[dropcap]T[/dropcap]o hear the president of the Saint Lucia Hotel & Tourism Association tell it, what pulls the majority of visitors to our simply beautiful shores is not the magical combination of sun, sea and sand. After all, other Caribbean destinations are similarly blessed. By Mr. Sanovnik Destang’s measure, the credit for the escalating visitor arrivals must go to our special brand of bacchanal served at this time of year.
He caught me off guard during a short exchange this week, when he said: “Carnival has done better for our hotels and guest houses than jazz ever did. Visitors arrive mainly from the Caribbean diasporas in the United States, the UK and Canada, but we also have arrivals from these territories who’ve not missed our carnival in years.” Pointless asking about Martinique and Guadeloupe. Long has it been common knowledge that the French have a special affinity with our culture.
“So you’d consider the millions spent on promoting carnival money well spent?” I asked. Destang said he most certainly would. “And what does it say about us that we actually sacrificed our Carnival-Lent religious relationship on the altar of Bacchus?” I teased. The SLHTA prez let that fly; he had his mind on things more serious, such as the Kenny Anthony government’s game-changing decision in 1999 to stage carnival in July instead of February-March.
“That was a sound business decision that made it possible for carnival fans to jump both in Trinidad and in Saint Lucia. Some have even given up Trini mas in favor of partying here. Actually, many of our carnival-time visitors come from Trinidad & Tobago.” (And all this time we thought Allen Chastanet was the first local prime minister able to say government and business in the same line, without biting his tongue!)
I should add that whatever may have been the attitude of the collective church to the rearranged carnival season, it was muted. It appears that when it comes to religion and bacchanal most of us stand together in favor of the latter—never mind the ever-present malodorous whiff of politics. We’ve also undergone a
major attitudinal adjustment when it comes to what is decent and acceptable. Some might even say it is no longer the Holy Ghost that moves us, that today what rings our bell is the spirit of carnival. Come July, words normally considered obscene and déclassé are categorized as biting wit and picong.
Every Looshan child knows “gettin’ on bad” is precisely the point of carnival. For as long as I can recall there have been public complaints, expressed on talk shows and in the print media, about the “disgusting behavior of today’s mas jumpers,” the irrelevance of their barely there transparent costumes—but always after the fact. I’ve never witnessed a protest march against public behavior that would be condemned even in whorehouses—which of course are as nonexistent in Christian Saint Lucia as are gays and other queers.
Carnival, our radio and TV pundits and incumbent politicians love to remind us, is “our most important cultural showcase” and should be cherished by all as “100 percent Looshan!” (It turns out that in reality carnival is just another borrow. Like so many other activities we proudly list as “our ting.” The verifiable truth is carnival was introduced to the Caribbean by Europeans via Trinidad & Tobago in the early 1800s. Yes, ain’t life a beach!)
The promoters and organizers of the most recent Carnival Queen competition must’ve had the “cultural showcase” directive foremost in mind as they went about preparing for last Saturday’s show. Until this year the Cultural Centre at Barnard Hill in Castries was home to the event. It has now moved on up to the northside, to the Royalton, the latest resort, some say the island’s most impressive (who cares at what cost to taxpayers?). It features a ballroom that can accommodate a hundred or so more chairs than the Barnard Hill place that evidently was never built with expensive gowns in mind. Neither guys in three-piece suits.
By informed account tickets were swallowed up almost as soon as they became available, for just eighty bucks if purchased by a certain date. It seems the organizers underestimated the effectiveness of their promos. Otherwise they might’ve priced their tickets at, say, $150 from the get-go and still have just as quickly sold out. Talk about operating government like a business. In this instance “like a charity” was closer to the reality.
I did not attend. Which is not to say I missed the show. After all, it was televised, a fact that must’ve warmed the cockles of every Looshan heart throughout the region and the diasporas—from Atlanta in Georgia, Birmingham, Paddington and Hackney in the UK, to the more remote areas of New York. How the Trump-besieged legendary Helenites Building habitués must’ve looked forward to this year’s Carnival Queen Show.
I imagine one of the reasons the event was relocated to its new premises, why it was televised and streamed, had something to do with packaging our main foreign exchange earner to tickle the appetites of potential travelers and zillionaire entrepreneurs on the lookout for a third or fourth home. Surely a glitzy Queen Show would leave them panting to know more about what Saint Lucia has to offer. Another S added to the usual three couldn’t hurt, right? Everyone knows sex sells—especially with some sun, sea and sand thrown in for good measure!
The Queen contestants were absolutely, er, inspiring in their made for Sports Illustrated swimsuits and six-inch heels. At any rate, from the comfortable vantage of my living room chair. Undeniably, the ladies were in fine form, suggesting they had sacrificed countless precious hours selflessly torturing themselves at Vel’s Gym. Juk Bois should try sashaying for just a few minutes in their shoes. I guarantee that after that his post-show comments would be a whole lot more gracious than Monday’s. For crissakes, Juk Bois imagined aloud that it had required various depilatory treatments before the ladies were able to squirm into their miniscule bikinis and those thongs that left their perky cheeks free to undulate as if they had minds of their own. He didn’t like it one bit that they wore no panties under their swimwear. I swear! Some people simply cannot appreciate the sacrifices others make for the common good. You’d think a guy as cool and as knowing as our favorite creole-radio celebrity would know modern ladies have little use for hair—except the HIB variety that are available in several lengths, colors and textures.
In any event, from my living room chair it was impossible to separate the hirsute from the bald, if you get my drift, thanks to the stage lighting. To say it was horrible does not begin to describe it. One minute the contestants, swim-suited or gowned, looked like they had stepped out of the pages of a top tier lads’ magazine; the next they were indiscernible silhouetted forms. It all depended on whether they were doing their thing at the front of the stage or further back. Lighting up a stage for a theater audience is one thing; lighting it up for TV is altogether something else. Besides, what is the point of a televised show before an audience in total darkness?
Imagine the Oscars, The Voice, the Miss America contest, without proper stage and audience lighting. After so many televised fiascos by the Chamber of Commerce you’d think the folks behind the Carnival Queen event would’ve known better—especially when the idea was to portray our most important cultural showcase, or an essential aspect of it, in the best light.
It was recently announced that the Miss America promoters have decided to cut the swimsuit section from their show, conceivably another casualty of the #MeToo movement. If anything is to be cut from Saint Lucia’s 4-hour Carnival Queen Show, other than time, please let it not be the swimsuit section; please let it be the disaster that attempts to pass for an onstage interview. All it has ever underscored is how little we read and how little interest we take in life overseas other than the Kardashians. I end this piece with several questions still buzzing in my head. Alas, the main man behind the government’s Events Committee that put together the Carnival Queen Show, who might’ve supplied the explanations I seek, was unreachable. He never answered my calls; never called back. It’s as if he has gone into hibernation.
Not without good cause, I might add.
