
In order to see the mask, you must be wearing one.
The Mask of Obatala
The annual procession in honour of the
god of creation, Obatala, walks us
towards possibilities for the rest of the
year. The journey between white sky
and black asphalt makes masking
accessible to us, in a way. And those
who feel the intensity are charged by
the powerful rhythm of the drumming,
by Obatala himself. Perhaps the gods
are masked in human form that day, or
maybe it is the other way around.
Hand-Made. Woven. Sewn. Created.
Obatala makes way for these gods,
superheroes among us, the most conniving
masks in the Trinidad Carnival space.
Everyday life is the mas, and the costume
is the reality. The Fireman-in-waiting scrimps
and saves all year for his ‘costume’. Same for
the Dame Lorraine and Burrokeet. They
reveal their true selves under the makeup and
cloth and wire, bending truth into reality,
turning it inside out. And behind the
‘traditional’ mask is that which proves to be
more relevant each year, carried from the past
into the present on the shoulders of these
giants.
Kambule is the story, the griot, the great
remembering of how we came to celebrate
Carnival as evolution of “masquerade”. In the
darkness at 1am, a worrisome hour, our
grievances and spirit of rebellion generate out
from this sacred retelling of cane-burning and
authority overthrowing. It is not enough to
merely tell the story of us - we put on the masks
of slave, slave-owner, governor and subject in
the Kambule play.
know if we have ever taken them off.
Could you wear the mask of freedom?
The night will hide you, or so you hope. Hidden
pleasures and secret identities intersect at a literal
junction on the Jouvert morning road. The darkness
invites suspicious characters to come out, so you go
out. You go out to play yourself. And you are granted
the ultimate freedom, chaos and joy to do what you
want. As man/woman/child/jumbie/soul mercifully
blend into one collective covered in paint, mud, oil
and clay, we shed old masks and try on new ones,
bolder by the hour, til the sun comes up and asks us
who we are.
Can you pay d Devil?
Or would you prefer to play d Devil?
More than horns, tail and blue paint, a
blue devil’s mask is her skin. Beneath it
is fire coursing through veins. Blue is
the stain that does not wash off easily,
to wear this mask demands
relinquishing your human be-ing for a
powerful pigment that ultimately takes
what it wants - including you..
Could you wear the mask of your
ancestors?
Yes, if you can leave some space for
reverence in the mas, for what went
before, what connects us to the
masking ability. When the Indian’s
elaborate headdress and feathers
shake as he dances in the cleansing
space of the fire, there’s a sense of
joyful home-coming. Yes, rebellion.
Yes, hardship. But also, peace. Leave
space for the obeah, in all its perfect
forms.
Could you dance the Sailor Dance?
This is the mask of mamaguy. Fancy
Sailor, fancy footwork - seems like the
Sailor’s dance is calling to you to join
in. But “playing” Sailor is serious
business - “yuh cyah play mas if you
fraid powder”. He’s seen and done
things at sea, he knows matters of life
and death. He unleashes a trail of
powder masking ocean with sky,
swaying on the waves, always captain
of his ship journeying to a faraway land
beyond the sea and the seen.
Can you walk the talk?
To hear “Robber talk” exposes our
underlying stereotypes. You fear the
gun in his hand ent, not his words. Yet
by the time Robber has finished his
speech, a real weapon has been
formed against someone, iron
sharpening iron, a spell let loose
daring you to act. You forget - the
sweetest talkers are the ones who
incite the violence, venom, terror and
murder that lie just beneath our
surface.
Could you wear the mask of the man
called Saturday?
The more appropriate question is should
you? The Baron is built different - an
ever-present figure in the shadows, who
governs the space between.
Best to be wary of the many masks of
Baron, with his origins in Haitian vodoun
- Baron Samedi, Baron LeKwa or Baron
Cimitiaire. Instead, he will choose who he
makes himself known to. He will visit
those who live at the razor edge of life
and death, who understand that in order
to wear the mask, you must be willing to
remove your face.
Could you wear the mask of protest?
If Canboulay makes way for our past
grievances to be turned into mas, Robert
Young picks up the thread where it leaves off.
He gives us Vulgar Fractions each year, a
mas band that hides our present injustices
and irritations in plain sight.
He himself is masked beyond recognition, but
his disdain for oppression, conflict, political
interference is made into theatre and
spectacle, in the traditional way of subverting
our quarrels
In the known way of subverting ourselves.