The Driest Wet Fete Pt 3

After we finished eating, we walked back towards the house. We laughed at the lack of water at this wet party. Nevis and Austin suggested that we jump into the pool and start our own wet fete. Paris and I vehemently disagreed with their suggestion. First, the water didn’t look warm. Second, I refused to be seen as the crazy group of people that jumped in the tiny pool at a dead party without a close-by getaway car. Well, maybe it wouldn’t have been crazy to jump in the pool since it was supposed to be a wet party and we did have our bathing suits on, but the ability to easily leave the party after the entitled wet fun would have been essential.
Several people were standing near the back of the house, so we decided to move over there and wait for the party to start. There were a few speakers set up against the house, providing the backyard with music. The DJ was playing a good mix of reggae, soca, hip-hop, and r&b. Yet, no one was dancing. It wasn’t until 2am, when more people started to arrive, that the party finally began to get going. People were grinding, whining, and enjoying the music and the clear summer night.

Around 4am, party fatigue began to creep up on me. I felt myself getting tired. Desperately needing to sit down, I went inside the house and walked downstairs looking for a place to sit. Below the party, there was a large room with three unisex bathrooms—two connected to smaller adjoining rooms and one near the stairwell. Against the wall, there were a few seats. I sat down at an empty chair and before I knew it, I dozed off. I don’t know how long I was sleeping in that chair. But, the nap was exactly what I needed. When Paris found me in my lonely chair and woke me up, I was hit with the second wind I needed to jump and whine until morning. The party was livelier than when I left to take my party nap. The crowd seemed to have increased. People were dancing, sweating, jumping, and enjoying the thumping Caribbean sounds.

As I was getting back into the party groove, the DJ announced that soca singer Iwer George was at the party and was going to perform. Paris, Austin, Nevis, and I headed inside to get a view of Iwer George. Inside there were several people jumping and whining and carrying one in the dining area and the kitchen. The energy was visibly 10x higher inside the house than outside the house. As Iwer George’s voice poured from the speakers, the energy inside intensified. People started jumping faster and higher. Flags and rags were being waved. Then, Iwer George brought his performance down to the dining area and the party inside exploded into a full out bacchanal. It looked like a scene from carnival. There was an orgy of bodies whining, grinding, and slamming on each other. Women were pushing back their bumpers (booties). Men were jumping behind them, lifting up one of the women’s legs, or even picking them completely off the ground. Iwer seemed to be feeding off the energy of the people dancing around him as much as they were feeding off the sound of his voice over the pulsating soca rhythms. Not trying to miss out on the fun, Nevis and I jumped into the crowd dancing near Iwer as he sang “Whine Whine Whine Whine We LIKE IT!!!”.

Not too long after Iwer finished performing, the party ended. It was around 5am. The sun was rising. People were pouring out the house and making their way to the bottom of the circular driveway. Since the shuttles provided the only access to the party, everyone was stranded at this mansion in the woods, waiting for the shuttle to bring them back to their cars. Tired from a night of partying, several people were sitting on the driveway. Others were standing around either talking or looking in the distance for any signs of the shuttle. I stood and surveyed the scene. As I looked at the 100+ people dispersed across the driveway, I got a strong feeling that our assumption at the beginning of the party was right: we were the only people there dressed for a wet fete. I saw women dressed in designer jeans and stilettos and men dressed in designer jeans and sunglasses. No one but us looked like they were there for a wet and wild time. I would have been content if there were other people there dressed for a wet party and the promoters had been the ones that failed to turn the party into a wet party. But, that was not the case. The joke was on us. It seemed that everyone but us knew that the party was never ever going to be a wet party. BOOO!!! What a waste of $30 dollars.

Anyways, back to the story. Five minutes passed and there was no shuttle. Five more minutes passed and there was still no shuttle. About 20 minutes after the party ended, the first shuttle arrived and pandemonium broke out. Before the shuttle could reach the bottom of the hill, people ran towards it and swarmed it so the driver could drive any further. We didn’t bother moving from our spot at the bottom of the driveway. The shuttle was filled within 30 seconds. It drove down the hill, turned around, and drove away. Five minutes later, the second shuttle arrived. Wanting to get out of there, we ran with small crowd of people to the shuttle and boarded it. The shuttle ride back was quite the experience. What would you expect when a bunch of people are crammed into a small shuttle? I have seen interesting things on crowded public buses in Boston and New York, but this shuttle ride was hilarious.
Seated at the back of the shuttle, there was a guy, who clearly had a few drinks, holding a tin bucket that would be usually be used to hold ice and drinks. He had a heavy Caribbean accent and was yelling at people, while banging the bucket at against the back wall of the shuttle. At first, he was making jokes and talking to people at the back of the shuttle. But then he caught sight of a man trying to smoke on the shuttle and he started to yell at him, telling him to put out his cigarette. Other people around the smoking man chimed in and told them the man to put out his cigarette. The smoking man complied with everyone’s requests and put out his cigarette on the shuttle floor. If that wasn’t enough excitement, the man with the bucket thought it would be a good idea to entertain everyone with a song. He took the bucket and banged it against the wall making a soca beat, while he sang, “We not going home ‘til the sun come up”. People laughed as he sang his impromptu song.

As all of this was going on, the shuttle swerved, turned, and finally sped into the parking lot. Everyone piled out of the shuttle and walked toward their cars. The sounds of hip hop, soca, and reggae slowly started to fill the parking lot as people got into their cars and drove away. Although it was 7am, the party was far from over. It was finally carnival Saturday--event that I came to Atlanta to see. As we drove home, I looked forward to the bands, the costumes, the food, the jump-up, and the after-parties.

One Love.

The Driest Wet Fete Pt 2: The Mansion

When we reached the parking lot, several cars were parked there. Although it was past midnight and the stores surrounding the parking lot were closed, the parking lot was buzzing. The sounds of reggae, soca, and hip hop were blasting out of cars as people waited for the shuttle to arrive. Not to be out done, Nevis turned up on the volume on his car stereo and blasted the latest soca and dancehall. We sat in the car with the doors open, allowing the music to pour out of the car into the parking lot. Slowly people left their cars and started to look around for the shuttle to the party. Although the flyer advertised that there would be shuttles to the party, there were no signs in the parking lot indicating when and where the shuttle would arrive. Getting restless, we left the car and walked towards the left side of the parking lot where a crowd had gathered around a dark-skinned black man. The man seemed to be affiliated with the party. He was who was dressed in all black and holding a walkie-talkie. The man informed everyone that the shuttle would be arriving soon. A few minutes after he announced this, a white shuttle bus arrived. We all piled on to it and headed towards the mysterious “mansion”.

Being in Atlanta only three nights at this point, I had absolutely no idea where I was and where the shuttle was taking us. The shuttle sped out of the parking lot and turned onto a dark side road that was adjacent to the parking lot. As we drove, I tried to look for any markers—street signs, houses, cars, etc---that would give me an idea of where we were going. But, I saw nothing. One thing that I noticed during my nighttime escapades in Atlanta was that the streets were very badly lit. It was dark. All I could see were trees, a few large houses peaking from behind trees, and more trees. My imagination began to run wild. This sounded like the beginning of a scary movie: 4 attractive, party-seeking 20-somethings get on a bus with strangers, head towards a party in an undisclosed location in the woods, and then end up chased and chopped up by a knife-wielding, masked killer. It is crazy what we will do for the promises of a good party. Fortunately, nothing horrible befell us.

After 10 minutes of driving in the dark, we arrived at the foot of a large white mansion on top of a hill. It looked like a scene out of a hip hop video or MTV Cribs. The mansion had white pillars and large windows that allowed you to see its interior. Light shone brightly through the large windows, illuminating the large white mansion against the dark night sky. Leading up to the mansion, there was a circular drive way. The shuttle let us out at the foot of the hill. We walked up the steep hill towards a trailer that was parked to the left of the mansion. Posted near the trailer, there were several big black security guards directing people to the trailer to pay for entry to the party. I forgot to mention at the beginning of this story that the cover for this party was $30--a pretty high price. For the past 8 years that I lived in New York, which is notorious for high-priced club covers, I tried hard to avoid parties with covers over $20. I think $20 is too much to pay for party, but I have an easier time handing over a $20 bill than two $20 bills or a $20 bill and a $10 (yikes!). Nonetheless, we all paid the woman sitting inside the trailer $30 each and made our way towards the house.

We walked through the mansion’s large glass double doors into a large foyer. Directly across from entrance, in the middle of the foyer, there was a large white fountain. I have to admit I was pretty amazed to see a fountain in a house. I knew that the flyer advertised that the party would be at a “millionaire dollar mansion”, but I didn’t expect for it to be in a real mansion on a hill. I expected a large club or maybe a house (bashment parties), but not a real mansion. I lived in New York where clubs have all types of interesting names, such as Bed, Home, Guesthouse, The Apartment, Pink Elephant, Duvet, and the list can go on and on, that indicate maybe the décor of the club but not the club is going to be a home, bed, guesthouse, pink elephant, or duvet. So, when I saw the word “mansion” on the flyer, I thought that the club space was being called “Mansion” or was going to be decorated like a mansion. But, I guess things are done differently in Atlanta, where you have more space and more mansions.

The mansion had an open floor plan that was very great for a large house party. The foyer flowed into the living area that was at the front of the house and the kitchen and dining area that was at the back of the house. Leading upstairs, there was a large white circular staircase. On the upstairs landing, the DJ and his equipment were set up. The space was completely cleared of furniture. I am not sure if the furniture was moved out for the party or if the house was regularly empty and was just being rented for the party. I am leaning towards the theory that the house was being rented because I couldn’t imagine someone going through the trouble to move their furniture for a party. Nonetheless, the space seemed large and ready for a packed party.
We walked past the kitchen and out a back door to the backyard, where we assumed that the wet zone of the party was located. Outside, there was a small shallow pool and few people standing around it chatting. Not dancing, but chatting!! We walked around the pool to see if there was another area, but there was nothing but grass and large rocks that a few people were using as seats. As we slowly looked around, we noticed that no one, except for us, was wearing swimsuits. What’s more, we didn’t see a wet zone. There were no signs or anything indicating that there was ever supposed to be a wet zone at the party. WTF?!? A shady shuttle ride through the woods of Georgia, a $30 dollar cover, and no water at a wet party? As you can guess, we were all pissed off that we came all that way for a wet party and it turned out to be a dry party. There were plenty of places that we could have gone to that night that would have been closer, cheaper, and more jumping from entry. But, since we paid our money, and had to depend on the shuttle to bring us back to our car, we decided to make the best of our situation. Despite being a dry wet party, it was still a Caribbean party, so there was of course food being served. Good food can usually improve any bad situation (Well in my case they do!). Nevis and Austin went back to the house to get us some food, while Paris and I sat on two large rocks a few feet away from the pool.

Minutes later, the guys came back with two plates of curried shrimp and rice with plantains. The food was as yummy as it sounded. But, at $10 per plate, we ended up sharing food. You should notice by now, if you have been keeping track of the money that I spent thus far at this party, that I was out of $40 at a dry “wet” party where no one was dancing. Not a good sign! It was 1am at this point and I was not sure if the party would ever get going.

The Driest Wet Fete Pt 1

On my third night in Atlanta, hours after having experienced my first taste of Caribbean food in Atlanta, Nevis, Paris, Nevis’s friend Austin (who was visiting from New York) and I made our way to a wet party at a secret location (literally!). The only bits of information we had about the location of the party was that it was at a mansion and that we had to park in the parking lot of a Publix in the Tucker and then take a free shuttle (provided by the party promoters) to the “mansion.” But, I will talk more about the adventure to and from the party later. First, I want to make sure that we are all on the same page.

To all those who don’t know what a wet party is, it is exactly the way it sounds—a party where you get wet (lol). Wet parties vary based on venues and organizers. They can be either inside or outside. Before this party, I had never been to a party (and technically I still haven’t been to one, but I will get to that soon), but I had heard stories about wet parties. A few years ago, a friend invited me to one at a big Caribbean club in Brooklyn. I was not able to attend because I was going out of tow. But, my friend went and he seemed to have had a blast. He told me that people were instructed to place their valuables, such as watches, cell phones, money, and IDs, in plastic bags and to check them at coat check, next they were wet by water hoses prior to entering the club, and then they were allowed to enter the dance floor where the sprinklers rained down on them for most of the party. I have also heard of outdoor wet parties where there are pools—real ones and plastic kiddie pools—and people just dance in and around the pool. Regardless the type of wet party it is the one thing you will always see at a wet is people wearing bathing suits.
Since I didn’t get a chance to experience the wet party in Brooklyn, I was pretty excited about attending my first one. However, in all my excitement, I, of course, couldn’t figure out what to wear. I know I said earlier that swimwear is a must at wet parties. And, at first, I thought about wearing a bikini under some jeans and a tank, but since there were also supposed to be dry rooms at the party, I thought it would be a good idea to dress cute but water-friendly. I put on a cute loose black top, with plunging neckline, and black tights—things that would still look cute when wet--and I was ready for a wet and wild night.

Around 11pm, Nevis picked me up from my place and we drove to Paris’ apartment to do some pregaming. A few minutes later, we were at Paris’ apartment in North Decatur. As soon as we walked in, I noticed that Paris was wearing a bikini top under her tank top and that she had pulled her hair into a tight bun at the back of her head. She looked way more ready for a wet party than I did. I started to think about how I could modify my look to make it more wet party ready. It immediately dawned on me that it would probably be a good idea to pull my hair back, so that I wouldn’t have wet hair all over my face. I borrowed a black hair tie from Paris and then turned my attentions to the pre-party activities. A half hour later, we were full of “spirit” and ready to get wet and wild. As we were getting ready to leave, Nevis noticed that I was not wearing a bathing suit and informed that the flyer stated that swimwear was required for the wet rooms. I told him that if we stopped by my place I could quickly put on my bathing suit. In no time flat, I had my green bikini on under my black top and tights and we were on our way to the wet party. Well, actually we were on our way to the Publix parking lot in Tucker to catch the shuttle that would take us to my first wet party.

Kool Runnings

For my first two nights in Atlanta, my Caribbean experiences have been at night, enjoying the Carnival/Memorial weekend fetes. However, on my third day I had my first Caribbean experience under the shine of the Georgia sun. In the afternoon, Nevis picked me up and brought me to get some Caribbean food at a Jamaican restaurant called Kool Runnings. As we drove, Nevis told me that Kool Runnings was one of the few Caribbean restaurants in metro Atlanta. Located on Memorial Drive, the restaurant is part of a group of Caribbean businesses in Stone Mountain—Caribbean Atlanta central. Although I was in Stone Mountain the last two nights, I didn’t notice that the restaurant was located just down the street from the Caribbean clubs, including Club 426. I also didn’t notice how far Stone Mountain was from where I was staying in the Druid Hills Area of Atlanta. At night, everything seems a lot closer than they really are. Maybe it is the decrease in traffic at night. Or, maybe it is the excitement of the nightlife. Whatever it is, I found out that afternoon that we drove 25 minutes to get to the Caribbean section of metro Atlanta.

From the outside, Kool Runnings looked like every other fast food restaurant. It was a square shaped with large windows in the front and sides. It had a red awning with the words “Kool Runnings” written across it in white. Inside, it looked like most of the Caribbean restaurants I had been to in the northeast. Immediately when you walk in, you see a long metal counter with glass panels, like the counters you see in most school cafeterias. On the counter and behind the glass, there were about 15 trays of different Caribbean foods: stew chicken, rice & peas, festivals, curried chicken, dumplings, curried goat (my favorite), to name a few. Above the counter, there was a long billboard listing most of the food they served and their prices. Anyone who has been to a Caribbean restaurant in the States (US) or in the Caribbean knows that not everything they serve is on the menu. Most of the time they will tell you about other dishes they had cooked for the day or you have to ask if they had cooked certain dishes that day. Adjacent to the counter, there was a glass door fridge with bottles of different Caribbean drinks in them, from Ting (a carbonated grapefruit juice) to Tropical Rhythms (assorted fruit juices, such as mango, passion fruit, and pineapple).

Nevis and I approached the counter and ordered our respective meals. I ordered a large plate of curried goat, rice & peas, cabbage (salad), and fried plantains and he ordered a large plate of stew chicken, rice & peas, cabbage, and fried plantains. After we got our food, we turned towards the front of the restaurant and looked for a place to sit, which was not hard, since the place was empty. There were two main seating areas: an inside area and a covered outside area. We decided to sit at a medium sized square table in the middle of the inside seating area, which had booth seating on the sides and about 5 tables and chairs in the middle. The covered outside seating area was directly in front of the inside seating area, separated from it by a set of french doors, and it was structured similar to a cabana with large glassless windows and doorless entrances. In the middle, there were several white circular tables with white plastic chairs. It seemed like a nice place to sit, eat, and chat, but we decided to stay inside since it was over 90 degrees outside.

Overall, I liked Kool Runnings. It is close to the Caribbean clubs and open 24 hours on weekends (perfect for a post-clubbing snack). Plus, it is nice to know that I could get Caribbean food in Atlanta. Don’t get me wrong. I love soul food and I love love love chicken and waffles. But, I LOVE Caribbean food! I grew up on it. It feeds my soul (and my hips, thighs, and other areas…lol). I just couldn’t imagine not being able to get some curried goat, pelau, fish cakes, or some saltfish and bakes (no ackee in my saltfish.. sorry Jamaicans) anytime I wanted. I would walk 15 minutes each way, in 25 degree weather, in my Brooklyn neighborhood (Clinton Hill) to get a good plate of curried goat (shout outs to Buff Patty on Myrtle Ave). So, I was more than okay driving more than 20 minutes to get some curried goat at Kool Runnings. The food was good, although it was honestly not as good as the curried goat I have had in New York. I know it is wrong to compare any city to New York. But, I can’t help it. My palette has been spoiled by the rich (and delicious) variety of ethnic food in New York. Because it is an international hub, New York has fresher and cheaper food. Although Atlanta is closer to the Caribbean than New York, I don’t think that it gets the same quality and quantity of Caribbean products that New York does. I am not trying to be a food critic. But, I felt that the curried goat at Kool Runnings needed to be spicier, darker (in color), and meatier. I was expecting to get that feeling of satisfaction when I took my first bite, but I never got it. Me belly was full but me was still hungry.

I would recommend others to try the food at Kool Runnings for themselves. And, with few other options for Caribbean food I am sure that I will be eating there again. But, I will also be on the look out for other Caribbean restaurants and I will let you know when I find a satisfying plate of curried goat.

One Love.

Island Getaway’s 11th Annual Flag Party @ Primal Nightclub Downtown Atlanta

On the second night, Nevis, Paris, and I headed to a Caribbean flag party at a club in Atlanta’s downtown area called Primal. For those who don’t know what a flag party is, it is a party where all attendees are expected to bring the flag of their country, or countries of origin. In this case, you had to bring a Caribbean flag to get the discounted rates. The party was free before 12am, with a Caribbean flag, and more after (I didn’t try to find out the amount because I wasn’t planning to pay). Since my family is from the beautiful nature island of Caribbean, Dominica, I went to the party with a small handkerchief with the Dominican flag imprinted on it. Nevis and Paris also brought flags from their respective Caribbean countries.

On this night, once again we left a little bit late. It was past 11pm when we headed towards downtown Atlanta, with Nevis as our (designated) driver. As we pulled up to the club, we immediately noticed that there was a long line outside of the club. With less than 15 minutes to midnight, Nevis dropped me and Paris at the front of the club and went to look for parking. Looking at the line, it didn’t seem like we would get in for free. Living in New York, I had seen these scenes before at clubs. Promoters advertise free admission before a specific time (usually 11pm or 12am) and then when you get there, the bouncers hold up the line until past the designated time so that people in the line will have to pay the cover; and then when you get in the club, it is empty. Paris and I were hoping that we would get into the club before the Cinderella hour (midnight). And, as we walked past the line, our fairy godmother (or our fairy godfather) granted our wish. A guy standing near the front of the line stopped us and offered to let us cut the line and stand in front of him and his friend. Seeing that it was 10 minutes to midnight, we accepted his offer without hesitation and stood in front of him and his friend. Usually when a guy that you don’t know offers to do something for you---i.e., buy you a drink or let you cut in line---he expects something in return, either your attention, time, number, or something else (if they are nasty). Surprisingly, this guy just let us cut in front of him and didn’t say much to us other than “hello”. Five minutes later, we were inside of the club for free. We walked in and passed the female cashier sitting behind a small podium with a cash register on top of it. Next to her, there was a big black male bouncer standing next to a velvet rope that separated the entrance and cashier section from the club’s front room. Paris walked past him. As I tried to walk past him, he stopped me abruptly and gruffly asked me if I had a flag. I was in such a hurry to get into the club that I forgot that I had to show it to get free admission. I had my flag hanging off my belt loop on the back of my jeans. I turned around and showed him the Dominican flag hanging from my belt loop. He nodded at me and allowed me access to the club.

I joined Paris on the other side of the velvet rope and started surveying the space, since I was there to gather data for my research (I love ethnography. Don’t hate me. Hate the game. If you want to get paid to go clubs, go to grad school and become a sociologist). The club consisted of two rooms: a front room and a dance floor. The front room was small but big enough to fit about 50-60 people comfortably. It had two seating sections with long white leather couches and mini tables. The seating sections were facing each other. There were a few women sitting on the couches and chatting with each other as they waited for the dance floor to open. To the left of the couches, there were two separate unisex bathrooms. On the opposite end of the room, there was a small wraparound bar with a white male bartender behind it. There were few people at the bar ordering drinks as they also waited for access to the dance floor. Although there was a long line outside the club, there were very few people inside the club. There were probably about 30 people inside (which is not surprising since most clubs that offer free admission before a specific time will try to hold the line outside so very few people get in for free). Of these 30 or so people, most of them were women (again not a surprise).

As I looked around, Paris informed me that Nevis called her and told her he had found parking and was now waiting in the line, which had gotten longer since we left. We decided to sit down on the white couches that were near the velvet rope and wait for Nevis to get in. Ten minutes later, Nevis sent Paris a text message telling us that he had left the line to go to the liquor store across the street from the club and that he would meet us inside later. With that information, we decided to go to the bar, order drinks, and enter the dance floor, which had been opened while we were waiting for Nevis. The dance floor was located on the lower level of the club. To get there we had to descend several steps that were near the front room’s bar. The dance floor was in a large room with an elevated DJ booth at the far right corner and with a long bar along the back wall. There was an elevated dance area that went along the left wall to the DJ booth. As we were waiting for Nevis, more and more people had started to enter the club. There were about 70 people on the dance floor when we got there.

Since it was a flag party, there were Caribbean flags, big and small, all over the room. However, unlike Club 426, where the flags were hung around the club, the flags in Primal were on the people. People were holding, waving, and whipping the flags of their Caribbean country of origin. Interestingly, no one country seemed to dominate the room. There were flags representing countries across the Caribbean region: the US Virgin Islands, Guyana, Trinidad & Tobago, Jamaica, Panama, Barbados, the Bahamas, St. Kitts & Nevis, Antigua & Barbuda, St. Lucia, and Dominica (of course!) to name a few. Many times I have been to Caribbean parties in New York and Boston where one country seemed to dominate the entire party. Can you guess the country? (Just think of the first country that comes to your mind when you hear the word “Caribbean”. Yes, it is that country. The one with the puma sneakers and t-shirts.) So, I was happy to see a wide variety of Caribbean countries, especially the smaller islands, like mine, represented at the party. The music was pretty diverse too. The DJ played soca, reggae, dancehall, and hip-hop. Each musical genre got an equal amount of time, although as expected the music was predominantly Caribbean.

After about 20 minutes, Nevis finally joined us and he looked pretty pleased about his decision to go to the liquor store. As most people know, anything you buy at a bar or club is significantly more expensive than anything you buy at a store, and that includes drinks and food. Why bottles of liquor cost $200 to $300 in a club when they cost $20 to $30 at the liquor still bewilders me. He had decided to buy a small bottle of liquor and drink outside rather than buy drinks at the bar. It was a good idea in theory but not in practice. He ended up buying drinks at the bar. Drinks in a social setting sometimes can be like Pringles. You can’t just have one (LOL!).
Overall, the party was pretty good. Although it was a Thursday night, the club was full of people, the music was good, and people were having a good time. As the night progressed, more and more people poured into the club. By the end of the night, there were about 200 people in the club. People were generally dressed casually. There were no tiny black dresses or collared shirts at this party. People were wearing t-shirts, jeans, tanks, and shorts. The proper attire to jump, whine, dutty whine, and nuh linga (for those who don’t know, these are dances). Although there were 200 people in the club, there was plenty of room for people to dance and do what they felt like without bumping into other people. There were no fights or shouting matches, just good vibes. There were people from all walks of life just having a good time, from the pyts (pretty young thangs) looking to whine it up on the dance floor to the middle-aged couples enjoying a weeknight date to single men looking to dance with a few ladies and get some phone numbers (for some post-club activities). As the night progressed, I learned that Primal was not a Caribbean club. The DJ mentioned several times that this was the first time they had held a party at Primal and that people should take notice of the features of their new venue, such as its outdoor area, large dance floor, and two bar areas. Though it was not a Caribbean club, Primal hosted a good Caribbean party. Around 2am, the lights turned on, the music stopped playing, and we, along with the other Caribbean partygoers, filed out the club. As we were leaving the club, the DJ invited everyone to continue the party at Club Expose on Memorial Drive in Stone Mountain. Looking to keep the good times going, Paris, Nevis, and I piled back into Nevis’ car and headed towards to the Stone Mountain. However, it seems the party gods didn’t want us to continue our partying on this Thursday night because we never made it to Club Expose. Despite having the aid of a GPS system, we couldn’t find the club. After turning around 3 times, we decided to call it a night and go home. My second day looking for Caribbean Atlanta ended.

One Love

The Hangover @ Club 426, Pt 2

What I found was very far from wack. Inside, there was a decent size room with a wrap-around bar to the left of the entrance. If you couldn’t tell you were in Caribbean club by the music, there were a string of Caribbean flags hanging above the bar. There was also an elevated DJ booth directly across from the entrance and a section with booths for people to sit and eat, directly to the left of the doors. The dance floor was a decent size, enough to fit at least 100 people comfortably. When we got there, there were about 50-60 people on the dance floor. The number increased to about 80-90 as the night progressed. So, it was not too crowded on the dance floor and it also was not so empty that you can see everyone there (I hate that). But, we weren’t really concerned about the dance scene at that moment. We were more focused on getting to the bar and making up our $20 cover in drinks. The bar was crowded as expected with an open bar. When we finally caught the attention of a bartender, we were pleasantly surprised to find out that the entire bar was open, meaning top shelf liquors, like Grey Goose, Patron, and Hennessey, and any beer they had were all FREE. Heineken, Corona, Guinness. You want it? You got it. Nevis and Paris started off with the double drinks (a liquor drink and a beer). I, on the other hand, started off slowly with one liquor drink, since I didn’t eat dinner before I left the house. Luckily, they also sold (real) food in the club, and I am not talking about that skimpy bar food, like wings or french fries. They were selling plates of stew chicken, rice and peas, salad, and plantains (typical Caribbean dish) for $10 dollars. The food was so yummy, and the portion was so generous, that I had to save it for lunch the next day. Me belly was definitely full full, oui. Ok, this is a club so I can’t talk entirely about what I filled my belly with (if you can’t tell yet, I am real fat ass at heart. I used to steal chicken from my father’s plate when I was 2).
The scene was cool and laid back. People were dressed casually in jeans, shorts, and t-shirts and tanks. No fancy dress here. The entire night there were more men in the club than women, but it was not an uncomfortable gender imbalance. (If it was a sausage party, the night might have been a bad night for all kinds of obvious reasons). The crowd was for the most part black (I didn’t see any visibly white, Asian, or Hispanics and I didn’t expect to) and relatively young. People looked to be in their early 20s to early 30s. There, however, were a few exceptions. There was an old man with dreads that looked to be in his mid 40s that kept trying to dance with me. He smelled like Heineken and ganja. Oh, did I forget to say that people were smoking in this club? Coming from the northeast, I had gotten so used smoke-free places that I forgot people could still smoke in clubs. Now, I know what you are thinking: Caribbean club; Smoke; Ganja-smelling man. People must have been smoking weed in the club. Well, I can neither confirm nor deny that. I know I wasn’t smoking anything illegal and I will leave it at that. The music was good. The DJ played lots of soca (which made me happy) and mixed it up with dancehall, hip-hop, and some southern rap (this is ATL, shawty!!). Everybody seemed to be having a good time. People were dancing and singing along to music. There was no tension in the air and no violence. Every ting was irie irie!! Free drinks, good food, and great music! With all that going on, I met a few guys on the dance floor. Surprisingly (or not), I didn’t meet any native Atlantans. Most of the guys I spoke to you were from New York—the Bronx or Brooklyn. Even more surprising, I actually met a guy from Dominica (the land where my roots run deep). I rarely have random encounters with Dominicans (pronounced DOM-E-NEE-CANS, not the other way), especially not in clubs. I grew up in a Dominican community in Boston and barely saw other Dominicans outside planned events. So of course, he got my attention for more than the customary 5 minutes (but that is another story). By 3:00am, the club started to empty out (it was a Wednesday night). There were about 10 people, including the three of us, in the club when we left around 3:30am. Overall, it was a good night and a great introduction to Caribbean Atlanta.
One Love

The Hangover @ Club 426, Pt 1

Before I can even talk about my first encounter with Caribbean life in Atlanta, I have to point out that my friend Nevis---a fellow Afro-Caribbean who moved to Atlanta less than a year before for school---researched and selected all the Caribbean parties and events I would be attending with him and a few of his friends this Carnival weekend. For the most part, I didn’t even know where we were going until Nevis called and told me he was on his way to pick me up (this is very common for him and not my lack of interest in the places I go and the things I do).
This night—my first night in town—he told me that we would be going to a party at a club called 426, which is located on Memorial Drive in Stone Mountain. Besides the fact that I wanted to see what a Caribbean party was like in Atlanta, I was excited about going to a club in Stone Mountain because I had heard from several people, including Nevis, that it was where most (if not all) the Caribbean clubs and restaurants were located. I was also a bit concerned about going to Stone Mountain because I was told by a few people that it was home to Atlanta’s KKK. Leave it to Caribbean folk to stroll right up into KKK central and set up shop. Crazy? Yes. Out of character? No. This disregard for white racism and racial barriers has been well documented in studies of Afro-Caribbeans in the US. Several studies have found that Afro-Caribbeans have been the first black families to move into several all white neighborhoods in New York, especially in Brooklyn (surprise surprise). So it is not a stretch for them to exhibit similar behavior in Atlanta, KKK or not. Ok, back to the story.
There were two main reasons why we were going to 426 that night: 1) it was free before 1am and 2) (the most important reason) it had an all night OPEN BAR!!!. I am not alcoholic, but I do love open bars. I don’t know anyone that doesn’t like a good open bar. As a Bostonian turned New Yorker, I know how drinks can turn a simple not out into an expensive extravaganza. Also, as a grad student, I really can’t afford to burn my rent and food money on overpriced drinks. Thus, the idea of paying nothing for an open bar was very appealing. Unfortunately, we didn’t get there before 1am. Anybody that knows Atlanta knows that it is very spread out and you have to drive everywhere. By the time Nevis picked up me and our other partying partner, Paris—a fellow Afro-Caribbean student in Atlanta—and started driving to the club, it was obvious that we weren’t going to make it there before 1am. But, it really didn’t matter us because an open bar at any (reasonable) price is still worth a trip. A little after 1am, we arrived at the club. As we parked in the parking lot behind the club, Nevis pointed out to me 3 other Caribbean clubs that shared the parking lot with 426. I heard that the Caribbean clubs were in Stone Mountain, but I didn’t think they would be located all in the same spot, sharing the same parking lot. Anyways, as we walked through the parking lot, two men with heavy Caribbean accents handed us flyers for an upcoming Caribbean parties at other clubs. We took the flyers and walked towards a hole in the gate that separated the parking lot and the back of 426. Yes, I said hole. Again, I was not surprised. We walked through the hole and walked to the front of the club, which had a very short line. We found out at the door that the cover was $20. We paid the promoter outside and got yellow bands that read “See UR Pic @ Krushmore.com”. My heart started to beat a little faster as I opened the door and walked into the club. Is there an open bar to camouflage the wackness of the club? What would I find?

Looking for Caribbean Atlanta?!?

When I first decided that I was going to leave my comfy existence in Brooklyn (Where Brooklyn At???) and move "down south" to study Afro-Caribbean life in Atlanta, I honestly didn't know what I was going to find. I mean, as a good sociologist-in-training, I did my research. I read the everything I could find about Caribbeans in Atlanta (literally a few sentences here and there in few books and articles). I went over the census data (over 70,000 people of Caribbean ancestry in metro Atlanta in 2007). I googled "Caribbean Atlanta" and saved everything I found (Taboo tool, baby!). And, I had many (many many) conversations with scholars that study Caribbean migration in the US and with those who study other topics, friends and family (even though those who pretended to undersand what I was talking about.. Thanks), and Caribbean folk that actually lived in Atlanta. One year later. I still didn't know what I was going to expect.

My heart raced (I actually almost had a panic attack) as I thought about what I might find in Atlanta--bad curry goat, empty dancehalls, all crunk music and booty-popping and no soca music and whining, to name a few things. As I got closer to my move date, I thought: Why would a Caribbean person leave Caribbean New York for Atlanta? What do Caribbean people do in the land of "Real Housewives," chicken and waffles (some of my (large)Dominican family still doesn't undersand how that goes together), and swag surfin? What would I find down in the A the A the A??

On May 20, 2009 at 11:30am, I stepped off the plane at Atlanta's Hartsfield International Airport and officially began my search for Caribbean Altanta. To get a sense of Caribbean life at its height in this southern metropolis, I made sure I arrived a few days before its annual Caribbean Carnival. I had experienced carnivals in Dominica, Boston, Toronto, and New York (of course!). But, I never thought I would ever go to a Caribbean carnival in any southern state outside of Florida. I didn't know Atlanta had a carnival until I came across a website for Atlanta Carnival during one of my many google searches. I was surprised to learn that there was not only a Caribbean carnival in Atlanta, but that it was also over 20 years old. 20 years?? I'm 25. This means that this carnival has been going on most of my life. Yet, I had never heard about it. I was even more surprised when my own father (Mr. Caribbean...more about that later) told me that he knew about it for years. But, even he, who has been to carnivals all over the eastern hemisphere, has never been to carnival in Atlanta. My best friend--a mixture of the Spanish and English Caribbean with Cuban and Guyanese parentage-- lived in Atlanta for 3 years and heard not a peep about a carnival.

So, naturally I am both worried, and intrigued, about what kind of Caribbean life I will discover in Atlanta aka the "Dirty Dirty". And, for the next year I will be searching for Caribbean Atlanta and let you know what I find.

One Love.