Remnant of last night’s oral cleanse present on lip’s tip and aches from an unwanted position during slumber, I turn only to be startled by the time. I rushed to the bath to prepare for another experience on the roads of Port of Spain with my new obsession bolstered on shoulder. I embarked on a maiden journey down Ariapita to feed my eyes with the experience many travel miles to revel in. I witnessed the typical and the new, saw familiar faces and emotions broadcasting regret. Foreigners embraced the gyrating waist of strangers and the awkward sights of contraceptive in the middle of public path can only mean one thing, carnival has started.
I found myself dodging the elements of earth and water as many opened their arms to embrace the full blast of a hose on their body whilst others ran to protect the sacred life of their selfies. However, I couldn’t escape the sun as it casts light upon the shame (or lack thereof) that has transpired. Far from where I began, I raised my eyes from my viewfinder to begin the trek back home. I was amazed how far I’ve walked as I captured the personification of bliss in the revelers’ faces. I’ve never been on the celebratory end, marching on asphalt to rhythmic anthems commanding you to establish employment on derriere, yet I bare witness to the joy. I flicked through frames laughing at frozen moments soon to be forgotten, waiting on my passes to release tether for another trek among the free.
I gazed upon God’s smooth creation bared without restriction as they lured friction and stares. I’ve sunk into the atmosphere of no care, drunk from the fluid of the season I was caught in a day dream until my attention was focused by light taps on shoulder. Looking up I saw an alcohol filled cup and a face showing years beyond mine. Her hand extended coercing me to point my lens to her finger; a tattooed band of our nation’s flag on her ring finger. Releasing shutter, I stared at the image and then it all made sense. All this pride and joy within this season is akin to the commitment of a newlywed couple. Vows made to love and cherish transcend just the longing for a human touch or maybe another touch that doesn’t involve locking lips, but locking hips.
Controversy may beg to differ; if we were definitely married to country we would take more pride in our culture and not adultery. The intentional subconscious permitted infiltration of the outside woman purposely ousting the wife for the majority of our living is sign of a failed marriage I figure. Who is to blame for the breaking of vows when our parents are clothed with threads of diversity. When we were faced with cracking whips, some bowed and adopted whilst others clung to that which was theirs to keep.
Yet with the sounds of time establishing presence breaking the repeated favor of the crowd’s ear, my train of thought surfaced to reality. Who thinks this deep when there’s enjoyment to be had and alcohol flowing with visual nectar adorning our pitch. Maybe this is something that is worth exploring, the marriage of man to country, but at this present moment there’s no time to think. Possibility exists that others celebrate in this season as an act of forgiveness, or just as a means to caress their wife again as she decorates herself to woo her mate. It could be vows remembered that fashioned smiles on shining face or it could have been the promise of a safe keeping in the other woman’s house after this honeymoon. Yet from the emotion displayed, many seem to be truly married to country as they will go through this in thick and thin, revel in sickness and in good health, fete with richer yet leave poorer and sing songs promising to return until Death do them part.