Dr Garvin Heer­ah

There are some sounds that nev­er leave you. The first roll of a tenor pan in a pa­n­yard. The hum of voic­es un­der gal­va­nize. The smell of oil, sweat and dou­bles mix­ing in the night air of St James. For me, Car­ni­val was nev­er just an event on a cal­en­dar. It was fam­i­ly. It was iden­ti­ty. It was Trinidad and To­ba­go in full colour.

I was around the pa­n­yards from young, TTEC Pow­er Stars in St James, St James Tripo­lians, In­vaders. Lat­er, when we moved west, Pt Cumana Boys Town Steel Or­ches­tra be­came part of the rhythm of life in Care­nage. Who could for­get the mem­o­ries wrapped up with Scor­pi­on Pan Re­flec­tions? The pan wasn’t just mu­sic, it was heart­beat. My fa­ther took us with him. We didn’t grow up watch­ing Car­ni­val, we grew up in­side it. We un­der­stood ear­ly that pan is dis­ci­pline, that mas is cre­ativ­i­ty, that com­mu­ni­ty is forged in shared re­hearsal and shared road.

The pa­n­yard was class­room, play­ground and fam­i­ly lime all in one. As a boy, I played tra­di­tion­al Red In­di­an Mas with my dad and his friends. There was pride in that cos­tume. Feath­ers, beads, colour, his­to­ry. We were not just play­ing mas, we were car­ry­ing tra­di­tion. There was some­thing sa­cred about step­ping on­to the road, feel­ing the rhythm of the drums, and know­ing you were part of some­thing old­er than your­self.

Lat­er, as a young man find­ing my own way, Car­ni­val evolved. We played “dut­ty mas” with the fel­las from the yard. J’Ou­vert morn­ings were a dif­fer­ent en­er­gy al­to­geth­er: paint, mud, oil, laugh­ter, free­dom. We would chip down the road to DJ Fly­on and the Scor­pi­on Pan “round-the-neck” band, bod­ies mov­ing in­stinc­tive­ly to the iron and bass. We paint­ed Port-of-Spain in the ear­ly hours, care­free and full of vibes.

Then came the Coast Guard years. Broth­er­hood took on a new mean­ing. Dis­ci­pline by day, ca­ma­raderie by night. Once off du­ty, the Coast Guard fam­i­ly be­came Car­ni­val fam­i­ly. We had our own lit­tle posse in J’Ou­vert, link­ing up with Vic­tor Rique from Wood­brook. Bri­an Job and oth­er broth­ers from the ser­vice were there when we played with Buro­keets from Bel­mont, clip­ping on Mon­day evening mas, style, flair, a touch of old tra­di­tion in the mod­ern road.

Car­ni­val Mon­day night al­ways pulled us to St James. The lime, the pan on the cor­ner, the love in the air. There is noth­ing quite like St James on Car­ni­val Mon­day night, mu­sic float­ing from every di­rec­tion, old friends re­con­nect­ing, strangers be­com­ing brethren in the space of a cho­rus.

The lime used to be out­side The Col­lege and Smokey and Bun­ty. Car­ni­val Tues­day was se­ri­ous busi­ness. We as­sem­bled ear­ly in the Sa­van­nah to join Tico Skin­ner’s dev­il mas band from Barataria, “the band from hell.” Tico Skin­ner was known for cross­ing the stage ear­ly, set­ting the tone for the day. It wasn’t un­usu­al to see promi­nent cit­i­zens, judges, politi­cians, busi­ness­men, jour­nal­ists, all un­der the same paint and dev­il horns. Ti­tles dis­ap­peared. Sta­tus dis­solved. On the road, we were sim­ply mas­quer­aders. We loved the mas. We cher­ished the cre­ativ­i­ty. We cel­e­brat­ed the art­form. There was a gen­uine “one love” that tran­scend­ed back­ground and pro­fes­sion. Car­ni­val had a way of lev­el­ling the field.

But life has sea­sons. Peo­ple change. Fo­cus changes. Pri­or­i­ties change. Some­times, pur­pose changes. There came a mo­ment, a fork in the road. Not dra­mat­ic. Not loud. But clear. I had made mis­takes. I had lived. I had ex­pe­ri­enced. But my eyes were opened. There was a deep­er call­ing stir­ring in my spir­it. I en­coun­tered Je­sus Christ, not re­li­gion, not rou­tine, but a re­al en­counter with my Lord and Sav­iour. Trans­for­ma­tion is not al­ways in­stant fire­works. For me, it was con­vic­tion and clar­i­ty. A re­order­ing of my heart. I made a de­ci­sion to change my life.

That was about 32 years ago. I have nev­er re­gret­ted it. Do I miss the mas? No. Do I miss the Car­ni­val rev­el­ry? No. When you tru­ly en­counter Je­sus, you nev­er go back the way you came. Some­thing in­side shifts per­ma­nent­ly. Your ap­petite changes. Your joy changes.

Your de­f­i­n­i­tion of ful­fil­ment changes. Some may de­bate that. Some may not un­der­stand. That’s okay. This is sim­ply my sto­ry. To­day, I look at Car­ni­val dif­fer­ent­ly. I re­spect the cul­ture. I ap­pre­ci­ate the cre­ativ­i­ty. I ad­mire the colours, the ca­lyp­soes, the steel­pan, the tra­di­tions hand­ed down through gen­er­a­tions.

I still en­cour­age my chil­dren to ap­pre­ci­ate it, to re­search the his­to­ry, to un­der­stand the so­cial, po­lit­i­cal and cul­tur­al pow­er of Car­ni­val. It is ours. This is T&T. This is we. This is Car­ni­val. I can cel­e­brate the artistry with­out re­turn­ing to the lifestyle. I can ho­n­our the tra­di­tion with­out re­liv­ing the rev­ell­ry. My joy to­day comes from a dif­fer­ent source. My iden­ti­ty is an­chored in Christ. My pur­pose has shift­ed from the road to the call­ing placed on my life.

Yet, I am grate­ful.

Grate­ful for a fa­ther who ex­posed me to cul­ture.

Grate­ful for the pa­n­yard lessons.

Grate­ful for Coast Guard broth­ers and shared mem­o­ries.

Grate­ful for the jour­ney that helped shape the man I be­came.

Noth­ing is wast­ed when God re­deems your sto­ry. Car­ni­val was part of my for­ma­tion. Faith be­came my trans­for­ma­tion. So, my Car­ni­val jour­ney did not end, it evolved. From feath­ers, oil, mud and paint to pur­pose and preach­ing. From iron and bass to wor­ship and Word. From chip­ping on the road to walk­ing in call­ing. I have been there. Done that. Lived it ful­ly.

To­day, I walk for­ward with no re­gret, no re­sent­ment, on­ly grat­i­tude. Be­cause every jour­ney has its sea­son and mine led me home.

(Ded­i­cat­ed to those who I walked with be­fore and to those I walk with now. Have a safe Car­ni­val)