How to survive the Caribbeann Carnavale.

For starters, don't drink. And if you must drink, drink so much that you fly through that window of opportunity and land safely outside the next morning. Secondly, make eye contact speak loudly and swagger: nothing impresses or puts off drug dealing scooter honking gangsters more than a foreigner who looks half delirious. Finally only jump into random buses heading for unknown villages if you are absolutely certain that you can handle being strapped to a rum guzzling joint toking stranger for a few days.
I would add: carry sunscreen, an umbrella or back up supply of batteries but as with all useful things, you're most likely to loose them.
Last week I came back to Guadeloupe from Dominica where I had been travelling with my friend John for nine days. ( John is a lovely smiling boy from England, whom is currently teaching me to juggle while in return I teach him how to swim the butterfly stroke). I arrived in Dominica via ferry from Pointe-à-Pitre on the 8th of March (a day before John) on the last day of Carnavale. Carnavale is a Caribbeann festival originates from the Latin countries of Europe who colonised the islands of the West Indies (something to do with burning yourself out in a feast of exuberance before the sober austerity of Lent). From the beginning of February to the beginning of March, down all the islands of the Greater and Lesser Antilles to the Atlantic coast of South America one will commonly see (and most definitely hear) people dressed up as monkeys, demons and masked Venetian courtesans dancing through town centres to the music of drums, brass bands or loud speakers balanced on trucks (sometimes, as in Roseau the capital of Dominica, over three stories high).
As I stepped off the boat in Roseau the noise of Carnavale rose up like an overwhelming wave swamping the winding ancient streets with many layers of sound: people singing, talking and music blasted from great heights that made the air vibrate. After dropping my backpack on the outskirts of the city, in the room of a guy whom my taxi driver stroppily insisted was "good, not find anywhere else" I made my way back to the city centre to spend the afternoon wandering between the crumbling stone buildings, swaying with the parades and drinking beer under the hot sun.
Just before I completely succumbed to drunken bewilderment I met a man name Alex from Trinidad. We spent the rest of the afternoon with sipping sweet wine on the stone-wall that runs along the promenade by the sea and discussing my sexuality from his initial point of view that "nobody can be completely homosexual". In New Zealand I would have very little time for homophobic attitudes from strangers but it is a rare thing to be able to discuss "homo-ness" in the Caribbeann without entailing either agressive or extremely patronising remarks. But Alex had a certain open frankness that encouraged my confidence in him (confidence I regretted a few days later when I found myself trapped with him on the other side of the country). Despite everything, on that afternoon of Carnavale it was great to finally have some company and when I later stole and "crashed" his car, he calmy told me not to worry about it, except I would be getting the next round of drinks.
I clearly followed the second condition of my first piece of advice as I came stumbling from a bar into a poorly-lit street at 2am in the morning. I'm aweful at keeping myself safe. I get into fights, I loose things, get locked inside buildings or fall asleep on the edge of perilous drops. Fortunately when the shit-hits-the-fan I remain generally unperturbed: I think my general rule is "as long as nobody died, everything will be ok". Thus far things have worked out fine however I do regret the lost bags, heels, top hats and general trinkets that have been sacrificed to a hard's night partying. On that particular night it was my camera, headphones and a couple of 100 Eastern Caribbeann dollar bills that became the victims of my carelessness. As I walked down the street a man came up behind me and knocked me onto the ground as he tried to rip my small satchel bag from under my t-shirt. "WHAT THE FUCK!! HELP! HE'S STOLEN MY FUCKING PASSPORT! HELP! MY PASSPORT!" I mistakenly cried out in pain and confusion. Bleeding, my face smeared by tears and dirt I lunged into the cried of bystanders, grabbing someone who I thought was the culprit. "FUCK YOU! WHERE'S MY FUCKING CAMERA?" The man replied with a forceful push and I was confronted by some scared Americans who stared on dazed, while I wailed pitifully "MY PASSPORT! HE'S STOLEN MY FUCKING PASSPORT!". 
Only, after a few hours sleep on the floor of the staff room at the police station would I remember that I had safely left my passport in the glove box of Alex's car... Going to hospital and waking up surrounded by the Dominican constabulary was definitely not how I imagined ending Carnaval night, but then, spending a night in a police station is not something I fantasise over. I learnt some valuable lessons in the 24 hours I spent by myself in Roseau. Never steal a car unless you know where you're going and why you're doing it, would be at the top of the list, but also just as important would be that while travelling or in difficult situations if you have gotten yourself into trouble, you also have the capacity to pull yourself out of it.
Unless you actually did loose your passport, seriously crash a car or get arrested then you might be kind of doomed, at least temporarily. I could only suggest becoming a stowaway, seducing a millionaire lawyer or learning how to effectively pick locks and disable alarm systems. And apart from seducing mature businessmen, the rest is out of my experience.