I was four, when I first felt the carnival. It was barely more than a tingle; I screamed and begged to leave, it was so boring! I only really understood it when I came back to the little West Indian isle of Grenada, at the relatively mature age of 12.

It was a normal Grenadian Tuesday afternoon. Hot, humid air enveloped the senses and encouraged a steady, but never sluggish, lifestyle. I sat on a hard-backed chair, twiddling my thumbs, waiting for my lunch in a restaurant on a roof. The place (with the name "Restaurant On The Roof") was filled with a simple charm; the roof was laced with a flowering vine of some sort, the tables made of wood with intricate swirls dotted around, the spacious layout, the faint clucking of hens... The hens' calls confused me for a while, until my mother's cheese omelette and my chicken burger arrived on gleaming plates. I pushed my burger away, and nibbled on fries, daydreaming as the air fogged my mind...

A soft patter of feet alerted me to reality. A black cat had decided to jump onto a tin roof of a house near the Restaurant and, because it was so hot, did a crazy tap dance whilst trying not to burn its paws. That held my attention for a while - there wasn't much else to do.

Then, a drum sounded. It severed the stillness, cut through the air and woke me from my lazy stupor. Next, faint singing and marching feet came from the distance. I got up and stared eagerly from a window. A crowd of brightly dressed people were dancing in the streets for no apparent reason, and I was intrigued. Begging and pleading with Mum and Dad to let me see this, they finally left their food and joined in.

We were barely able to move. Men, women and children of all ages were dancing to music blaring from someone's stereo. It was what they would call soca - lively rhythms, infectious tunes. Soon all my family (except my three-year-old brother David) were jumping and singing a well known song. Then, the music began to fade slightly. Everyone turned left. As I turned, I began to see: the painted faces, the bright clothes and bare feet.

"Those are jabjabs," my mother whispered in my ear furtively. They were all men, with blue or yellow paint on their faces, all singing the same song:

The shatnis wouldn't really die if you didn't give a " jab" a penny, but many a dollar flew anyway. Those dollars went to the jabjab's mouths, as they sporadically took a swig from a bottle that once had a colour. They occasionally shouted incoherently or jumped at their captivated audience. They jumped at us, once, faces shining with sweat, tongues dancing with the songs they sang, feet bouncing on the dusty road. I was amazed; David was scared out of his wits.

My memories end there. A selection of video clips is all that remains of that first real carnival moment.

The film started with a shaky fade-in. Blue faced shiny jab-jabs filled the screen with their drunken dance along the streets, their raucous chant barely heard over the excited crowd. Then, it suddenly cut to some shatnis - girls and boys, young men and women, wrapped in a vibrant mix of foil and fabrics with bells round their ankles. They sang a triumphant tune, that could have been their National Anthem. They shook their bells, making them tinkle and flash almost angrily in the sun. Their hair, nearly as wild and free as them, mimicked their moves. Their teeth were white as sharks, and nearly as deadly. Their mouths barked out another soca chorus. Their feet slapped the earth in mis-matched sandals, and their strong limbs, shiny with sweat, swung without hesitation in time with the music. All of their eyes twinkled as if they shared a powerful secret. I faintly remember admiring their powerful sense of pride and belonging that I never felt in England. I've always secretly wanted to be a shatni: to be a proud figure in the Carnival along the street: with bells and foil and all that. But my hair has always been too controllable, my limbs unwilling to move freely, my eyes, cowed rather than hungry. I was never meant to be a shatni - I was too English.

The rest of the tape flicked through the rest of the Carnival with surprising pace. In retrospect, it shouldn't have been a shock; after all, Carnival never goes slowly. Then, the end slowed right down, and revealed what turned out to be the most interesting part of Carnival: towards the end.

In one of the side streets, my mother taped the same jab-jab who jumped at us washing his war colours from his face. He talked to his wife awkwardly and turned a reluctant cheek to her, which she kissed. I saw him put on a suit and a tie (with help) and transform from a jab-jab to a business man. As soon as he left, he threw off his tie, undid his shirt buttons and let a grin creep onto his face, while his unwitting wife prepared her children, all shatnis, for school. They giggled as school-chums and sang the songs they learnt from the year's carnival quietly. Their strong limbs were hidden under school uniform that they would grow into after they left school, and it seemed to take a lot of self-control on their part not to dance freely and risk getting it dirty. Their hair was tamed into plaits and cornrows. On the surface, it seemed like they were meant to be this way, calm and serene children, but then the camera zoomed in on their eyes. They still glinted like it still held the big secret inside, and no matter how dull their uniform was, or how quiet and still they sat in class, they would still be shatnis inside, wild and free.

Then, cut. No more. Carnival ended almost as suddenly as my mother's tapes, but it still lived on, in the hearts of those who witnessed it, and lived it every day.