps covered with inches of padding are used to protect the shoulder and back of the drummer. Cow bells are rung at such a rate they appear not to be solid. There was a brass section, an old man with a whistle, and the float rolling gloriously ahead of it all. Most players were young men and boys, there were just a few girls and I saw no women. The rhythm was infectious, driving, unrelenting. Some of the players seemed almost to be having mystical experiences. Gobsmacked tourists mingled congenially with resident onlookers. The raggletaggle marching band proceeded along the road, down through the shacks to the waterside, the float was left to one side and the writhing line continued. Then it just trickled to a stop. A few people tried to drum for a bit longer, but it was over.

I thanked the man in the Rasta hat and promised, once more, to return next week, with my camera. Our lift was waiting, so we headed back to Django.