By Jean Hodgkinson

The islands to the north fell to France and England and became valuable. But Trinidad had dropped out of history. Nobody came to raid or to trade -V.S. Naipaul

While I was composing this week’s thoughts Carnival went stampeding through Trinidad & Tobago. And that’s depressing because I found it difficult to think of anything else. However, it’s also comforting to know Carnival ain’t waiting on me because that means it will still be there when I do make it back (which had better be soon if I know what’s good for me). Yet, it’s still not the one referenced in most news reports: Mardi Gras and Rio are all I ever see (when I’m unfortunate enough to spend Carnival here).

The internet offers tools of vicarious participation but they don’t solve my problem. It’s difficult to say whether this year’s online streaming was more or less frustrating than the year dehydration forced me to watch Tuesday mas’ on TV, in an air conditioned room. Anything but full participation from J’ouvert morning until sometime after sundown Tuesday is to this writer’s mind a gross dereliction of duty: if I ain’t mashing up the people streets I ain’t helping.

As noted, the pre-Lenten celebration isn’t an exclusively Trinidadian habit and this weekend, as if to prove the point, the Trinidad Express reprinted a Reuters article ranking ten of the various festivals from around the world; among the more recognizable to the uninitiated, Venice joined Mardi Gras and Rio. It was interesting to see London’s Notting Hill Carnival make the list because, like Toronto and Miami, it was transplanted by a bunch of restless T&T immigrants. This means that, in effect, T&T made the list twice. (And everybody knows who we have to thank for Brooklyn J’ouvert.)

It was also interesting to learn the Carnival in Binche, Belgium, with its “clown-like performers, wax masks and plumed hats [has been] named a Masterpiece of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity by UNESCO.” A quick visit to the relevant website revealed Trinidad & Tobago’s Carnival is nowhere to be found, although the Makishi Masquerade of Zambia and Rio’s Samba of Roda are also on this list of cultural masterpieces. UNESCO defines the program as “an international distinction destined to raise public awareness of the value of popular and traditional forms of expression, music and dance, rituals and mythologies, knowledge and practices concerning the universe, know-how linked to traditional crafts, as well as cultural spaces.”

It never really seemed to this fascinated observer that T&T is much interested in earning international accolades. And although 200,000 visitors this year is an impressive tally, Rio, Toronto and London draw millions into their streets. To grade a festival such as Carnival on the quantity of participants is to miss the point, however, which is to say that most people who don’t know any better will miss the point unless somebody sets them straight. Perhaps Trinidad Carnival is one of the world’s best-kept secrets because Trinis simply don’t see the need to promote. Or maybe they’re just too busy partying to bother.

Every Carnival will have its own characteristics, naturally, and the masquerading on public streets we’ll take as the requisite universal element. But when it comes to Trinidad, the local twists are so inventive, so unique and so long-standing they make this the one Carnival you should absolutely experience if you’re into that kind of chaos and confusion (the one to avoid if you aren’t).

For example, one year at my J’ouvert band’s J’ouvert morning fête I met a Brazilian woman whose curiosity had drawn her and her daughter away from Rio for the first time. When I asked if they had J’ouvert in Rio her eyes widened in bewilderment. “We have no idea what’s going on right now,” she said laughing. J’ouvert is one of T&T’s twists: masquerading under cover of dark, mud, paint, sometimes even motor oil (until the sun comes up, that is).

The next Trinidadian twist is that unlike Rio, for example, revellers must snake their way through the city using routes which are loosely fixed at best, leaving it just this side of total anarchy. Although the numbers might not rival Rio or New Orleans there’s no mistaking the feeling of a city under siege.

Finally, there is Pan. Trinidad began shipping oil in the early 1900s. In the 1930s people began taking the unused barrels for transporting the stuff and converting them into drums. Today employed as the soundtrack for any Caribbean island being referenced in television or film, the steelband is so ingenious its design will enable it to survive even the loss of electricity and fossil fuels. And nobody cares. Except T&T.