place

It is the time of a major festa here in my adopted town: last night the street from which my little lane branches was closed off by bonfires built at each intersection, which allowed people on foot to come in but kept all other traffic out. Between the two fires, next to a doorway, a small shelter was built against the wall by propping posts in the gutter, tying beams onto and between them with fibers of straw, then leaning sheaves of dry stalks on the frame to make sides and a roof. This simple structure was then decorated with leaves and strings of seedpods, and inside stood three costumed children, about ten years of age, two girls and a shorter boy whose little round face was adorned by a beard drawn on with fire-smudge — perhaps he was playing a husband or father. My neighbors gathered round them, chanting, and every moment more people came and joined in.

This I watched from my roof, squatting by the stubby chimney, which stands guard over the tiny crossing where all this unfolded. The chanting went on for a time, then abruptly its tune changed, and the children came out of the shelter, singing a simple melody. The crowd gave a response to each line, following as the children turned down the street, then stopped at the first open doorway. There they sang a different two-line phrase, and two or three voices responded from inside, then the incantation went back and forth three times between the two groups. Finally the children turned away, returning to the first melody, and the whole procession moved along to the next 'station', where this ritual was repeated.

When the children reached the fire at the far crossing, they led the assembly in a ragged wheeling maneuver, and came back in the same manner, stopping at each dwelling along the other side of the street, arriving at last at the doorway beside the shelter where the procession began. At this the people inside, whom I could see from my perch, brought food and drink out into the intersection. The children tore off the costumes they wore over their everyday clothes and ran into the crowd, tussling and giggling with their friends, and an impromptu musical consort burst into an energetic dance tune, which set everyone laughing and shouting.

I was charmed, as you can imagine, but also unprepared for the upwelling of homesickness that immediately followed. I was unable to hold back insistent tears, and barely managed to stifle a yowl of grief before turning away and clambering down to my room.

Here I have been imprisoned for nearly two days by the tireless revelry that continues in the street below, blocking my way out and depriving me of sleep. I can now sing (indeed, cannot stop singing) what I imagine to be every ditty, march, drinking song, and love-lament these people seem to know, and of which they never weary. The musicians among them have improved noticeably from all this repetition, and I would not be surprised to discover that more than one of their number has used this celebration to learn to play well an instrument never even tried before.