Some STAiNs Don't Wash Out

STAiN’D started with fire. Mr. Harding burned and drums thundered through the darkness as cultural dancers drew a crowd that watched in awe, many experiencing the tradition for the first time. Then the trucks moved, and everything changed. Out onto a secluded countryside road, the DJ dropped the beat and signalled, "Leh, we go"; paint started flying, powder created a mist in the air, and water came from every direction. Somewhere between the DJs, the colour and the freedom of an isolated road, STAiN’D stopped feeling like somewhere you came to party and became somewhere you completely let go.

A rum stop only turned things up. Live performers carried some of Crop Over’s biggest songs into the early morning while a paint-covered crowd kept moving, women dancing freely, friends laughing loudly, drinks raised, and smiles appearing through layers of colour. Nobody seemed particularly concerned with staying clean, standing still, or knowing exactly where they were. And then, almost without warning, the sky began to change. From the dark of the night, the coastline appeared beneath the first light of morning. Mid-party, phones came out, groups gathered for pictures, and revelers stood covered in the evidence of the night, watching the stunning view of Barbados waking up. One patron summed it up perfectly: “I have no idea where I am, but I love it here.”

Sunrise wasn't the ending. The trucks fired back up, the music climbed again, and STAiN’D pushed closer to the coastline with plenty left in the tank. What began with one of Crop Over's oldest traditions had become paint, powder, rum, music, freedom, and a picturesque sunrise few expected to see. The paint would wash off. The powder would disappear. But by then, everybody had already been STAiN’D by memories that would never be eraised.