Capitaine, Leader of Chaos

In the country Mardi Gras of Louisiana’s southwestern prairies, the capitaine keeps the melee in check

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The Mardi Gras celebrations of South Louisiana are generally determined by their geography: New Orleans is marked by extravagant, often gaudy, pageantry and parades; down the road, cities like Baton Rouge, Lafayette, and Houma tout “family-friendly” iterations. Deeper into the southwestern prairie, Mardi Gras takes on distinctly rural tones as it makes its raucous way through the countryside. Here, an entourage of masked and costumed participants proceeds through the country, stopping at houses along the way to beg for the ingredients for a communal gumbo served at the end of the day. The individual charged with keeping this melee in check is the capitaine.

"There is nothing like seeing a capitaine ride his horse down a blacktop highway on Mardi Gras morning; it is a moving experience. I love watching the capitaines deliberate over who the best Mardi Gras are at the end of the run. I’ve seen capitaines react in times of crisis, break up fights, revive nearly dead frozen horses with a bottle of T.W. Samuels down the gullet. They are responsible for the safety of hundreds of drunk people for about ten hours ... enough said.”

— Jo Vidrine, capitaine

The country Mardi Gras, or courir de Mardi Gras as it is called in Cajun French, stands firmly within the broader Mardi Gras tradition, defined by retired UL Lafayette professor Barry Jean Ancelet as featuring five fundamental elements demonstrated in varying degrees based on locale. First is its role as a rite of passage: participation in the courir signifies the entry of boys and girls into adulthood. A second tenet of Mardi Gras is the reversal of the social order, which, combined with the third element of anonymity, excuses men for dressing as women, encourages the poor to put on the airs of the rich, and allows pranksters to misbehave without fear of reprisal. Fourth is its processional nature; in the country, participants may walk, ride in trailers, and, in rare instances, proceed on horseback. Finally, all Mardi Gras celebrations include the ritualistic altering of consciousness. As Ancelet explains in his book, Capitaine, Voyage Ton Flag (ULL Press), “the ritual consumption of alcohol serves to loosen inhibitions” and “can appear less offensive when viewed from the perspective of history and tradition.” 

But the courir is a wholly unique tradition among Mardi Gras celebrations, displaying some of the more obscure elements of Mardi Gras’ medieval roots. The whip, used by the capitaine, is an ancient symbol of fertility and a confirmed tool of intimidation. The colorful costumes of the Mardi Gras (used as a noun to refer to the courir runners), also have roots in medieval dress, from the motley colored costumes reminiscent of court jesters to the capuchon in various shapes: the familiar conical hat parodies noble women and fools, miter boards poke fun at clergy, and mortarboards imitate scholars and academics. 

Among this visual fracas presides the leader of the Mardi Gras, the capitaine. 

The role of the capitaine has brought the modern country Mardi Gras into a realm of respectability not known in its early practice throughout the nineteenth and into the twentieth century. Though the practice began to decline as a result of cultural homogenization and the local impact of WWII, the festivities had already largely devolved into lawlessness and lost their community support in some areas. 

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Between the 1950s and ‘70s, the tradition was revived as a way to promote community pride and a sense of place, and a conscious effort was made to create a chain of command that allowed for absolute authority by an unmasked leader. These caped crusaders preside over a distinct cultural tradition in which, Ancelet writes, participants “suspend reality for the sake of the ritual celebration, the nature of which demands unquestioning submission to the authority of the chosen leader.”

Capitaines, as intermediaries between the crazed group of wildly costumed merrymakers and their community, assert order over ritual chaos and are the pivot points on which the entire celebration turns.

Capitaine, capitaine, voyage ton flag,

Allons su’ l’autr’ voisin.

Demander la charité

Pour eux autr’ venir nous r’joindre,

Eux autr’ venir nous r’joindre

Ouais au bal pour ce soir!

Captain, captain, wave your flag,

Let’s go to another neighbor’s.

Asking for charity for everyone who’ll Come join us later,

Everyone who’ll come join us Later at the gumbo tonight!

(Balfa Brothers)

The capitaine is easily identified as the only person not wearing a mask among the rabble of the Mardi Gras, wearing a hat and cape, wielding both a white flag and a whip, and often on horseback. Ossun capitaine Adam Doucet explained, “In a nutshell, the capitaine creates an illusion of control over chaos. Control that, unknown to the observer, is never really meant to be achieved.” Aligned with the spirit of role reversal, the outnumbered capitaine demands and gets respect from the Mardi Gras, who recognize that he is there to contain the chaos within the bounds of the ritual and, more importantly, keep them safe and maintain positive relationships with the homeowners on their route.

Doucet shares his duties with Megan Brown, the first female to hold the title in recorded memory, and bragged, “Megan isn’t anything to mess with, though. She’s a petite girl with a whip longer than she is tall.” 

Her great-uncle, Gerald Frugé, was instrumental in reviving the Tee Mamou-Iota Mardi Gras in the late 1970s after several years of embarrassing and dangerous behavior. Capitaine Frugé turned the courir into a moneymaking enterprise that repaired community relations and made the Mardi Gras festivities a point of civic pride. Commanding respect from beyond, Tee Mamou’s route includes a stop at his grave so that the Mardi Gras can pay their respects and sing unmasked (notable because of the inherent anonymity of the celebration).

The capitaine’s job begins well before the appointed day of the courir and includes meetings with homeowners along the route as well as gatherings with the runners to establish rules and practice the traditional songs. On the morning of the courir (some are held over the weekend and Monday before Mardi Gras), the rules are reviewed, newbies are initiated, and the Mardi Gras get into a celebratory headspace with beer, whiskey, and boudin, singing and dancing.

Capitaine, capitaine, voyage ton flag,

Allons aller chez nos voisins.

Capitaine, capitaine, voyage ton flag,

Allons se mettre sur le chemin.

Capitaine, capitaine, wave your flag,

Let’s go visit our neighbors.

Capitaine, capitaine, wave your flag,

Let’s get on the road.

(Zachary Richard)

Once on the route, the capitaine approaches each house alone with white flag raised and asks permission for the Mardi Gras to enter the property. At the okay, the capitaine waves (or sometimes lowers) the flag and the revelers rush the property as the capitaine leads them in song. Then the homeowner offers a contribution for the gumbo. Ingredients such as rice, sausage, flour, and vegetables are appreciated, but the excitement centers on those houses offering chickens. Chasing the chickens provides enough entertainment for some revelers, but more mischievous Mardi Gras may use the distraction to play harmless pranks on their hosts, such as tying their shoelaces together as they watch the chase, putting farm tools in nearby trees, and teasing the children. This is when the capitaine must assert authority with the whip, hunting down naughty Mardi Gras and meting out just punishment.

“In a nutshell, the capitaine creates an illusion of control over chaos. Control that, unknown to the observer, is never really meant to be achieved.”

Faquetaique Mardi Gras founder Joel Savoy explained the chain of command for this popular courir near Eunice, Louisiana: “We only have one official capitaine, [and] on the ground he has a team, sometimes called co-capitaines.” Usually these co-capitaines are two other men in mask, referred to as Les Villains. In recent years, they’ve been supplemented by “La Force,” a group of up to twelve women in black-and-white costumes and masks, wielding whips. One member of La Force broke it down: “I’m telling you, this job is not easy. Don’t expect to dress up all cute in a fancy little courir costume and prance around all day. You get dirty, muddy, tackled, you name it. You have the Mardi Gras harassing you all day long. You are constantly fighting them off you and keeping them in line. It’s exhausting, but it’s so much fun.”

Other capitaines agree, their job is based on mutual respect with the rowdy Mardi Gras, but that does nothing to temper the antics of their charges. Capitaine Doucet thought he was too old to be a Mardi Gras, “but come to find out, it’s almost tougher being a capitaine. You have to work more than play.”

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Traditionally, the capitaine serves for life and is chosen by acclamation and group majority, thus commanding respect from the community throughout the year, not just during the Mardi Gras season. Revivers of Mamou’s Mardi Gras traditions, Revon Reed and Paul Tate sought out the nearly lost lyrics of their community’s traditional song: 

Capitaine, capitaine, voyage ton flag,

Allons se mettre dessus le chemin.

Capitaine, capitaine, voyage ton flag,

Allons aller chez l’autre voisin.

Capitaine, capitaine, wave your flag,

Let’s go on the path.

Capitaine, capitaine, wave your flag,

Let’s visit another neighbor.

(recorded by Harry Oster; transcribed by Barry Jean Ancelet)

By recognizing their leaders in song, the masked beggars of the communal gumbo proceed through the countryside with mock formality. The capitaines, in turn, are responsible for the welfare of their drunken charges, both compelling them to action and keeping them from harming themselves or others. A favorite anecdote among La Force is chasing down a streaking Mardi Gras who ventured onto private property. Ossun’s capitaines recall a stop that ended with a guinea hen running into the road and hitting the only car around, breaking the windshield. That incident ended in a replaced windshield, a guinea hen gumbo, and a commemorative patch. 

Voyage ton flag!