Vincy Mas

Delon Jessop

Part one: Home soil

With the dust having settled on my travels to Brazil, it was time for my third dose of carnival this year, Vincy Mas. Three thousand kilometres north of Rio De Janeiro lies the birth place of my parents and home of my grandma, the island of St Vincent and The Grenadines. This was set to be a special trip for many reasons. I would experience the carnival of my own people, become more acquainted with this unique island, and spend some quality time with my grandma. 

 The plan was to arrive at the start of July, however on the 30th June 2024, the Caribbean was hit by Beryl, the first hurricane of the season. Our flights were cancelled and rearranged for the following week. At this point, all we could do was read about the developing hurricane. The coverage, or lack thereof, in the ensuing days was frustrating to say the least. News outlets would group the Caribbean islands together in their reporting, making it increasingly hard to specify which areas were worst hit. In this moment. I couldn’t help but think of all the times I’d heard Africa being lazily depicted as one country, as opposed to the fifty-four different countries that make up the world’s second most populous continent. At times like this, specificity really is key. 

It was hard not to feel profoundly indexed to St Vincent, despite having only visited once before. The potential jeopardy of the hurricane had wrought a new desire in me to be there, to understand my people, and to foster a tie with this place many loved ones call home.

Throughout the week, information from across the family spread like Chinese whispers.The island had taken a beating, many parts were without electricity but, most importantly, people were safe.

At Argyle airport, my dad and I were met by our driver Anthony, a jovial local, who greeted us like we were family. Anthony utilised the forty-minute drive through the mountains to give us an abridged version of the make-up of homes on the island. He educated us on the use of nails versus screws when securing down galvanised roofing, and how the former led to so many homes being exposed.

 Locals relaxed on their verandas and seeing us would smile and wave; in turn Anthony would give the horn a light pump with his knuckles, professing ‘they good folk’ with a smile. This went on for the next twenty minutes: a house, a description, a wave, a smile. The subtle bass from the penultimate evening of carnival had crept up on us whilst Anthony was talking, we were now in the heart of Kingstown. It transpired that the celebrations had been put on hold, but had now restarted, leaving the final day for us to experience, and with a national holiday less than four hours away, it was set to be a good one. 

At breakfast the next morning, I asked Keisha, the hotel manager and a friend from our previous visits, if she would be attending the last day of carnival. 

‘We up here can’t be dancing when we have things to do, but let the young people dance.’ This was said with such intensity, it didn’t require further questioning. With that being said, my dad and I wrapped up our meal and set off down the windy hill in search of the procession. 

Unlike the other carnivals I’d been to this year, Vincy Mas relied wholly on intuition. There was no sleek branded app to download before arriving. Nor was there any carefully placed signage directing you to stages or toilets. This is in keeping with the vibe of the island. A ‘try and find out approach’ is required at all times. For context, the island doesn’t have street signs, the traffic is often directed by an individual standing in the middle of the road, and the music flows freely and aggressively from each street corner. We were told the procession would start at 11am, however I was dubious, as I’d come to learn that time keeping isn’t always revered in the same way as back home. 

By 2pm, the carnival had found its flow. Unlike any procession I’d been to before, this one felt more intimate. Granted, it was physically smaller than the ones that swamped the streets of Rio and Bahia, but that wasn’t it alone. Here, performers from the procession would break rank and run over to the street to hug a friend, pose for a snap, or, in a few cases, throw back a rum together. Other times, onlookers would run into the group and dance for a few yards alongside the performers, as if to gain a new vantage point for a moment, before returning back to their place at the side of the road. This distinct lack of restrictions pointed to a community of people who were well versed in this exchange.

Unlike the carnivals I’d visited in Brazil, the police presence was minimal, and, at certain points, non-existent. I’m not for a moment suggesting there wasn’t a need for a police presence on the island, more that this carnival felt like one where all involved knew their lines and were ready to let the scene play out. For me, this only enhanced the experience, fully allowing myself to be swept away in the pageantry of costume, and, of course, the soul-shaking bass music. 

I couldn’t help but notice the distinct presence of young people throughout the carnival. Children and teenagers from neighbouring St Lucia, Trinidad and Tobago, and Barbados, had all made the journey across to Vincy Mas to represent their islands. Watching wave after wave of performers glide by in the mid-afternoon heat, it was hard to believe the island had been rocked by a category five hurricane just one week before.  

Part two: In the mountains.

My Grandma lives in Buccament Bay, a small village on the mountainous west side of the island. The twenty minute journey from Kingstown felt like travelling back through time, a feeling that was further cemented once over the threshold of Grandma’s house. At ninety one years old, she has the presence and vigour of someone a third her age. Although completely blind, she still has complete mobility and command of her mind. I was astounded as I watched her move through her large home by stroking the walls and using the fixtures to support her route. Every hour, her alarm clock sang out, informing us just how quickly the the hours roll by in the mountains. Having moved to England in the early sixties to work for AC Delco, an American automotive brand, she returned back to her island some thirty years later. At the time of visiting, we were met by Mrs Adams, an elderly Jehovah’s Witness from the local church. 

My Grandma will be the first to let you know she is, in fact, not a Jehovah’s Witness, nor does she subscribe to their doctrine. She belongs to the pentecostal denomination, and was a dutiful attendee until the deterioration of her eyesight made it too much of an endeavour to get there. Yet, despite their differences in belief, they have recognised two key things. One, they both submit to a God who is bigger than their respective camps, and two, their presence in one another’s lives in not to be forsaken or underestimated. At a time where we are constantly sold the idea of connectivity through various platforms and devices, there are still those amongst us who are enforcing the traditional means of seeing and being seen. Living in the mountains, community is not a luxury but a necessity. With the land so susceptible to change and the hurricane season becoming more pronounced each year, friendship and patience take on new meanings. 

 As we sat in the sweltering front room, people shouted through the window as they passed by the house: ‘Mrs Jessop, you alright?’ To which she would reply: ‘Yes I’m still here, the good lord hasn’t taken me yet.’ This was just one of a handful of responses she would shout back, all with the implication they were free to continue on their way. These small acts of kindness are the currency that hold the most value on the island; individuals willing to love their neighbour just as Christ had instructed some two thousand years ago. These seemingly small exchanges made my time back in St Vincent remarkable.