Chanté dat Nwel

 Last night I was extremely lucky to be able to take part in a Chanté nwel, the Martinique equivalent of Christmas caroling, in the city of St. Pierre. Let me tell you, I learned a thing or two.
It started with the unveiling of a new sculpture, which is appropriate since St. Pierre, known as "Little Paris" before the volcanic eruption of 1902 wrecked it, prides itself on being a center of art. A few apparently important members of the national government were present to cut some ribbon, shake hands, and, yes, take selfies.

Then my supervisor, who had brought me along, and I checked out the Christmas market, just waiting for the festivities to get started. Local food trucks, rum vendors, and the rotary club (dudes are everywhere) were out trying to sell goodies and last-minute Christmas gifts and crowd slowly formed.
Finally, around 8 pm, the choir was warmed up and the master of ceremonies got the mic to kick things off and remind everyone that, when it comes to goodies and rum, at Christmas there is no such thing as moderation (which I feel is a dangerous proclamation at an event to which most everybody drove). Then he announced that, before the singing began, the event would start with a ... pole dance.
Yup, a pole dance. Two young Martinicans climbed up on a portable pole and did a Christmas-themed number. The best I can reckon, pole-dancing was well-known as a sexual performance in strip clubs more or less only in the U.S. Then, about the time I was in high school, it started to be appreciated by the public - to a degree - as a sport, and mother-daughter pole dancing classes started popping up to try to budge the long-held perceptions of it. I mean, it does appear to be a really athletically rigorous and amazing sport. Through the power of social media, this sporty, family-friendly version of pole-dancing seems to have spread to other locales, such as Martinique, where it is currently all the rage for talented young gymnasts. All the chanté nwel-goers, including the babies and grandmas, seemed dazzled, and I know I certainly was.
Then the traditional festivities began. Everyone whipped out their chanté nwel books - everyone already owns one, some bent and rust-stained, other brand new since apparently the classics aren't budging. The Choir started but paused occasionally stopped to nag at the crowd to sing louder - this was a heavily participative event. Most of the songs were call-and-response style, at least for the choruses, and they got lively. Some were in creole, and many were clearly specific to Martinique, referencing Mont Pelé and local dishes. Usually at the end the choir and most of the crowd, minus myself and the other gringos, would break into an unwritten but otherwise universally known refrain, sometimes as secular (about a mosquito, for example, or about Santa Claus) as the original text was religious.
What I really appreciated sociologically about the experience is the contrast between the popular celebration of Christmas in Martinique and the relatively Victorian Christmas traditions I experienced growing up. Here dancers and guests were gettin' down, raising their skirts to kick up some dust while chanting about the fearful Virgin Mother giving birth and eternal salvation through Jesus. When I was growing up, things like dancing and rum (and the weed that several singers were not-so-subtly smoking off to the side of the famer's market where the event was held) could never be mixed with good ol' gospel singing. But why not? And why not pole dancing as well?