Play de Devil Jab Jab!

Jab Jab

By Mario Bonas

My mother was the youngest of eight children. I was born into a household where she lived as a single mom with her mother, and her two brothers Alfred and Howard. She was a complicated woman, my mom. As a child I remember her moods would vary often and widely. She was a tall, dark brown skinned woman with high cheek bones and long thick round thighs. As a young boy I found comfort clinging to those thighs. I followed her around like a calf would stir around its mother’s teats, as I sucked on my thumb. She had dark almond shaped eyes and a broad nose. I inherited those eyes, wide nose and long legs. As the youngest member of our unique family I also inherited some privileges that many children my age did not. For instance, despite having my own bedroom, I slept cosily in my grandmother’s bedroom most nights. I was allowed to address my uncles Alfred and Howard by their first names. Treating them more like elder siblings I skipped the respectful formalities with the prefix of Uncle. I extended this impiety to my mother as well, who I addressed bold-facedly as Katherine. However, we all addressed my grandmother Melva as ‘Mammie’. That was non-negotiable. In extraordinary fashion Katherine granted me the names Marianno, Mario, Dennis and Rory. Even though she settled on Mario, my grandmother affectionately called me David instead.

The relationship I had with my mother was not a very warm one and as far back as I could remember I was always in some form of punishment. In many of my childhood pictures when posing with my mother, it was evident that my eyes were still wet from tears. Most things about me seemed to displease my mother, whether I was being overly shy, excitedly boisterous or behaving politely. Saying or doing the wrong thing usually resulted in a quick and heavy handed response. Needless to say, she was a strict mother. I grew to be adept at evaluating the rocky landscape that was my mother’s mood swings. I developed this talent to determine when she was in a good mood and to preserve my own hide. Even on good days she seldom laughed or smiled, at least not with me. Despite being known for her wit and sense of humour, it was often of the dry sarcastic variety, and the brusque side of her personality seemed to be directed at me. There was seldom a good opportunity to ask for a favourite toy or snack or any special favours. I always asked well in advance to go to the beach with the neighbour, school fairs or birthday parties. It took my mother two or three days to process my requests. This gave her enough time to come up with a reason why her answer would be no. Pouting, puppy-dog faces and tears did not work to persuade my mother. She was immune to those gimmicks and I didn’t dare risk appearing over dramatic. Despite all this I was a happy child who loved to laugh and entertained myself with my own fertile imagination. Dreaming about running away became a part of my being. And one Carnival day with the help of my best friend I almost did.

Trinidad carnival is by far the most significant festival in Trinidad. Growing up I was reminded daily of its unique tradition. As I meandered along the back streets of Mon Repos going to and from school, it was not unusual to see abandoned steel band trucks sitting silently in dormant pan-yards at the side of the road. I used to climb into the empty steel framing affixed with a two-tiered platforms fashioned to carry steel drums and drummers. I could hear the raining wail of steel-band drummers as a montage of images of Carnivals past ran through my head. It elicited the same affect as holding a sea shell to my ear and hearing the sounds of the sea. It was as though I was sharing the memories of those old metal cages that once paraded through the streets of San Fernando at Carnival time. Even in our house, hanging on the walls or tucked under the staircase were the remains of old carnival costumes and with them untold stories of carnivals before my time. My uncles Howard, Alfred and Winston were very much involved in Carnival as they were either artists, designers or wire-benders. My uncle Winston was coveted for his artistic skill as a costume designer I was told. Popular bands and their organizers would travel from afar to seek the services of my Uncle Alfred as a designer and as a legendary wireman. I spent countless hours looking through photo albums of Carnivals past where my uncles and grandmother had donned various costumes, such as, the mighty Spartans, Indian chiefs, African warriors and ghoulish creatures with massive head pieces and elaborate Mas(short for masquerade) costumes. This peculiar marriage of creativity and artistic ability was a common trait in my family and Carnival was a natural outlet for them to express it. Those talents were celebrated best through the various elements of carnival. They lived for the most part as unrecognized ambassadors of the tradition and its many art forms. My house and surrounding community was a living museum of unchanging time where Carnival was well preserved in blood and in spirit.

Carnival time in Trinidad was a time of excitement. Each year I anticipated the vibrancy and the ambience of Carnival – the mixture of music, colors, people and dance was exhilarating. I loved the masquerading aspect of Carnival. The variety of costumes made of feathers, sequins and beads could be seen for blocks. The hundreds of moving people in all directions, the bass of the steel band, the powerful surge made by the procession of bands constantly renewed the energy within the atmosphere. There were many themes and folklore that were synonymous with traditional mas such as the Moko Jumbie. They were giant gods depicted by men in ancestral costumes who walked on stilts and dazzled the crowds. Representing the darker elements of Mas was the Jab Molassie which is usually spotted in the J’ouvert parade. J'ouvert is derived from French patois and means 'daybreak'. Jab is the french patois for Diable or devil and Molassie meant molasses. The Jab Molassie is one of the several devil type mas characters played in Trinidadian Carnival. Smeared with grease, tar or paint, the Jab Molassie would carry chains with keys and locks around their waist. Some carried pitch forks or cracked bull-whips. The Jab Molassie would usually carry on in a wild dance as they taunted and whined suggestively in front of other masqueraders and onlookers to the rhythmic beat of a cow bells, tin pans or tire irons. These nefarious characters were also insidious pranksters who would threaten to smear their tar or mud onto you if you didn’t surrender to their demands for money. I prayed I would never come face to face with the menacing Jab Molassie. While clutching my grandmother I remember the effect they had on crowds of people who nearly trampled each other as they frantically ran from the clans who lurched down the crowded parade routes. Play de devil Jab Jab! Play de devil Jab Jab! They would chant.

I loved the music of the steel-band. I was fascinated by the magnetizing affect a band had with their driving beat attracting party goers, as it started and stopped through the crowds that lined the streets. Adorned with shiny streamers that lined the canopy affixed to the steel band frames, each section would bounce as the steel-band musicians hammered their synchronized melodies into their steel drum instruments. Every year, new calypso songs were composed right after Christmas and various renditions were arranged by the steel-bands of the year’s most popular songs. I used to imitate the flag-men who skilfully spun and floated their commemorative band flags as they danced alongside their respective band. I would staple the centre fold of the Daily Guardian Newspaper to the end of a broom stick and prance in the middle of the road and practice leading my make believe steel band. I impressed myself at the way I worked the whole road, pausing momentarily, as if to simulate keeping in pace with the band then suddenly staggering forward chipping in time with the music of the steel band that played in my head. One day, my Uncle Alfred observed me from his bedroom window. I was surprised that he made no comment, which to me suggested that I impressed him with my newfound talent. He looked on in awe, I thought, and I waved harder, pretending to be unfazed by the one man audience. A few more flag waving moments passed and he finally blurted out in a disinterested tone, “David, you will get black boy! Come out of the sun!” Suddenly, I was reminded by my uncle that becoming darker - or “black” as he described it, was not something to be desired. My uncle’s comments reinforced and embodied those old colonial ideologies that had infected the minds of many West Indians. Those ways of thinking held light-skin at a premium and associated dark complexions with the lower-class and wretchedness. My imagination ran wild as I pictured myself becoming dark and shiny much like the tar covered skin of the grinning jesters that was the hallmark of the Jab Molassie. That was the end of Mario the Flagman of Jones Street.

My friend Dexter, his older brother Brian, two sisters Allie and Katie and their parents lived in the house behind ours. Dexter had been prodding me for weeks to ask my mother if I could accompany him and his family to the J’ouvert parade on Carnival Monday. I only ever asked my mother for anything once. I never begged because I feared that bothering her with begging might cost me to lose my privileges to even ask. The day before J’ouvert, the morning parade that officially starts carnival, I asked if I could go. Her answer was short, predictable and unapologetically, “No.” Very much satisfied with her answer, I couldn’t understand why my friends especially Dexter, felt that asking, my mother again would make any difference. Clearly, we weren’t dealing with the same kind of mother. Reluctantly, that night I rehearsed asking for permission again and I pre-emptively came up with answers to the questions I knew she would ask. Working up the courage to break my own rules, I again asked Kathleen for permission to go. After a long pause her reply was, “We will see.” Very pleased that she didn’t say no, I hurried off to bed and later as I drifted off to sleep, I smiled in anticipation of the possibilities that lay ahead for the next day.

In the early morning, I was awakened by the throb of the music trucks and the steel-bands. I could hardly contain myself. I changed and got ready in the event my mother had a leave of her senses. It was still early dawn, and I could hear Dexter and his family packing their car to drive up the road closer to the parade. Dexter stopped at my window and called out. He asked, “David, are you coming? Did you get permission to come with us?” “No, not yet.” I replied. “Ask her again. We are leaving just now!” He said, with urgency. I took a deep breath and approached my mother still in bed to quietly and gently ask again. “Please could I go with Dexter and them?” “Now?” So early? She asked, quizzically. “Why don’t you wait? I am going there later. You can come with me.” She went on. “But I want to go to J’ouvert with Dexter and them. Please. Can I go?” “No Mario. I would feel better if you went with me.” I sensed a touch of sympathy in her tone. She was up now and went off to the bathroom. I trailed behind her almost tugging at her night gown pleading my case, determined to take advantage of the chink in her armour. She closed the bathroom door behind her and I sat on the floor outside the door. Relentlessly, yet unconvincingly, I pushed on for her to reconsider. “Please. They are leaving now. Can I go?” The engine of Mr. Greenaway’s car was humming now outside the gate and I heard them shuffling up the path that ran alongside our house just under the window on the main floor. My heart began to race as I knew I only had a few minutes. “I said no Mario. You will have to wait on me.” Her voice echoed behind the door. The tears began to well up now as I felt Dexter would be leaving any second. Just then the toilet flushed as I asked one last time if I could go. This time I heard her say “Go!” At least that’s what I thought I heard. I couldn’t believe my ears but I didn’t hesitate. Wiping back tears I scrambled to my feet and dashed out the door, through the porch, slamming through the gate and out to Mr. Greenaway’s idling car.

Mr. Greenaway, peering through the rear view mirror in a concerned tone asked, “Is your mother okay with you coming with us?” “Oh yes. She’s in the washroom. She said to go ahead.” I responded, looking back nervously at our house. He paused for a moment then the car slowly but finally moved off. Both Dexter and I rode in the back seat with permanent smiles giddy with excitement. As we approached the main road we passed more and more revellers heading home from the parade. Many others were just spilling over into the back streets from the main road, others were just partying on the streets in front of their own homes. My eyes widened as the world of J’ouvert slowly unfolded. Although temporary it was a bizarre world. Some men were dressed as women with stuffed bottoms and bosoms while some women dressed as men, with fake moustaches, sideburns and watch-chains. Others were covered in paint from head to toe, some with mud, others with baby powder, wigs and masks. A few held signs with lewd messages of political satire and caricatures. There were those banging on cow bells, shaking tambourines and chanting in unison as they staggered down the road. Most were fuelled by the exhilaration of the occasion while others were charged by fine local alcoholic spirits that kept them singing, jumping, dancing, and shouting to the sounds of the festival. With all the merriment and release, I sensed an element of danger in this temporary space that was no place for a child. My imagination had never taken me here. I thought of my mother's words and a slight feeling of anxiety washed over me.

We slowly made our way into the heart of the parade as we approached the Promenade. Day light had finally broken and the remnants of morning bacchanal lay strewn on the streets - bottles, cups, pieces of costumes, masks and other debris lined the street canals. The morning sun was out and with it came the familiar tropical heat that radiated off the dark pitch road. I was now distracted from all the sights and sounds as pangs of hunger began to plague my stomach. In all the emotion of the morning from my narrow escape and the theatre of J’ouvert, I remembered there had been no time for me to eat. I started to trail behind Dexter and his family as the crowds began to thicken. Suffering in silence I didn’t want to burden Dexter’s father with the needs of a stowaway. Inevitably, after veering off the path several times I struggled to avoid the hordes of staggering drunks and dodging the sweaty skin of particularly big bellied man with a bra tied to his head. After stopping momentarily in astonishment at the sight of an old lady gyrating by a rum shop and admiring a man who danced while balancing a bottle of Stag Beer on his head, I realised I was now separated from the group and they were nowhere in sight. I went from being free to being lost.

In those first seconds, I scanned the mob of masqueraders and onlookers expecting to catch a glimpse of Dexter or other members of my group. I spun frantically in all directions and I recognized no one. A humiliating feeling crept over me now, on my first time out after gaining permission without a parent or family member I had become lost. The only other feeling swirling above the hunger pains in my stomach was panic. I just wished I could get some space around me so that I could see past the whirlwind of passersby. Just before my frustration and alarm mounted to the point of being overwhelmed, I felt a brief moment of calm as the crowd parted and the dizziness from being jostled and twisted subsided. Determined now to focus my efforts on catching up with the Greenidges I noticed something strange. Not only did the crowd disperse from around me they seemed to be moving away from me; slowly at first, then desperately. In my state of trepidation I hadn’t noticed the sounds of a rhythmic cow bell pattern now tapping behind me. They were followed by the dreaded chants of “Play de devil! Jab jab! Play de devil! Jab Jab!” With my hands clenched at my sides I stood stiffly and noticed the same crowd that took flight now became an audience to the setting stage with the Jab Molaisse bearing down on me! Like a flock of Corbeau circling their prey they writhed and undulated, chains dragging, hauntingly chanting their familiar chorus. I bowed my shoulders closed my eyes and stood motionless. This seemed to last an eternity. Moments passed and I waited for the crack of the bull whip or to feel the grasp of hands of tar and filth. I waited to be chained and dragged and laughed at by the crowds. Then cutting through the chaos of the moment I was awakened by a distinctly familiar voice. “Mario! Mario!” I opened my eyes and standing in front of me with a wry smile and subdued pity in her eyes was Katherine.

The Jab Molassie masqueraders slowly disbanded and dragged their chains and terror campaign further down the street. Katherine took my hand and led me back across the street to where an old lady was selling peeled oranges at the side of the road. “I didn’t say you could go Mario”, she lectured. “But you said go ahead!” I replied. “I said NO, not go!” she said playfully. I hadn’t seen this side of her before. I was expecting her to be furious. I was expecting her to yell. I was expecting her to drag me out of the crowd. Instead her eyes smiled and she spoke softly. She bought two oranges from the old lady and handed me one. “Where is Dexter?” she asked as she looked around. “I got lost”, I mumbled. I was ashamed as I bit into my orange. “You see! That is why I didn’t want you to go." I was so relieved that I was no longer lost. I was not sure if I escaped an encounter with the Jab Molaisse or if coming across my mother Kathleen in the parade was by chance. Either way I was now safe. Shortly after, we came across Dexter and his family who were relieved to find me now under the care of my mother. For the rest of the morning we enjoyed the parade together my hand securely in hers.

My mother was diagnosed with cancer the following year and her health rapidly deteriorated until she died a few months later. Even though we didn’t spend a very long time in each other’s lives, that day will always stay with me. And with all the thrills, sights and sounds of Carnival, memories from that day endear me to the season the most.