I was on the road for part of the day last year and it wasn’t all that exciting. But despite my feelings, there is something about the festival that attracts me. That should explain the fact that even though I was at work on those days, I still managed to catch a glimpse of the parade.
Last year, a friend and I went. It was her first time so I had to explain that yes people really do wear those outfits and that woman, with rolls of fat bulging out of her sides and her butt cheeks shiny with sweat and glitter, really didn’t care what anyone thought and was in fact, enjoying the attention. I didn’t think much of the fact when a scantily clad woman two times my size decided to gyrate on me as I was trying to snap some photos, but that’s just a part of the experience.
As we walked, I felt like a veteran ‘Mashramaneer’, explaining the peculiarities and features of the festival. We navigated through the rum and beer swilling masses, me seeing the action through her eyes as she asked questions and pointed out things I had become used to.
Now a confession: there are people who actually think I am the good, church-going type of guy, (goodbye sweet reputation), who wouldn’t dare tramp down the road in a costume for the world to see. Actually, I have. Twice. (Reputation officially ruined).
The first time, I was in full costume, covered head to toe, with a mask too, tramping in the children’s float parade. We won.
The second time, I was a little less covered and it was in the parade on Mash Day. I prefer not to say more about this, save to say, that, like what happens almost every year, for the next two weeks, I had to contend with peeling skin from the massive sunburn.
I have a dream that one day I will again don a costume and jump up and down behind a truck with a massive music system, swilling beer with scantily costumed women gyrating on me. It is a secret dream.
These days as I sit sedately in front of the people’s computer, doing the people’s work and preserving my reputation, built on long years of good behaviour, I allow myself to wonder would I be able to do it? The little wicked part of me, with an evil gleam in its eye, says ‘of course you can, go for it this year’ while the good part says that I shouldn’t and should wait for ‘the right time’. As if there is one.
When I was younger, I relished taking risks but after being burned one too many times, I have learned to tread with caution. But sometimes I am way ahead of myself. Ever since my secret dream made itself known and my good side and little wicked side began arguing, there was one coldly analytical part, my brain I think, whispering convincingly that if I was too chicken to do it here there is Carnival in Trinidad and Brazil and, hell, the whole bloody Caribbean.
As I said; way ahead of myself. I think I will have my customary glimpse of Mash this year and then head back to work. How about you?
