A disclaimer: The Quelbe Tramp defies standard reporting. What was I supposed to do? Walk up to the woman dancing in the street with a huge happy smile on her face and, with pen poised over my notebook, ask, “Pardon me, but are you enjoying yourself? Having a good time?” Of course she was. She was dancing in the street with a huge happy smile on her face!
This wasn’t the time for the “Who, what, when, where and why?” that they teach at journalism school. The Tramp is a series of images and impressions that took place over the course of several hours.
They may have gotten a late start, but that didn’t matter to the mass of people, 200- to 300-strong, who danced, strutted, shuffled, stomped and cavorted in the streets of Frederiksted for the annual Quelbe Tramp, part of the Crucian Christmas Festival.
The Tramp was scheduled to begin at 7 p.m. near the Frederiksted Post Office and wind down King Street to the festival village, where a night of Crucian cultural performances was slated. But as the minutes passed, then turned into hours, the crowd gathered at the Post Office corner didn’t dwindle. If anything, it got larger and happier. A variety of rumors swept up and down the street about why the band was delayed, but no one doubted for a minute that they’d be there.
And at precisely 9:12 there they were, their flat-bed truck, led by police, and the patient smiles on the faces of the crowd turned to wide grins as the music started.
The native V.I. music, quelbe (also called scratch music) is a high-spirited musical style that almost demands that you move your feet and sing along, of which the crowd did both. The band’s kickoff number was one everyone seemed to know, and as the singer called out the refrain, “East Side, West Side,” they answered back, “All ah we ah one!”
Blue lights flashing, the police cars moved ahead to block intersections and keep the street clear for dancers and the crowd stepped off, leading the truck in its slow progress down Fisher Street, then off along King.
It was impossible to tell who had come with whom, who were old friends and who had met in the melee of dancing bodies. The interaction was complete, with groups dancing together, breaking up and reforming in different combinations that all seemed to weave together under the spell of the music. Two women waved scarves over their heads, first in unison, then moving in their own orbits, then almost dueling with them.
Likewise, there was no “typical” participant. The age ran the gamut from children barely walking who could bob up and down enthusiastically, to a pair of older women progressing very nicely with canes. A man in a wheelchair bopped up and down. Dress was everything from island casual – T-shirts, shorts and flip flops ¬ to flowing silk and at least one Santa hat.
As the Tramp moved slowly down King, fueled by the infectious music, people down the street waited patiently until the procession reached them, coming out of doorways and storefronts to join the dancing mass of humanity. The 20 or 30 that started at the Post Office rapidly swelled to hundreds. Children leaned out from balconies above the street to wave at the people passing beneath them.
Nowhere did I see anyone who wasn’t smiling. And I was looking for it. Certainly somewhere there would be a person moping, or bored or unamused. Something. But no. Every face seemed to be smiling.
And the parade slowly wound down the street toward the brightly lit festival village, a happy mass of people moving and dancing and living and being as one.
