La Fete de Holetown

The Holetown Festival commemorates the arrival of the first English settlers, eighty in all along with ten slaves, some time between February 18th and 20th, 1627 in Holetown, a small town on the West Coast of what would become the English colony of Barbados.  The first celebration of this event took place in 1977 and has since developed into a week of activities that include a parade, the dooflicky, stalls selling traditional Barbadian crafts and tourist trinkets, food and drink, and music from gospel, tuk band, calypso, and anything else one might want to dance to.  I missed the festival last year because I just couldn't see myself walking with Lily and Virginie through the crowded streets and pathways of Holetown on my own, and to tell the truth, I wasn't really all that interested.  In my new lease on everything, I thought, why not?  Lily would surely find something interesting and anything that changes the weekend program is a good thing for us.


We took the first bus that stopped for us, that would be the fourth, as we were warned that traffic would be difficult.  As traffic is usually a pain in the ass in Holetown, I heeded the advice.  We were dropped just outside of town at the Limegrove Shopping Centre, and made our way over on foot, Virginie sitting comfortably in her stroller. There were stalls with shells and coconut sculptures, leather shoes, necklaces, and the usual crap--Dora balloons, bubbles, pinwheels, bouncy balls, and other silly toys and trinkets.  Food and beer stalls were in abundance as well and I partook like a fool.  Hot dogs, burgers, and the highlight, really the only thing worth trying, the fishcakes.  Definitely not something one can eat every day, but when they are made well, oh my, they are like little fish beignets or donuts.  Fried on the outside, soft and doughy with little fish bits inside.  When they are bad, they are horrendous.  We had some of those the next day.

I was pretty well prepared for all that was sold in the Holetown stalls, vendors selling trinkets and other stuff, for lack of a better word, from my years attending street fairs in Manhattan.  Except for the Peruvian sweaters, all the usual nonsense was there--sheets, compilation CDs playing reggae and dance hall, bras and underwear, shoes, sandals, dresses, tshirts, silly artist crafts, and YES, I mean silly.  I am not knocking the work of any artist out there moved by materials, but I think a bobblehead turtle made from a coconut shell can surely be called ridiculous.  There was face painting, cotton candy, ice cream cones and snowcones.  You know, all the stuff that says historical celebration. 

To cover that arena, there was the antique car show and the dooflicky.  A dooflicky, by West Indian definition is a special event or thing and this thing was...special.  Scheduled for 2 pm in the afternoon, it was delayed due to rain and rescheduled for 4 pm.  I would like to tell you it was worth the wait.  Seeing the guys up on the stilts and a little wild dancing made it so.  But the one and 1/2 minute show, and this is no exaggeration, left a little to be desired.  Before I could even begin to establish just what was going on, it was over.  I do know this.  There was a bride, some guys dressed up as green monkeys, mascots of Barbados, two dudes on stilts, and lots of wiggling and music.  Over and out. 

The meltdown of Lily began shortly after that.  She was dying for some full on attention and demanded more toys, cotton candy, and face painting at just the moment that I was about to lose my cool.  It was hot out there.  Had rained.  On us.  I had two demanding girls on my own and it was time to go home.  Only thing was, getting home was to involve another bus ride, carting a stroller, toddler, preschooler and now two big blow up horses that I had been suckered into purchasing.  Lily's total freak out would generate stares and snickers from the nosy busriders, more than usual because now she would not just be a mixed little girl with black momma going for a ride, she would be the badly behaved little spoiled 1/2 white child with her clearly poor disciplinary mother who was so out of control, she was carted along in a stroller when she should be walking.  (Didier and I often joke that once a baby can stand up, that's it, no mercy here in Barbados.  Get them walking on the street.)

So I did what any fool would do.  I walked home from the Holetown Festival, about a mile or so, pushing Lily in a busted, broken down stroller, and wearing Virginie in a "Hip Hammock," a kind of sling for larger toddlers.  It was totally insane, and as a gesture, I made Lily walk the last few yards so she felt like she did something and I did not feel like Doormat Mommy.  And even though my body was killing me the next day, I still enjoyed the whole thing.  Meeting up with friends, celebrating in the country that we have not adopted, but in which we live, watching the crowds, and exposing my children to something new, I felt like I had accomplished something and had given Lily something to discuss in her "news" at school on Monday.  For the rest of my life, I can share details of the Holetown Festival in Barbados the way other people reference Mardi Gras or Carnival around the world.  OK, maybe not that good, but you know what I mean. 

(c)  Copyright 2011.  City Mom in the Jungle.

(A crashed computer with loads of photos has prevented me from being able to share images of this event.  My apologies.  I can assure you that I am more devastated than you.)