Arrived in London after a refreshingly pleasant National Express journey hosted by a jolly, wholly unpatronising driver who had who good banter as well as manners. As we made the short crossing from Victoria to Putney Bridge, a sense of excitement embellished the air... the odd spray of Carnival colour dipped and weaved amongst the hum-drum weekend crowds. Maybe I'm just more alert to such hyperbolic statement in apprehension for an event I'm yet to experience: the colour and atmosphere spelling out both a dart of danger and a spell of joy.
Maybe it's just the way London makes me feel. Edgy, yet fully prepared to embrace whatever the city can throw at me today.
After a short stop in Putney to off-load belongings and get changed, we head for the tube to Notting Hill Gate. Helen and I sit next to two Rastas armored up with vuvuzelas hanging from their chests with Caribbean ribbon. The conversation between them was enlightening and amusing. Man 1 was obviously a seasoned carnival-goer, whilst the other (Man 2) was either exceedingly precautionary or a carnival virgin, like me. The conversation started with a bit of light banter:
Man 1: "Why you no got your phone, bro?"
Man 2: "I ain't got no credit, bro!"
Man 1: "Well, what ya gonna do when you get lost? You's scared you gonna get it nicked, innit?"
Man 2: "Nah mate, no point bringing it with no credit - I just got the important things here in this bag."
(He points to a cheap sports bag with a drawer string and two thin string straps, that is pressed to him on the front of his chest like a baby in a sling)
Man 1 laughs.
Man 2: "Couple o' cans o' Guinness, and me jacket, that's all I need."
Man 1: "Ha, couple o' cans o' Guinness! What if they snip here and here." (He gestures thieves cutting the strings of the bag)
Man 2: Well... at least if they do get it... it's only a couple o' cans, eh? And not me phone, camera and wallet!"
Man 1 laughs hysterically.
At this point, Helen and I are barely able to control our giggling, and luckily the doors open. Uh oh, look at the crowds. It's solid all the way up the stairs and the crowd is also just as thick from behind. Man 1 and 2 exuberantly honk their vuvuzelas, they seem to be making their way through the crowd even though it's at stand still. Just as Man 1 gets up to the first set of steps, he turns back on the rest of the masses still getting off the trains, blows his vuvu and shouts:
"GET USED TO IT!"
Priceless.
Notting Hill Carnival is certainly one of a kind. Messy, chaotic, anarchic. I get the feeling that the true heart of the matter is missing (more style over substance), it's as though the cutting loose has taken centre stage and the culture lurks in the background... not quite comfortable to perform in front of such hungry revellers. I don't think the family day is particularly child-friendly, there were times when I felt a little uncomfortable, though this was mainly due to my lack of tolerance in crowded places. Maybe I wasn't drunk enough... but after queueing for Caribbean food in the rain for what felt like and hour and a half my carnival spirit was somewhat diminished by a chill on my back and an empty belly.
Later in the day, the sun made a prolonged appearance and we were able to watch a section of the procession on a less-frequented side street. The procession was exactly as one would expect: vibrant, soulful and melodramatic. Yellow paint was sprayed into the audience, chocolate laced the air as the performers grabbed handfuls of the gooey brown stuff and planted it on their fellow dancers and the unsuspecting audience. (I admit to hiding behind a tree at this point - as good as it smelt, the appearance of chocolate can just as easily resemble a bodily excretion of a much lesser appealing variety.)
But after the procession and the sunshine vanished the mood changed and things felt a bit on the apocalyptic side. Every conceivable corner of every street harboured a mountain of takeaway boxes, chicken bones, drinks cans and smashed glass, rubbish was literally flowing onto the through-fare, god only knows what it must have looked like ten hours later in the unforgiving dawn light. The irony is explicit. I've never really seen Notting Hill without the carnage, but when you look up and see the glorious architecture and wealth... juxtaposed with the boarded up window fronts, tagged cars and messy debris at street-level, it's hard to imagine this district as a highly respectable neighbourhood... where the Hugh Grant yuppie/yucky blockbuster movie was set a few years ago. Where do the residents put their cars for the weekend? Do they dare leave their homes at all?
The rum and ginger I was swigging warmed me from the early-evening chill, but I was ready to voyage back into the 'regular' chaos of the city after the sun disappeared. It was impossible to know where to exit, every route seemed to be teeming with police ready for action. Wild eyed, wobbly legged zombies appeared to be fencing us in. A strange and eerie twilight fixed the scene, I watched the last glint of the sun fade through the obscure window of a tower block which surely marked the divide between well-to-do Notting Hill and its underbelly. The fallout seemed to reach well-beyond the periphery, the roads car-free for what felt like a mile more. Then: over a bridge and we hit civilization again, there's a bus with our name on it. Cocooned by the warm, yet stale aroma of public transport, we breath easy and watch the madness unfold at a staggeringly slow pace. There's a fight at one set of lights, but the police are swift and intervene quicker than any one could imagine.
We realise how exhausted we are. I ditch the rum and ginger and we head home, an early night and a leisurely day of touristy fluff in the morning somewhat more appealing than a convoy into rebellious mayhem.
I think I'm actually getting old.
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