Friday, 16 December 2011
The Renaissance come to Trinidad
Who celebrated Carnival?
Carnival in Trinidad has grown out of the collective experience of all people who have come to this island from Spanish times, prior to 1797, on through to the present day.
Carnival is essentially Roman Catholic in origin. Its earliest participants must have been the Spanish settlers who, in isolation, living in the little hamlets bearing beautiful names like San José de Oruna and Puerto de los Hispanioles, would have danced the medieval “burroquete” in the muddy streets accompanied by guitar, fiddle and drum. The local Amerindians must have been looking on in amazement.
Hardly
drawing a crowd, the pre-Lenten fiesta would have been at most a dozen or so
people dressed in rags, alpagattas and battered straw hats. The priests, the
Governor, the chief of police, and of course the donkey costumes into which a
man or boy got to prance about, waving the little ass’ head from side to side,
making mincing steps in a parody of riding merrily. The burroquete mas is
ancient, having its origins in north Africa and finding itself marooned in
Spain after the withdrawal of the Moors in the 1490s. Eventually, it was
brought to the New World.
In
the period before 1783, before the influence of the French and Africans, it has
been suggested that the population was as follows:
Thursday, 15 December 2011
Electricity
Wednesday, 14 December 2011
African Songs to Calypso
Mitto Sampson was able to draw from the memories of “old timers”, such as famous sportscaster Ken Laughlin’s father and Tony de Boissière, who knew a lot about the French Creole tradition of the origins of calypso.
Long ago, in the 1780s, a certain Frenchman by the name of Begorrat had a big estate in Diego Martin. There were many caves up in the mountains, and “Lawa” (King) Begorrat used to hold court in one of them, “to which he would adjourn with his favourite slaves and guests on occasions and indulge in a variety of entertainments,” says Mitto. Well, that is putting it mildly!
In Begorrat’s courtly cave would be his African slave singers of “cariso” or “caiso”, which were usually sung ex temporare and were of a flattering nature, satirical or directed against unpopular neighbours or members of the plantation community, or else they were “mepris”, a term given to a war of insults waged between two or more expert singers.
Gros Jean, or Big John, was a slave belonging to the Begorrat family. He was the first of these bards or “chantwells” to be appointed master of caiso or “Maît Caiso”.
Begorrat was a man who had many wives. Whenever he was vexed, the women would send for Gros Jean to sing him back to serenity. Begorrat, it is said, liked to think of himself as a monster, pitiless, destructive, and terrifying. A patois song he liked went like this:
Begorrat est diab’la, c’est un
Begorrat est diab’la, c’est deux
Begorrat for, cruel et mauvais
Begorrat roi-la dans son pays.
Gros Jean and Begorrat had a close relationship, so close that one of the wives of Begorrat poisoned Gros Jean. It is said that when Begorrat heard the news of his death, he first fainted, then raged and cursed, then swore. He did not eat for three days. He had Gros Jean’s body wrapped in a flaming red cloth and put a gold cross on his forehead, and buried him in the family grave on the estate. Another chantwell on the estate sang:
Gros Jean, you have a voice like thunder
Your voice can raise my mother from the dead.
So So also had a real good voice and succeeded Grow Jean as Maît Caiso. Begorrat discovered him and promoted him to this high position. It was said of him that he had a taste for “wrinkled and decrepit women ... and making his house a cross between a hospital and a house of refuge”. Thus, bringing into the vocabulary of Patois the word “so so” for one who seeks lovers amongst the aged, he was known to be a good, generous and sometimes quite religious man. Begorrat had him sing terrible songs against his enemies, and in so doing met his death in a terrible manner that may not be described in theses pages. It is said that one of his murderers confessed on his deathbed, naming two others, Fouchet and Dardaine, who in turn were tortured to death in revenge.
The third great calypsonain that we know about is Papa Cochon (Daddy Pig). He is remembered perhaps more as a notorious obeah man. He had the power of finding gold. There was quite a quantity of buried treasure around Trinidad in the 1800s. People who had money, gold, silver, precious stones, would bury it in times of danger or if they had to go away for a while. Then, for various reasons, they would leave it. Sometimes they were killed or died otherwise. Papa Cochon, through his dreaming ability, is reported to have discovered large quantities of pirate gold for his masters on Manzanilla Beach and at Mucurapo. He whistled, and the birds flew to him. He prayed snakes to death and mad dogs grew docile in his presence. He is reputed to have saved the lives of many. He would concoct a potion made from the blood of a young female slave, the brain of a black cat, sea water and two dead crapauds. He could transfer the suffering from one person to another. While preparing for his obeah work, he ate snakes and dogs, slept in graveyards, allegedly to hold meetings with the dead. It is thought that he belonged to Henri “Diable” Boissière. When they came to Begorrat’s court to sing against rival chantwells, Begorrat always got predictions from Papa Cochon. One day, Papa Cochon was invited to sing at the estate of a certain French family whose name begins with “L”, and was never seen again. Rumours had it that he had been locked up in an underground room and starved to death.
On this manner ended the life of the third great calypsonian, Papa Cochon, arch gossiper and scandal monger, impostor and chantwell. It was said by Mitto Sampson that his scarlet life hung like a black cloud over the period of slavery.
The fourth famous chantwell, Danois (the Dane), was not a slave. He may have come from the Virgin Islands. We are now in the 1850s, and from then on, many chantwell’s names have come down to us. Possum, son of the slave Ofuba, Hannibal the Mulatto, Surisima the Carib, of whom we spoke earlier, and Cedric le Blanc, the famous white calypsonian. Picong was always on the rough side. Zandolie, for example, sang:
Hannibal, your mother was a prostitute
I am singing the truth.
Hannibal was born in jail.
Hannibal was the mulatto son of Soucoush Piwi and an African carterman. He enjoyed poking fun at black people. He himself was a dandified, fair-skinned man, with slicked-down hair, two-toned shoes, black walking stick with a silver handle, pin-striped suits and ruffled shirts. He sang:
Black and black make pure devil
Black and white make half angel.
Outside of the thin veneer of Victorian respectability, mostly imposed by the English upon themselves, Trinidad’s creole life was one of considerable social disorder. Rumours would sweep the town like the one of the nun and the leper.
Black, white and mixed-race people lived in an ongoing near orgy of six, crime, rum and ribald songs. This was placed against a highly developed sense of sin which as Catholics they cherished. All this had evolved in Trinidad from the heritage of slave dancing societies, and the relationships between masters and slaves, which eventually evolved into Carnival bands. One can say that with the arrival of the French planters, the history of Carnival may be divided into four phases, viz slavery, the time right after emancipation, the end of the 19th century and a period from the 1890s to after the First World War. Carnival in slavery days was a white people affair. After emancipation, the ex-slaves took it over, mostly with depictions of burning cane plantations. The end of the 19th century almost saw the end of Carnival, which only survived because of the pressure put upon it by the British authorities who felt sufficiently strong to want to impose their ways. The more they tried to stop it, the more is sprung to life. The advent of the 20th century gave Carnival an even more important audience. The emerging middle class loved it. In the period after the First World War, it was motorized, amplified and participated in by thousand of movie-goers. The transition from the mad old days of bambula and tamboo bamboo was made with the increasing addition of modern musical forms and instruments.
Wire masks imported from as far afield as Austria served to hide the faces of the respectable ladies. Bands were roped off to prevent intruders and eventually ended up on the backs of trucks.
Burning of Goziria
The Caribs had all but faded away from Trinidad by the 1840s. They had been wiped out with the advent of western civilisation and their remnant had retreated to Venezuela. With the arrival of the cocoa planters of the 1870s to the 1890s, they had faded back into the wilderness of the Northern Range and had drifted into urban life. This is where we pick up a little-known story, which Mitto Sampson in his paper on calypso legends recounts.
Jo Jo was the son of Thunderstone, who was the chantwell of a band called the Congo Jockos, that once dominated upper Nelson Street. He was reputed to have lost his wife Cariso Jane to Surisima the Carib, a well-known calypso singer. Jo Jo, in his 90s, told Mitto in 1947 about Surisima the Carib. The word cariso, by which term calypso was known prior to the 1890s, is descended from the Carib term “Carieto,” meaning a joyous song. Surisima was famous also as a folklorist and raconteur. He would be paid by people to come to their homes to tell stories of long ago. He was a wayside historian in the style of the late Jose Ramon Fortune, Harry Pitts and Alfredo Codallo. Whenever he spoke, people gathered.
Jo Jo possessed the Carib tradition. Carietos, he said, could heal the sick with music, embolden the warrior and seduce the beautiful. It is said that during the reign of the cacique Guamatumane in Spanish times (before 1797), singers of carieto were rewarded with special gifts of land, and, apart from the caciques themselves, they also had the most beautiful ladies.
It is related that during the regime of the cacique Guancangari the two great singers were Dioarima, a tall, good-looking, powerful personality, and Casaripo, an “undersized weakling” who had a voice that was capable of making cowards brave, invigorating the poorly and calming the crazy.
Dioarima had two lovely daughters who were watched over day and night. One dark and windy night, a singer hid in the bushes and proceeded to sing several beautiful and hauntingly soulful songs. The songs had a very upsetting effect on the lovely daughters of Dioarima. The singer returned the following night and once again sang his haunting songs. The two girls slipped out into the night and met the singer in the high forest that surrounded the village in which they lived and went with him to Conquerabia (now Port of Spain). The three lived together for many years “in regal splendour”, and Dioarima was never able to get back his daughters.
When the Spaniards came to Trinidad, they heard of these wonderful singers whose voices spurred men to battle even in the face of fearful odds. According to Mitto Sampson, “they used bribery and clever manipulation and finally ambushed the two [singers] through the treachery of the Carib slave-woman Goziria. The singers were subjected to unspeakable tortures, and molten lead was poured down their throats.”
After Casaripo and Dioarima had been killed, the power of the Caribs began to fade in Trinidad until they were eventually conquered by the Spanish. Guandori, a famous stickman of the 1860s, was the last descendant of the daughters of Dioarima, the fabled singer. He was a great stickman in the tradition of Tiny Satan, Rocou John and Cutaway Rimboud.
“Surisima himself used to organise a procession of Carib descendants from the city of Port of Spain to the heights of El Chiqueno,” relates Mitto Sampson. “Up in the mountains of the Northern Range, they would make a huge figure of the Carib slave-woman Goziria, the betrayer of their ancestors, and burn this giant figure after much feasting, drinking and singing of obscene songs. The song remembered from those times went:
‘Cazi, cazi, cazi, cazi,
Dende, dende, dende, dariba.’”
Shiffer Brathwaite told Mitto Sampson that his father said that when the people sang this song, they remembered and felt the sorrow experienced by the Caribs for the loss and betrayal of Casaripo and Dioarima.
St. Pierre Volcano Eruption
The destruction of the town of St. Pierre in Martinique was the greatest single natural disaster which we have recorded in the Caribbean, and is reconstructed here from notes given to Dr. Sir Phillip Sherlock by Lately Thomas.
It was during the first week of April of 1902 that Claudette La Parde arranged to meet Charles César du Bochet on the eastern slope of Mount Pelée for the purpose of love-making. It was a clandestine affair. She, a mature matron of the town, he, hardly more than a boy. In the heat of their passion the earth seemed to move and the atmosphere burn; there was a smell of something smoldering and whiff of sulfur and brimstone. They, believing, that their love was the source of these manifestations, felt compelled to ever greater efforts. Later, as the sun slipped into the evening’s cool, they made their way back down to St. Pierre, noticing some vents and smoke holes and an even stronger smell of sulfur. All this was more than a little unusual, for the volcano had been asleep for a very long time. They naturally did not make a report, so there was nothing to alarm the people in the pretty little town of 30,000 souls that lay at the foot of the mountain. The sun had turned the sky to gold, which in turn reflected itself in the roadstead, circled by palm trees and sheltered from the boisterous trade winds by an embrace of low hills.
A couple days later, on April 23rd, there was an earthquake and a rain of cinders. Two days later Mount Pelée threw rocks and ashes in to the air. The mountain seemed restless. Claudette wrote a note to her lover, “Old Pelée is smoking again. Perhaps we started something.” The mountain was active for the first time in fifty years. A party of people who went up the mountain to the Grand Sec, a long dry hollow, found that it had become a lake six hundred yards wide with a cone fifty feet high. At one side, the cone issued a steady stream of hot water.
On the night of May 2nd, as Claudette La Parde paced her fruit gallery, anxiously waiting for her husband to leave for the Mason’s Hall, St. Pierre was shaken by a series of explosions. Flames shot from the volcano in great lightening flashes. The earth heaved with shock after shock. People grew alarmed, yet somehow, life went on all the same. The next day the mountain was quiet. Claudette complained to the baker that there were cinders in the bread!
The following day, fear grew again when news came that the Soufrière in St. Vincent was active. The fields around St. Pierre were beginning to show signs of the mountain’s power. One writer said that the soils, plants and houses were all covered with a grayish snow and that in the countryside there was a strange silence except for the animals which were restless, bleating, neighing and bellowing in despair. On Monday, May 5th, a terrifying thing happened. The sea drew back 300 to 400 yards from the shore, then flooded forward in a great wave and then quickly withdrew. A tsunami! Later the cause became known.
One wall of the Grand Sec, where the hot lake had been formed , collapsed and a torrent of boiling water and mud had rushed down the river bed, burying beneath it the ruins of the old section of the Guerin Sugar Factory at the mouth of the river, entombing Claudette and Charles Cézar where they lay. Their bodies would not be discovered for more than fifty years. The avalanche of boiling mud killed 130 people. The experts of the day concluded that the town was not in danger.
Yet, Wednesday continued to be a day of terror as people left the town in quantities in every possible means of transport. At the same time country folk from the villages and hamlets round about were pouring into St. Pierre for refuge. The local paper ran a headline “Where else better could one be than in St. Pierre”.
There was one sea captain who thought it was wise to get out. He was an Italian and his boat “Orsolina” was only half laden with cargo. The shippers protested when he said he was going. The Port Authority would not give him clearance and threatened him with arrest. But he set sail and left after telling them “I know nothing of Mt. Pelée, but if Mt. Vesuvius looked the way your volcano did, I would get out of Naples.” He left with the falling tide, leaving behind 16 ships. The only one to survive was the “Roddam.”
Early on the morning of May 8th there was an eruption at 7:25 am. An explosion which seemed to tear the heavens asunder. A black cloud turned the freshly made day back into night with a blackness so complete that people dropped to their knees, too frightened even to pray - within a few minutes, they were all dead. The earth quaked and buildings stumbled. The heat generated by the all-consuming cloud burnt everything, melting even the elaborate iron railings and causing the lead pipes to become liquid. A boiling rain dell. The inferno, spectacular, drew no description, for everyone was killed. With the streets melted, the town appeared to have slipped into the sea.
Those in Fort de France, the capital of Martinique, waited word from St. Pierre - in vain. At midday, a warship arrived to investigate. The heat prevented anyone from landing until 3 pm. Nothing, nobody was alive, not a tree, not a plant, not a human being. Burning ruins and corpses were everywhere. For three days, the rescue party worked. Only one man had escaped of all the 30,000 inhabitants of the St. Pierre.
If we read this survivor’s story in a novel, we would say that it was not true! Ludgar Sylbaris had been sentenced to imprisonment and had been locked in an subterranean dungeon without windows, with only a narrow grating in the door for ventilation. He was waiting for his breakfast when suddenly it became dark, and hot air mixed with fine ashes entered through the grating of the door and burnt him. He saw no fire, but his body beneath his clothes was bacly burned.
For three days, he kept moaning and calling, until some rescue workers heard him and released him. For several years he was an exhibit in Barnum and Bailey Circus in the United States - the only man who came out of St. Pierre alive.
Trinidad connection?
Martinique's economy was affected by the catastrophe. Several displaced people came to Trinidad, and their descendants live among us.

