RAD­HI­CA DE SIL­VA

Se­nior Mul­ti­me­dia Re­porter

rad­hi­ca.sookraj@guardian.co.tt

For two hours every day, 80-year-old Miguel Marchan bends wire, ham­mers met­al and shapes elab­o­rate cos­tumes.

The de­signs come to him ful­ly formed—a bull’s head, a god­dess ris­ing from the sea, a trib­ute to oil rigs, sug­ar cane and scar­let ibis—and he pounds them in­to ex­is­tence with the steady rhythm of a man who has giv­en his en­tire life to mas. But as he works, his heart is heavy.

Speak­ing to the Sun­day Guardian, Marchan says many do not know the sac­ri­fices he made to pre­serve Trinidad and To­ba­go’s cul­ture. The walls in­side his Clarkia Dri­ve, Debe home are lined with pho­tographs dat­ing back to 1967. Tro­phies glint from shelves. Fad­ed im­ages tell the sto­ry of a young boy from 3rd Av­enue, Barataria, born in 1945, who would go on to shape gen­er­a­tions of Car­ni­val artistry, of­ten with lit­tle grat­i­tude and hefty debts.

Marchan said his jour­ney in­to mas be­gan in the ear­ly 1960s. As a boy liv­ing with adopt­ed par­ents, Lucy and Chester La­rook, he watched crafts­men next door fash­ion bows, ar­rows, and hand grenades for Car­ni­val. Cu­ri­ous, he fol­lowed.

His first cos­tume was made from a flour bag—a cro­cus bag cut, stitched and trans­formed in­to what he laugh­ing­ly calls a “dirty sailor.” He could sew al­most every­thing ex­cept the legs, which a neigh­bour fin­ished for him on a hand-cranked Singer sewing ma­chine.

By 1960, he was play­ing sailor mas with steel­bands. In 1962, he por­trayed a Ro­man glad­i­a­tor with Ger­al­do Vier­ra. But 1967 marked the true turn­ing point.

Mar­cano said that year, band­leader Pe­ter Car­val­ho in­vit­ed him to join his pre­sen­ta­tion, Sun Fes­ti­val of Sis­co. The $65 cos­tume was un­fin­ished when he checked on it weeks be­fore Car­ni­val. Frus­trat­ed, Marchan took it home and com­plet­ed it him­self.

“I start to use my brain,” he re­called. “From there, I was on my own.”

He con­tin­ued with Car­val­ho un­til 1972, learn­ing the craft and sharp­en­ing his in­stincts.

In 1975, brim­ming with con­fi­dence and am­bi­tion, Marchan launched his first band—The Gallery of Trinidad Great­ness.

Marchan said it was mas root­ed in na­tion­al pride. Sec­tions cel­e­brat­ed the Cha­co­nia, the Scar­let Ibis, the steel­pan, sug­ar cane, oil rigs and a trib­ute to Hase­ly Craw­ford, our first Olympic gold medal­list.

He al­so craft­ed his first queen cos­tume, Cha­co­nia in Bloom.

The band placed sec­ond. His wife Ann Marchan won San Fer­nan­do’s Queen of Car­ni­val and placed sec­ond na­tion­al­ly in Port-of-Spain.

Marchan said it was the be­gin­ning of a 25-band lega­cy span­ning 1975 to 2003.

Marchan said over the decades, he pro­duced pre­sen­ta­tions such as Fan­ta­sy of the Pa­cif­ic, An­cient Chi­na, All Kind Ah Mas, Sky is the Lim­it, Road War­riors, Beau­ty in All Its Splen­dour and Car­ni­val For­ev­er, For­ev­er Car­ni­val.

He worked along­side Stephen Derek in 1994 on The Mi­das and lat­er col­lab­o­rat­ed with band­leader Dawad Phillip, de­sign­ing and as­sist­ing in nu­mer­ous award-win­ning queen cos­tumes.

Marchan said his work trav­elled far be­yond T&T—show­cased at Labour Day Car­ni­val in New York, Carib­ana in Cana­da, Boston, Mi­a­mi, Cal­i­for­nia, St Thomas and St Lu­cia. To­day, his daugh­ter Pe­o­la con­tin­ues his lega­cy, parad­ing his cos­tumes.

A crafts­man of

wire and will

Marchan said he mas­tered 2D and 3D wire­work, fi­bre­glass rods, alu­mini­um, cop­per and met­al shap­ing. His sig­na­ture was struc­tured—sol­id frame­works that told a sto­ry.

“Long time, when you see a band com­ing down the road, you had to watch it. A glad­i­a­tor was a glad­i­a­tor. An In­di­an was an In­di­an,” he said.

To­day, he be­lieves mas has drift­ed.

“Every band you pass now is feath­ers. Noth­ing, telling you noth­ing good.”

What pains him most is not evo­lu­tion—but ero­sion.

“The on­ly place you can see cre­ative mas right now is in the Kings and Queens shows,” he said. “Any time the Kings and Queens die, Car­ni­val will tru­ly be gone.”

Marchan said he has made a silent sac­ri­fice to pre­serve T&T’s cul­ture.

“I used to work with Skin­ners Drilling, but I left a job in the oil­fields to pur­sue mas,” he said. Marchan re­called there were years he hid from DJs af­ter Car­ni­val be­cause he could not im­me­di­ate­ly pay them. Some­times he gave away half his band just to get num­bers on the road.

“I hus­tle to get peo­ple,” he said plain­ly.

Yet, he said Car­ni­val was “good” to him. It helped him se­cure land, prop­er­ty and a life for his fam­i­ly. He raised three chil­dren and now has two grand­sons. His daugh­ter, Pe­o­la Marchan, con­tin­ues the tra­di­tion, com­pet­ing na­tion­al­ly with Tri­ni Rev­ellers.

Marchan said this year marked 50 years in the Car­ni­val in­dus­try. At 80, he does not know if he will live to see an­oth­er Car­ni­val.

But he con­tin­ues.

Each morn­ing, he bends wire in­to mem­o­ry. Each af­ter­noon, he pounds met­al in­to mean­ing. His home re­mains a mu­se­um of mas—proof that Car­ni­val was once his­tor­i­cal doc­u­men­ta­tion be­fore it be­came “re­cy­clable pret­ty mas.”

Marchan said he dreams of etch­ing T&T’s Car­ni­val his­to­ry firm­ly across the world—pre­serv­ing the craft, the struc­ture, the sto­ry­telling.

“If you make, you make,” he said. “Make with a heart.” And so he does.