CASTRIES, St. Lucia (19 Feb 2009) — Meet Suzette: St. Lucia's very own Lolita. It happens almost overnight. Sometime between the molten Caribbean sunset and the last cricket chirp, news of Suzette's misbehaviour has spread clear across the land. From the fishing villages to the rainforest, through the banana fields to the grubby port of Castries -- come morning, Suzette is a household name on this island of 160,000. The story goes like this: Mummy and Daddy had sternly forbidden her to attend j'ouvert, the nocturnal carnival "jump up" party, reasoning that she was too young. But there she was, shakin' her thang like a little tart. Suzette and Lolita, they're peas in a pod. Both are underaged. Defiant. Sexually charged. And fictitious. Suzette is a song that has recently taken St. Lucia by storm with a ferocity befitting hurricane season. The tune was recorded by local rastafarian Herb Black and at last summer's calypso finals, it won him the the title of calypso monarch. Now it is as though no other song exists on St. Lucia. Every car that passes croons her name from its stereo system. The local radio station is inundated with back-to-back requests for the new national anthem. Kids know all the lyrics. While doing my business in a stall, I hear a washroom attendant at a posh restaurant singing it to herself. A thoroughbred pop music fan, reared on the likes of Madonna and Cyndi Lauper, I struggle to grasp the appeal of calypso. The songs seem interminable and devoid of a melody. But the St. Lucians educate me. They explain that calypso is a revered form of social commentary that's often rife with hidden meanings. So what is the appeal of Suzette? Can I use it to spice up my experience of St. Lucian life? She wine, she wine, she say pay them no mind ... so go the lyrics. I still don't get it. Was bad girl Suzette quaffing wine, like an under-age teen who smuggles an oversized Bacardi Breezer into the park on a Friday night? Or did they mean whine, as in she is whining about the fact that her mother has confiscated her favourite thong-revealing mini- skirt? There is only one authority to ask for clarification. Billy Ocean's '80s hit Caribbean Queen had randomly played in the cab on the way to Toronto's Pearson airport before my flight south. I let that airwave omen be my compass: I would request an audience with royalty. I find Cathy Daniels, a.k.a 2008 Carnival Queen, primping for the parade alongside a troupe of runners-up in the recesses of a battered community centre in Castries. Gold costume jewelry is tinkling. Metallic eye shadow is shimmering. Middle-aged ladies-in-waiting (all thrice the girth of the impossibly beautiful girls) are fretting. Daniels, 21, is all cheekbones and grace. She stands 5-foot-11, but her green-and-gold dress -- cut so low that it exposes a sizeable piece of real estate south of the belly button -- seems to elongate her statuesque figure even further. "So what is this wining thing?" I ask. "To us, it's just dancing," she explains, gazing down at me from the heavens. I swear her tiara is touching Saturn's rings. "You move your waist around in a circular motion. It's a frontside, backside motion. Up and down." I don't say it, but it sounds a lot like grinding. Or mating in general. Does Daniels wine? Affirmative. Another pageant participant scolds her. "Queens don't wine." Daniels turns her regal stare onto the underling. "I don't see why not." I decide to let them duke it out on their own. But I need to know one more thing. "Are North Americans bad at wining?" Every girl within earshot whips her head around. In chorus they chime a resounding "yes!" "They don't have any rhythm," is Daniels' condemning judgment. __________________ Out on the streets, a thin layer of spangled fabric is the only border control between an R and an X rating. Suzette is playing for the billionth time and, judging by sea of undulating hips, the carnival revellers are still under the little girl's spell. Hundreds are gathered on the main road into Castries, all suited up for minimum coverage and maximum bling. The parade -- already several hours late (which means right on time, according to St. Lucian standards) -- jerks ahead every few minutes without any rhyme or reason, like a car trapped in rush-hour hell. But the revellers are oblivious. Perhaps the temperature, which hovers around 40 degrees, has melted all ties with reality. Or maybe they're just high on the drink, the dance and the debauchery. Midsections are possessed. They rotate furiously, as though seeking to declare independence from the rest of the body. And it doesn't stop there. There's no graceful way to describe some of the moves. Fred and Ginger are nowhere to be found. I do believe the scientific term for the action taking place is "humping." Women bend over as though executing yoga's downward-dog posture and men take the dog illusion up a notch. Elsewhere, dancers link in sweaty chains of three or more. As jarring as it is to witness a near-orgy right there on the street, I start to wish away the chaste dress I'm sporting. No matter how down and dirty they're getting as individuals, the sheer volume of participants casts an appealing shroud of anonymity. "It's all about sexual liberation. It's about culture, but it's also about you and dynamism," observes Gillian Bell, 28, from Dublin. As white as the cliffs of Dover, Bell shelled out 450 Eastern Caribbean dollars (slightly more than $200 Cdn) to join in the festivities. The price covered unlimited food and drink, as well as the regalia. "When you put it on, you're just like 'oh my god,' but then you see all shapes and sizes and there are no inhibitions!" I ask Bell how she and her friends are faring in the wining department. Free scuba diving anyone? One of the best things about a holiday in St. Lucia is that if you stay at one of three beautiful Sandals resorts, you don't have to pay to go scuba diving off the best dive boats in St. Lucia. | | St. Lucia Carnival, a huge 2-day street parade that concludes three weeks of musical festivities, starts this year on July 20, "It's really hard. I don't think white people have the same muscles in their butts," she laughs. "The locals stand still and their butts move up and down." __________________ I think I've discovered the key to oiling the wine. "I always drink this when I know I have a date," confides Julian Joseph, 30, a St. Lucian landscaper. He is referring to a boozy brew in an unlabelled glass jug. It looks like a bunch of kindling stewing in Scope. We're hanging out at Sandy's Bar in Soufrière. Rum shacks such as this are to St. Lucia as Starbucks are to Seattle: you can pretty much swing your arms and touch one no matter where you are. Miniscule, wooden and usually crammed with local men, they may strike a timid tourist as impenetrable. Don't be scared. If you're bold enough to stride through the front doors, you will benefit from cheap prices and an enthusiastic reception. Especially if you are female and single, and Joseph has been imbibing his manhood medicine. Though limited, the selection is bound to include local Piton beer, vodka, dark rum including such St. Lucian labels as Bounty and Chairman's Reserve, gin and sherry. And then there is the "under-the-counter" menu -- a liquor cabinet of libations for the libido. Joseph's homemade green spiced rum falls into this category. Containing strong rum, honey, crème de menthe, anise, raisins, cherry, cinnamon roots, bois bande (the bark of a Caribbean tree that's said to have aphrodisiac properties) and water, it is reputed to "put lead in a man's pencil" and make a woman "squishy in the knees." "She will get pregnant. Definitely," Joseph proclaims. (Mind you, it is worth noting that excessive amounts of any booze have been responsible for that outcome throughout history ...) Subtract the crème de menthe and honey, add a shot of grenadine and you have red spiced rum, which has the same sordid reputation. All over the island, people are refining their own trademark spiced rum recipes. The final resident of the under-the-counter clan is Sea Moss. The moss is merged with milk, nutmeg, cinnamon and -- if you're craving a buzz -- white rum. It smells like banana and tastes not unlike Tums if they were drizzled in caramel (which of course they never have been). But Joseph urges users to exercise caution. "If the moss gets contaminated, you're gonna get bad diarrhea." Not quite the "take me now, baby" you were going for. __________________ The car rumbles through the darkness, over potholes and into a small community on the outskirts of Gros Islet. Patrick Michaud, a professional driver, has promised to take me to an authentic rum shack where nary a tacky tourist will be found. We round a corner and the vehicle collides with a wall of sound. Outside an unremarkable edifice, a handful of St. Lucians congregate around a stack of five speakers. The men play dominoes. A few boys stare intently at an outdated computer -- set up outside -- which generates the Calypso playlist. You would mistake this for a private party, if not for the small sales area beyond an unmarked doorway. Yup, 'tis indeed a rum shack -- The Mosquito Bar to be specific -- and I order up a red spiced rum for three-and-a-half Eastern Caribbean dollars (about $1.65). Beverly Ann Loctor, the proprietress, informs me that her recipe contains "marijuana stem." I don't let this stop me from downing the shot of throat-singeing liquid, but I secretly hope marijuana stem is as potent as chewing on a hemp T-shirt. Back outside, a young man has removed his shirt and busts a move under the moon. The rum is taking effect. It doesn't make me want to jump his bones, but I do have an unstoppable urge to jump up. When the familiar strains of -- you know it -- Suzette trickle out of the speakers, everyone gets their dance on. I find myself joyfully mimicking Loctor's hip twirls and butt thrusts. I am cascading sweat like a tropical waterfall, and I may well look ridiculous. But we are all smiling, sharing a moment of physical euphoria that I wouldn't trade for the world. She wine, she wine, she say pay them no mind ... You got one thing right Suzette. Never let anybody say you can't dance. Reb Stevenson is a Toronto-based writer. She visited St. Lucia last summer. __________________ About St. Lucia Carnival What: St. Lucia Carnival parade When: July 20 to 21, 2009 What it is: A huge street parade concludes three weeks of musical festivities. How to watch it: Street festivities are free - just bring plenty of water and sunscreen. Information for indoor events will be available at www.luciancarnival.com in spring. Travel promotion by Reb Stevenson |
