So I decided to join. This was harder than it sounds. The Carnival clubs, or klopse, are wary of outsiders. But two things combined to help me: I look Colored, and I am an American. That is significant, considering that the clubs borrow heavily from America’s old minstrel troupes; some even take their names (the Renegade Apaches, the Beach Boys) from American pop culture. So I was cautiously accepted by the Fabulous Woodstock Starlights, the 30-year-old club that won “best behavior” at last year’s competition. In October, I began attending its weekly rehearsals, where male members prepared songs for the contest. (Women are allowed to sing only in the “combined” chorus; the rest of the time they serve mainly as cheerleaders.)
The festival began in the early 19th century when slave bands played in friendly competition during the annual Jan. 2 slave holiday. There was no formal organization until minstrel troupes–white performers in blackface–arrived from America and Britain in the late 1800s, causing a sensation among the local Colored population. By the time they held the first competitions in 1907, the klopse were mixing minstrel style–bright costumes, soot-black faces, offensive lyrics–with their own culture. They labeled themselves “coons”–a pejorative for black Americans–and used the term with pride. During apartheid, the government tried to restrict the parade, with little success.
Today, the Carnival is a far more elaborate affair. Each of the major klopses contributes about $20,000 to the event’s exorbitant cost. A lucky few get corporate sponsorships. But since each member must pay for his or her costume, says Isgak Hendricks of Starlights, “every year somebody will break into a house to buy his gear.” Klopse officials might frown if they didn’t resort to desperate tactics themselves. “Drug lords were the best sponsors of the klopse for years,” says Starlights founder Jamaldien Jumah. “There’s no money in coons.”
Not yet, anyway. This year the government granted organizers $85,000 to help promote the event. “We all recognize the potential of the Carnival,” says Sheryl Ozinsky, manager of Cape Town Tourism. “It’s absolutely unique, and we know what cultural festivals do for cities around the world in terms of economy and tourism.”
But for all the dreams of Rio, the Coon Carnival has yet to shed its rough reputation. Fights break out at the stadium; a couple of years ago a gang member attempted to stab a judge. Many middle-class locals shun the proceedings altogether. The klopse have attempted to soften the event’s image by adding security and updating the blackface paint to white stars, red lightning, blue glitter.
On the day of the competition, I arrived at Jumah’s house at 9 a.m. No one else was on time, and we did not leave until 12:30. We began marching through Cape Town’s outskirts, doing a sort of jiving shuffle to the accompaniment of a brass band. The heat was sweltering. Why, I asked, did people do this? “I get to wear a wig, high heels and a dress for a day,” said one [male] club member. “It’s a chance to put on a mask, to just let myself go,” said another. But the best answer came from Ashley Bartlett, my klopse’s drum major. Bartlett is 20 and lives in a Colored township with very little recreation. “So when I’m with the Coons, I have to give the people a good show,” he says. “It’s all there is for me.” Finally, it was our turn to march into town. Bartlett ran out, doing his best moves. The announcer shouted our name and the Fabulous Woodstock Starlights–my klopse of skollies, drunks and “low people”–danced in to thunderous applause.
