Jouvert = Jouvert!

Most weeks, I write about heavy things. Economics. Law. Governance. Long arcs and hard edges. I don’t mind that work. It matters. But every now and then, it’s good to put all of that down for a moment. Not to run from it. Just to breathe.

This is one of those weeks. No spreadsheets. No frameworks. No arguments to win. Just Jouvert.

Living toward the moment

When I asked a friend if he was ready for Jouvert, he didn’t hesitate.
“Living toward the moment” he said.

Another friend looked at me like I asked the wrong question.
“What do you mean, if?” he said. “We’re going. We’ll catch up over there.”

That’s Jouvert logic. You don’t overplan it. You don’t tighten it up. You go, and whatever happens, happens.

Leaving while the night still belongs to the people

I left the house at 1:00 a.m. and headed south toward San Nicolas. At that hour, the island is quiet in a way that feels intentional. As you get closer to town, the signs appear. Cars parked where they usually aren’t. Groups walking in the same direction. Music you hear before you see anything.

By the time you arrive, the night has changed hands. It no longer belongs to sleep. It belongs to the people.

Starting where I didn’t plan to start

This year, Jouvert didn’t begin behind a trailer for me. I hadn’t planned it this way, but I decided to start across from my grandfather’s house. I didn’t plan to meet my cousins there either. I just did.

And that choice changed the whole morning.

I sat with my youngest cousin, Heriberto, and his two sons, home from their studies abroad. We talked. Shared a cigar. Let the sound of the trailers come to us. It turned Jouvert into a family thing before it turned into anything else. That’s very San Nicolas. If you grew up there, or if it lives in you, you know that feeling.

Jouvert is for the people

Let’s clear this up. Jouvert isn’t for a category. It isn’t for professionals or insiders. Jouvert is for the people.

All of them.

Bathrobes show up. Pajamas make perfect sense. Towels get wrapped around waists and shoulders. Shirts come off early. Comfort beats appearance every time. Nobody is posing. Nobody is performing.You don’t watch Jouvert. You step into it.

Powder, paint, oil, and whatever finds you

If you do Jouvert, you accept the mess.

Baby powder hangs in the air. Latex paint ends up everywhere. Then there’s the black oil. Big jars of it. Some people grease themselves up completely, shining under streetlights and the early sun.

Add water. Add some Hennesy. Add whatever else happens to be in someone’s cup. Nobody apologizes. Nobody complains. You’re there by choice.

Whatever the poison is

Yes, there’s plenty of booze gling around. Plenty of it. But Jouvert has range. Punch in every variation you can imagine. Sweet. Strong. Somewhere in between. Fire water makes its rounds. You don’t ask questions. You sip, sometimes jug. You just know it warms you up fast.

And yes, Hennessy has a strong presence. You see it. You smell it. Sometimes, before you even turn your head.

Whatever the poison is, it gets shared. Cups are not needed, the bootle can pass from hand to hand just fine. That’s Jouvert.

The music decides everything

The music doesn’t negotiate. It decides.

Big trailers with sound systems that feel almost unreasonable at that hour move through the streets, and everyone moves with them. You walk when they walk. You stop when they stop. Rhythm takes over.

I’ve lived Jouvert from different angles. For a few years, I was part of a band. Crazy enough to be on a trailer, singing and jamming with the crowd, taking part in Calypso and Road March. From up there, you’re not performing for the people. You’re moving with them.

Certain songs cut straight through. When “I was born in soca” by Diamond Chip hits, the pace changes. No discussion needed. If you were born in soca, you feel the connection, onetime.

You’ll say you’ll meet, and you probably won’t

People always say, “We’ll meet over there.” One friend said it to me with complete confidence. We’ll catch up there.

We didn’t.

I never ran into him. Not once. And that was fine. Because while I didn’t meet the person I planned to see, I ran into plenty of others I hadn’t planned to meet at all. People I hadn’t seen in years. Faces I recognized before names came back.

You also see people you usually only know from work, from meetings, from places where everyone plays a role. At Jouvert, those roles fall away fast. No titles at four in the morning. Just people enjoying the same moment.

You may not meet who you planned to.
You may meet family you didn’t expect.
That’s not a flaw in the plan. That is the plan.

Losing people, finding your way

One year, I went to Jouvert with a good friend. He was driving. At some point, I lost him completely. Eventually, I caught a ride home with someone else.

That was fine.

That’s Jouvert. You don’t hold on too tightly.

From Jouvert to London

One year, I walked straight out of Jouvert, went home, showered, got dressed, grabbed my suitcase, and went straight to the airport. A flight to London. An aviation conference.

Sitting on that plane, still half in the rhythm of the night, it struck me how only hours earlier I’d been in the street in San Nicolas, and now I was heading back into the legal world.

The contrast didn’t feel strange. It felt right.

Jouvert doesn’t interrupt life. It sits alongside it.

A tradition that holds

What stayed with me this year was how many young people were out there. Maybe that stands out more now because of my age, but it mattered. Seeing them fully in it, walking mile after mile behind the trailers.

That’s how you know a tradition is alive. People keep showing up.

Carry it and rest

By the time the sun is fully up, you feel it. Legs heavy. Clothes done for. Ears ringing. And somehow, you feel lighter.

You wash everything off later. What stays is the feeling.

This column isn’t an argument. It’s a pause. A shared breath. A reminder of where part of me comes from.

Jouvert is Jouvert, boy.
It’s to be enjoyed.
It’s to be cherished.

I’ll see you next week.
You can find all my columns and podcasts at www.lincolngomez.com.