The smell of fresh-cut grass and sweet smoke from Chico’s coal pot and strong babash filled the back of his yard that Friday evening. The sun was dropping slow over the hills, painting the sky with orange and purple streaks, and the first faint notes of a cuatro floated through the air.
Christmas was near; you could feel it. In the little village in Santa Cruz, parang season wasn’t just music; it was life. Chico, the ace parandero himself, sat under his old mango tree with his cuatro in hand, strumming softly, humming a melody that could wake even the laziest neighbour into a rhythm. The others were trickling in, one by one, with instruments slung over their shoulders and wide grins on their faces.
“Evening, Chico boy!” shouted Coro Coro, the maracas man, shaking his shack-shack in greeting. “Yuh ready fuh dis year or wha? I come early, eh! I not missing no session.”
“Boy, yuh early for once,” Chico laughed. “Last year yuh only reach when de song done sing!”
Coro Coro chuckled, already making the maracas chatter like rain on galvanise.
Then came Manuel, tall and serious, clutching his box bass like a child. “Evening, crew,” he said, nodding. “Ah hope allyuh in key tonight. Chico, doh start wid de rum too early.”
“Rum is part of de rehearsal, brother,” Chico declared, pouring a little babash into a chipped enamel cup. “It loosen de wrist, make de fingers play sweet.”
‘Rio Manzanare’
Next was 3 String, nobody even remembers he real name anymore, carrying a battered guitar with, of course, only three strings left. “Ah bring meh own harmony!” he joked, tuning the same string twice and pretending it was four.
Trailing behind was Pacro Breath, a heavy-set Panyol from Caura, puffing and wheezing like a steamer. “Boy, ah nearly dead comin’ up de hill,” he said, placing down his scratcher and sitting on an upturned crate. “De parang better start soon before I run outta air!”
“Yuh done run out years now!” Guinness teased from the gate, his voice deep and gravelly. He was the box man, thick hands built for rhythm. “Where de vocalists? De music cyah start till de ladies reach.”
“Dey comin’,” Chico said, still strumming. “Miss Carmen and Tash gone by de shop. Say dey going for a flask of puncheon and cockset.”
The fellas laughed. In a few minutes, the high-pitched sound of women talking and laughing came echoing down the path. Miss Carmen, always elegant in her bright head tie and floral dress, led the way. Behind her was Tash, young, fierce, with her hair in braids and a voice that could carry from the village straight to Maraval.
“Good evening, boys!” Miss Carmen sang out. “Ah hope allyuh remember is practice tonight, not a lime!”
“Eh-eh,” Coro Coro said, “we cyah do one without de other!”
Tash giggled. “We ready to start or we still waiting for Chico to finish tuning dat cuatro for the hundredth time?”
“Girl, this instrument sacred,” Chico said, holding it like a baby. “Dis the same cuatro I play when we win the South Parang Festival in 2012!”
Miss Carmen clapped her hands. “Alright, allyuh. From top, ‘Rio Manzanare.’ Let’s see if we still have it.”
‘Peace and music in we land!’
With that, the yard came alive. Cuatro strumming, shack-shack shaking, box bass thumping, scratcher scraping and two sweet voices weaving through it all.
The neighbours started peeping through their windows, some swaying to the rhythm, others calling out for a song request. It was the familiar pulse of the village, heartbeats in harmony.
But after the second chorus, Manuel suddenly stopped playing. “Allyuh hear what dey saying on de radio today?” he asked, wiping sweat from his brow. “Trump talking up again. Say he goin’ tighten he hand on Venezuela. Troops, blockade, all kinda thing.”
The music died down. Chico sighed. “Boy, all now so, is parang time, and dem big heads want to start war. Like dey doh know how close we is to Venezuela?”
Tash nodded. “If things heat up, it go be we fishermen, we people who feel it first. If oil price raise or food short, no ham, no sorrel, no parang!”
“Imagine dat,” said Guinness, shaking his head. “Christmas done before it even start.”
Miss Carmen’s voice softened. “Yuh know, sometimes I does feel we lil island just get catch up in everybody business. All we want is peace and a lil parang in peace too.”
Coro Coro lifted his shack-shack, tapping it lightly. “True word, Miss Carmen. But allyuh know what I say? We doh have power to stop no war, but we could sing peace louder than dem could fight.”
“Talk, Coro!” Chico said, slapping the cuatro. “Parang is we weapon, joy is we protest!”
Pacro Breath started to wheeze-laugh. “So what we go tell Trump?”
Miss Carmen grinned. “We tell him: Hold yuh hand, Trump, till Christmas done!”
Everybody burst out laughing.
Chico jumped up, inspired. “Aye! Dat is a chorus right dey!”
Within seconds, the band began to improvise, the rhythm picking up again, faster now, lively.
Chico sang first:
Hold yuh hand, Trump, till Christmas done,
Leh we sing we song and drink we rum,
We doh want war, we want parang,
Peace and music in we land!
‘Cheers to dat!’
Miss Carmen and Tash joined in harmony, their voices ringing out pure and strong. The fellas followed with laughter and rhythm, turning world tension into melody, worry into humour, chaos into community.
By the time the song ended, night had fallen and the stars blinked above the mango tree. Candle fly danced between the bottles of puncheon and babash.
Someone started boonjaying some pork, and someone else began a second verse.
For a moment, the whole world felt right, no talk of invasions, no fear, just a small Trinidadian village under the sky, holding on to its joy.
Coro Coro leaned back, shaking his maracas softly. “Boy, if only Trump could hear we now, he might just take a drink and cool he head.”
Miss Carmen smiled, raising her glass. “To peace, to parang, and to we lil island that still have heart.”
“Cheers to dat!” the band shouted in unison.
As the laughter rolled into another song, the refrain echoed once more through the warm Caribbean night:
Hold yuh hand, Trump, till Christmas done!
(Dedicated to all the original parangderos Baila mi amigos!)
