April 27, 2008 — Somehow the airline gods’ random-cancellation thunderbolt missed Flight 1635 from JFK to San Juan, and our luggage navigated an improbable path past the swirling whirlpool of Puerto Rican baggage handling connecting with Flight 1985 to Cyril E. King Airport, where a week-long Cultural Escape for Carnival 2008 began.
After random run-ins with old friends and forgotten foes, our six-person New York/Washington D.C. group hit the beach and the dollar-taxi island tours before suiting up to join the Jesters troupe in the parade.
There had been a minor disconnect in costuming, however. We had shopped in China Town, Manhattan for our "Chinaman from Chinaman Hill"-theme, whereas the rest of our troupe had matching garments … but who cares? This was a cultural escape, if a couple of Japanese prints and kimonos can’t blend into a sea of Chinese characters, what does that say about our world’s fragile international relations?
I for one was more interested in the hand-made costume of Joe Mayo, whose towering yellow and red jumbie dragon suit was detailed down to the spiked fingering. Joe is no spring chicken, either. To see him dancing on four-foot stilts in a dragon head and tail triggered a tinge of guilt whenever I said something like: "My legs are getting tired," before our group even started down Main Street. What was the hold up? The band was late –- same as last year, we were told.
We stood. We sat. We found the shade then ran back into the sun to avoid the cluster bombs of bird droppings. Well, we couldn’t go without the band. Who would deafen us for the next four hours?
So, a Cultural Wait for 2008.
Add one part Virgin Islands, two parts party, a dash of hot sun, good friends and three parts thirst and you get a restroom-break cocktail. Ah, but the genius of entrepreneurship can spring up at these moments. To use the "out of order" bathroom, you must buy another drink, thus compounding the problem. A few questionably-scrupled males ducked behind buildings or defiled the cemetery wall when nature called. But for our more modest female friends a run to a more civilized release was called for. And it was about two-thirds the way into one of these jaunts, headed toward the Tortola ferry terminal on the waterfront, that nature unleashed its own torrent: a deluge from the sky.
Scrambling, and completely soaked, we hid under a mango tree until finding a more suitable shelter near Emile Griffith Park. There with us, slightly less soaked, was a bird-sanctuary of feathers propped up on the heads of various other carnival participants.
But (joy!) not a wet hen in the house. Rain don’t stop the carnival and it cannot droop our smiles. Glitter and cardboard headpieces were a little more susceptible to the weather, but who cares? I had predicted rain at 2 p.m. and here it was thundering down on us at 1:30. If New York needed a Virgin Islands weatherman, I’d buy a plaid blazer and get my resume together.
When we rejoined the troupe, the band was blaring, blazing … grinding behind a wall of speakers tied to the back of our Mack truck. And my New York crew in Japanese prints was jumping right along with them. Rain had not slowed these samurai, even if they were from Chinaman Hill. The highly glittered dragon hats we wore were well crafted and remained erect, but their shiny sparkles melted down our damp faces and arms creating a body paint of sorts. This was Carnival done right.
A few hundred feet into our tramp, we had all found what the Zen masters call the no-mind. It’s the point where analysis of thought is suspended and real-time living begins. Your heart doesn’t know how to beat, it just does. No need to think about moving your feet, they just do. There is a second Taoist term — "we-wei" in Chinese — that translates to "going with the flow."
The little kids waved and the bigger kids danced and the pineapple paparazzi snapped and flashed and filmed and interviewed as we came up Market Square and into the narrow corridor of Main Street: the canyon of jewelry stores. And then into the grand showplace we tramped, pausing in front of the post office and stamped — organized chaos at the foot of Government Hill, wild kinetic frenzy before the three statues of Virgin Islands elders. Although their faces were frozen in sculpture many years ago, somehow I think they were smiling down at us all.
Any footfalls beyond the post office are gravy in my opinion. Yes, people still line the street and cheer and jump all the way to the stadium, but the unofficial finish line is really passed. So our stateside contingent opted to slip away and back to our hotel before the ball field, making a left and not a right at Hospital Ground.
And not a moment too soon. Knees were week, eardrums shot, internal organs wondering if they had just traversed some great boozy swamp, but who cares? It was Carnival is Alive in 2005 when I held a St. Thomas address; and now that my zip code starts with a 1 and not a 0, I got just what I needed — a fresh wash of St. Thomas to get the Brooklyn off — A Cultural Escape for 2008.
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