Grenada’s Festival of Ghouls, Goblins and Friendly Ghosts

It’s a little like Ash Wednesday, man, but with none of the guilt. Think of it as an ode to life in another time and place. When it’s all over, wash away the paint and put back on your real face. You can’t survive without a mask.

By W. E. Gutman
ST. GEORGE’S, GRENADA -- If this is Jab Jab then it must be Grenada, the jewel of the Caribbean, in August, when the tamarind, guava and skinups yield their most luscious fruits. Ushering Carnival, ancient and cryptic, spellbinding and deliciously macabre, Jab Jab (from the French -- diable or devil) digs deep into the African psyche and exhumes its most eccentric denizens for all to see, as dawn alights, on the winding, steamy streets of St. George’s, the capital. Redemption, legend insists, may be earned by airing one’s most private fears, by defying incubus and fiend, by taming the ghostly spirits that lurk in the night.

First bared in the spectral semi-darkness of daybreak, when the heady scent of nutmeg and saffron fills the air, then on parade through high noon in full view of spectators who recoil in mock horror, the soul is thus cleansed. Sorcery, lust and primal instincts all erupt in one orgiastic burst of sensuous motion and, for the ear, the drum-syncopated fury of living.

Jabs are known for dance sequences -– swaying, writhing, thrusting -- that mimic sexual intercourse -- and for their habit of threatening to rub their tar- or grease- paint-smeared bodies against onlookers.

For the Grenadians, a gentle and friendly people who have endured conflict, turmoil and bloodshed, whose history has been punctuated by inter-tribal massacres, the ignominies of colonialism, the humiliation of slavery and, later, America’s shameful “invasion,” Jab Jab is also a time for introspection, banter and cathartic frivolity, for political satire, for the recapitulation of a thousand grievances and simple dreams that are, for many Grenadians, still largely out of reach.

That is why, once a year, clearing the way for Calypsonians, tinny steel bands, ornate and revealing costumes and sultry choreography, a motley crew of mythical demi-gods, monsters, specters and zombies, all the children of paradise lost, gather by the Careenage, an arm of the turquoise sea that stretches inland.

Soon, under the watchful eye of a swelling tide of locals and tourists, as the morning star twinkles over St. George’s Bay, Asmodeus and Azazel, Belial and Beelzebub and a hundred other princes of darkness suddenly coalesce into a single swaying, throbbing, pulsating wave of sensuality cresting with lithe, glistening bodies that will dance the morning away.

At high noon, having at last reached Melville Street where the eerie procession winds down, I asked a horned creature I’d been shadowing since dawn to confer upon me honorary fellowship.

“Swear to wear on your face all the dark emotions that dwell buried within,” enjoins the Jab, high on ganja, his hypnotic gaze fixed upon a distant point in space.

I clench my fist and spit on the ground, taking the oath in true satanic form. The Jab anoints me with a dab –- a jab -– of black grease upon my forehead, cheeks and shoulders.

“We’re now equal under the skin -- both black as night.” He bares a seraphic smile. “It’s a little like Ash Wednesday, man, but with none of the guilt. Think of it as an ode to life in another time and place. When it’s all over, wash away the paint and put back on your real face. You can’t survive without a mask.”

I nod with gratitude, vowing to take my place in next year’s procession. Feinting revulsion, an air of good-humored sarcasm etched upon his face, the swampy creature with the aphoristic tongue kisses the snake that coils around his neck. He gives me the Peace sign and slowly fades away, phantom-like, to the beat of the tom-tom and the bass drums. (9/9/11)

Hailed by Condé Nast Magazine as the best tour operator, Simon Seales, aka Mandoo, the award-winning guide and environmentalist, can arrange for half-day or full-day excursions to Grenada’s picturesque fishing villages, secluded bays, dense rain forests, plantations, rum distilleries and historic forts. See www.grenadatours.com or e-mail This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it .

Note: W. E. Gutman is a veteran journalist. From 1994 to 2006 he covered politics, the military and human rights in Central America. He is formerly one of Honduras Weekly's principle editorial writers. He has written five books, including "Journey to Xibalba: The Subversion of Human Rights in Central America", "Adrift: Life in Transit", "Nocturnes: Tales from the Dreamtime" , "Flight from Ein Sof", and "The Inventor". He is presently working on his sixth.