Home' Trinidad and Tobago Guardian : March 6th 2015 Contents A41
Friday, March 6, 2015 www.guardian.co.tt Guardian
SUPPLY AND DELIVERY OF TWO MINI BUSES
WITH BULK HEAD FOR TTPOST
o OP/TRAN: 3/15- Supply and Delivery of Vehicles for the Trinidad and Tobago Postal Corporation (TTPost).
- Two (2) Mini Buses with Bulk Head
2. Tender Documents can be obtained during the hours of 8.00 a.m. to 4.00 p.m. (Monday to Friday) at the
Procurement Department located at the
upon payment of a
3. Tenders are to remain valid for a period of one hundred and twenty (120) days from the closing date of the Tender
and must be accompanied by:
Copy of Receipt for Purchase of Tender Package
Valid Income Tax Certificate
(iii) Valid VAT Clearance Certificate
4. The original and four (4) copies of the Tender should be placed in a sealed envelope(s), addressed to the
Procurement Manager, Trinidad and Tobago Postal Corporation, National Mail Centre, 240-250, Golden Grove
Road, Piarco 350462, Trinidad and Tobago, clearly marked on the outside:-
5. Envelope(s) must be deposited in the
located in the Reception Area, First Floor, National Mail
Centre, at the address stated above
Tenders submitted after this dead
line will not be accepted.
Tenderers should note that the dimension of the SLOT in the Tenders Box is 30cm x 5cm and as such, tenders should
be packaged accordingly.
Tenders would be opened within a reasonable time on the date of which Tenders received.. Tenderer would be
informed of the time of bid opening.
6. Any questions or queries regarding this Tender shall be addressed to the Procurement Manager, as appearing above,
during normal business hours or via Tel. (1-868-669-5361 x 230) facsimile message sent to fax number
(1-868-669-7666) or email firstname.lastname@example.org.
7. TTPost does not bind itself to accept the lowest or any other tender.
8. TTPost reserves the right to cancel the present notice in its entirety or even partially, without defraying any cost
incurred by any firm in submitting their tender.
--Yet, if it s in we blood, as composer/
arranger Ray Holman believes the man in
the street believes, who am I to equivocate?
Back in the car, we had a good laugh, the
Muse and I, when a soul man DJ popped
up on the radio to bray: "In a competition
like this there are no losers. It s a victory
Speaking of which, Dimanche Gras, a
well-intentioned, though most boring Car-
nival event performed on a titanic stage sit-
uated between parallel streams of pappyshow
and we-culture, an iceberg audience bobbing
and weaving like flotsam and jetsam pushing
south, past the abattoir (no metaphorical
offence given) near the estuary of the Dry
River---well that show came and went like
death on a slow boat to China. Wouldn t
you know that the Kings and Queens packed
sparklers to doll up their acts like cheap lip-
stick, and the Calypso contest left even the
house lights on doze? A collective nod-off
it was. We got the hell out of there, sanity
intact, and waited for tomorrow, please God.
The intent was to lime till J Ouvert woke
up, though she never really sleeps as much
as recover from a pre-party buzz, hit, what-
ever; drink-ah-rum, even. So we had was
to put that event in a nutshell, as well. The
mudders and painters coming down like
the ol Dry River in heat and no bands such
as Sheppy s or Carl Blackman s to love up.
No Blackman ole mas trilogy of The Wed-
ding, The Christening and The Funeral com-
ing out from Darceuil Lane, Belmont. No pan to rev
the engine. No Bomb classic to explo. Ay, man, the
DJs with their big trucks had hoarded all the dynamite.
They d sucked the energy out of the room. Out of
Carnival Monday, too. Dem and the masmen.
And so we broke "biche" that dreary day. Twas
the T-shirt and no bra(ss) festival, you hear me.
Tuesday jumped up early, and I took the Ghost
of Carnival Past to Woodbrook to view the mas, gay
nineties in style. He took it all in snide: how noisy
the soca, how pelvic its mind; so ear-splitting the
jam, so head-spinning the wine; how lissome the
women, how tight their gear; how few the man tribe,
how light their care.
The Muse watched as one largely pawpaw-skin
mas follow another pawpaw-skin mas, leaving him
depressed over the schlock---and concerned about
Brothers and sisters of the soca road march era,
the Ghost of Carnival Past swore up and down, like
Britain, a cuss-bud ol lady from the 50s forever uni-
formed in a tattered Union Jack smock, that it was
the same band passing and passing and passing. In
his day, he said, his brow furrowing like the graveyard,
masqueraders achieved more with less.
By noon, we d seen enough waylay waylay. But at
nightfall we returned for las lap. Even that was out
of step and character.
Wading through the frenzy, we met a journalist
from Singapore. His views of Trinidad in the Car-
The Good (and raunchy): "Rich, poor, black, white
and people of colour all go down on the ground to
party. That s where they show their equality."
The Bad: "Too much liming."
The Ugly: The Ghost of Carnival Past put up his
palm to the visitor s face, interrupting him. There
was a sense of staleness, he said. Ideas and themes
brought off too much static. Maybe, he brain-farted,
a pause to reflect on Carnival history might help
alter direction. He cited the Bailey era when mas-
queraders participated in the production of mas,
organising and choreographing their own colour
plate. When lil boys would flock Samaroo s on Obser-
vatory Street, Behind the Bridge, for swansdown to
trim Native American costumes and diamond-shaped
miniature cuts of looking glass to add decorative art.
And a Callaloo stew turning its nose up at the stench
next door---the faux-mas, the cook brewing the best
the world would come to appreciate; when .... And
the old muse paused, looking for the appropriate
words to boil it down like bagee.
"The most frightful thing about Carnival," he said,
taking the shortcut, "is the Carnival machinery."
The Carnival machinery. Government, masmen,
PanTrinbago, The Savannah Stage. Why not parade
the mas and pan around the Savannah? Which, by
the way, was an idea I floated in 1970 in a newspaper
Anyway, the Muse was dead serious. Like a heart
Because, just so, Boop! the apparition drop down,
like Kaisoman Spoilo had bragged about himself all
his life in his songs.
Look ah want to fall, the Ghost. Dead as a herring.
Piss and vinegar leaching out. All the flesh in the
mas running from the Muse s brain like maggots.
The maggots turning away from all that flesh, bath
suits, bikinis, baubles, bangles, beads, and faux feathers
and trinkets, to boot. Was as if, like speed, flesh
You ever see more? Flesh had callously victimised
Old Carnival. The brain could take it no longer, the
rudeness. The slackness. And yet, that s how the
ting began---well before the manger materialised into
carol. Bacchanalia was cool then, but bacchanal?
Ha! Till death do us part, pardner. We re in the
To the flesh dem.
And so it hang, so it swing, brothers and sisters
in the Carnival. Yuh could blame yuhself.
Or the business. But don t blame mas. Eh-eh.
Even though all mas is devil mas.
A victory for culture
CONTINUES FROM PAGE A40
Links Archive March 5th 2015 March 7th 2015 Navigation Previous Page Next Page