By Anthony Joseph

The video was startling—a spirited and colourful display of Carnival in China, accompanied by a note from a friend predicting that in five years, the Chinese would host a Carnival to rival Brazil’s. My friend skipped over Trinidad and Tobago, London, New York, and even Toronto, dismissing them as too small to be contenders. He went straight for the big leagues: Brazil, with its millions of participants. And as much as it pained me to admit, he might be right.

This prediction could very well come true, and it would be a tragedy of our own making. Over the past two decades, we, as Caribbean people, have systematically outsourced our Carnival arts and costume design techniques to China. We taught them how to manufacture our costumes on a grand scale, and now, we buy back those same costumes. In Trinidad and Tobago, it is estimated that 90% of costume band accessories are made in China. We have effectively traded our rich tradition of local craftsmanship for convenience and cost savings. The technology and know-how that we developed over generations are now in the hands of Chinese manufacturers.

This trend is not isolated to Trinidad and Tobago. Here in Toronto, most bands follow the same pattern—importing Carnival regalia instead of producing it locally. The irony is as painful as it is clear: to save a few dollars, we have handed over our art form to a country that could very well surpass us in its execution.

Reflecting on the good old days, there was a time when an organization known as Chaos made bras and panties for all the bands in Trinidad and Tobago along with many other Caribbean islands. But then China came along, able to produce these essential costume pieces cheaper and faster. Chaos was thrown into chaos, and today it is merely a memory, a relic of a time when local manufacturing still had a place in our Carnival tradition. The local artisans have suffered too. Gone are the days when families would labor in the mas camps of Toronto, and Trinidad and Tobago, creating costumes from scratch, meticulously placing each rhinestone and carving out a modest living for themselves. That era has vanished. Today, we design an apron piece or a headdress, take a picture, send it to China, and receive it back fully made—for pennies on the dollar. Chinese manufacturing has grown, and ours has all but disappeared.

We were fortunate to have designers like Peter Minshall and Brian Mac Farlane, who insisted on creating costumes that had to be made in-house, in Trinidad, by skilled artisans. Their work was characterized by quality, not quantity. These designers were proud to produce costumes that people could wear to showcase the brilliance of the craftsmanship, not just the body. Each piece was unique, a testament to the creativity and skill that defined our Carnival tradition.

But those days seem to be fading. Today, the focus has shifted from well-developed themes to costumes based primarily on color and feathers. The artistic integrity that once defined our Carnival is being eroded. I recently heard of a mas man who designed a costume meant to signify a safari, using black and white feathers to represent a? . Such a mismatch in symbolism and design might be a precursor to what we could expect if China fully embraces Carnival. If they decide to expand their Carnival—and based on what I’ve seen, they will—they will do it with a flair that we seem to have lost.

The factories in China are already set up, ready, and able to produce the costumes and deliver them to the masses without the burden of shipping and handling costs. If China decides to host a Carnival, they may eventually dominate the global market for Carnival accessories. This could drive prices up for our local Carnivals, further diminishing the already shrinking role of local artisans. Right now, band leaders can buy a bathing suit for less than $10, accessorize it for another $15, and charge participants $300 for the finished product. While our children, so in love with our culture, accept this as legitimate, even though it is a far cry from what Carnival was meant to represent.

Back in the day, we would design a band from start to finish. We would get a theme, conduct research, and create costumes that reflecte that theme in every detail. Today, that process has been reduced to band leaders selecting a theme and section leaders choosing colors that won’t clash with the rest of the band. This kind of production is not creative—it’s driven by revenue. It’s about creating a product that can be sold, rather than a cultural experience that can be cherished.

So yes, my friend may be right. If China can get even 0.001% of its population involved in Carnival, they will have an event that is bigger—perhaps even better—than any Carnival in the world, simply because of their size and capacity. Think about it: with a population of 1.2 billion people, 0.001% still amounts to millions of participants. On a good day, we might get 10,000 people playing mas on the Lakeshore in Toronto. This year, due to the economy—though some argue it’s because we’ve priced ourselves out of the market—there were about 6,000 costumed participants. That’s a far cry from the millions who could be playing mas in China.

We need to ask ourselves: what are we willing to sacrifice in the name of saving a dollar? If we continue on this path, we may very well lose Carnival as we know it. We’ve already handed over our techniques, our craftsmanship, and our traditions. If we’re not careful, we may soon be buying back our culture from those who can do it better, faster, and cheaper. The question is not just about economics; it’s about preserving the soul of an art form that has defined who we are as a people. If we don’t take steps to reclaim our Carnival, we may wake up one day to find that it’s no longer ours to celebrate.

Anthony Joseph is the publisher of the Caribbean Camera.