Carnival Time... Here we go again...

The first warning signs are appearing at the road junctions advising motorists of the traffic changes for the Notting Hill Carnival. The various posters are appearing in the usual inappropriate places and plastered across the legal advertisement hoardings, telling of record releases and coming raves. The council is boarding up its estates and traffic bollards are being moved before they are cast aside by the monster moving floats. The time of groan, complain and ecstasy has arrived once again.

Most of the neighbours say that they cannot stand the event. The music systems blast out the stomach churning beat; public transport is diverted all over the place and cars cannot park or even enter their garages. Litter is deposited in every hole, niche and cranny and the roads are a walking rubbish tip. Although the carnival has been reasonably orderly for a number of years there is always a sense that it will explode again and violence will rule the day.

Yet there is a suspicion that something valuable is taking place and the black orientated carnival is providing a platform for black people, mainly West Indian, to indulge themselves in a cultural roots celebration. The young blacks pour in and consider it their right to close down a large section of West London. The older West Indian can be seeing standing at his doorway, rubbing his head and wondering how all this came about from a street jamboree not all that many years ago. It becomes reunion time and families and friends arrange to meet where the buzz is good and the beat is plenty. I know one couple that meet every year in the Elephant and Castle. He is black and she is white and even though they are both getting on now they chat and laugh and scoot over old times like good friends do.

The Irish pubs carry on as usual making no attempt to join in but rather highlighting their music sessions and the showing of Gaelic games on the large white screens. The crowds are teeming past outside but they are inside clutching their pints of Guinness and casting the odd perplexed look at the mayhem outside. This is as much an interruption as a wet weekend and they will ignore the upset and look forward to the brighter day.

Westbourne Park Road is turned into a food mecca. Old barrels are cut in half and used for bar b cues. Whole families are engaged in looking after the stalls, some squirting fuel onto the hot coals and the youngest child put to work tearing the leaves off the corn on the cob, ready for the roasting. The food looks tantalising and ranges from Rice and Peas to Oxtail Stew to Jerk Chicken. The Jelly, Coconut and Sugar Cane looks pretty interesting and what about that Fried Plantain? The West Indian must think the British diet dull compared to all these exotics.

The West Indian matron is a tough taskmaster and foreman on the job. She keeps everybody busy and has granddad keeping an eye on the drinks piled up in the ice filled tub and allows him the odd sip from his rum bottle when the pressure is off.

Up on the balconies of the houses the girl tenants are sitting out sipping their first lager bottle of the day. The music system is blasting away next door but it could be in the next street for all the effect it's having on them. The scene is cool and they are in their environment.

All Saints Road is at the heart of the matter. They have some mighty sound systems that will rock you as you walk past and there is a feeling and intensity for the Carnival spirit here. The area is transformed with streamers and bunting and balloons and its difficult not to get drawn in by the atmosphere. A float moves slowly past with a group of children dancing and bopping to their own steel band and they have looks of pride and happiness and exhilaration being the centre of attention.

The crown joins in and applauds them as they go past and a group of black transport workers drop their official status and join in the dance and the weaving about. The dance becomes a language and they move to each other with an intimacy nearly beyond the spoken word. Carnival again is working its magic and people are loosening up and throwing off their inhibitions. Every now and again the rain comes down in sharp showers but it does not really dampen the spirit.

The police are everywhere in numbers but they look relaxed and towards the latter hours of the night they will soften up and smile. When you come back out onto the streets on Tuesday its hard to know that anything has taken place. The council cleaners always do a brilliant job and hats off to the workers who deal with this mountain of litter. Carnival has refreshed the spirit and lifted the heart.

Poem of the Month

In Memory of my Mother

I do not think of you lying in the wet clay

Of a Monaghan graveyard; I see

You walking down a lane among the poplars

On your way to the station, or happily

Going to second Mass on a summer Sunday-

You meet me and you say:

'Don't forget to see about the cattle...'

Among your earthiest words the angels stray.

And I think of you walking along a headland

Of green oats in June,

So full of repose, so rich with life-

And I see us meeting at the end of a town

On a fair day by accident, after

The bargains are all made and we can walk

Together through the shops and stalls and markets

Free in the oriental streets of thought

O you are not lying in the wet clay,

For it is a harvest evening now and we

Are piling up the ricks against the moonlight

And you smile up at us - eternally.

Patrick Kavanagh

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