Bread

by Stephen Brown

THE JOURNAL OF ELLIOT CRIPPLESBY

  Separating once again, Geeza went off to try and find a back way in. I myself joined the throng and queued at the main gates, paying the sum of fifteen US dollars to gain entrance to the grand enclosure. I am not so sure everybody paid that much, but I couldn’t really grumble. It’s not really all that much and besides – and you can be as PC as you like here, but the facts remain the same – fifteen bucks to me is an awful lot less than it is to one of the locals.

  On top of all that though, it was not just the post race celebrations I was buying my way into. You see, the rally coincided with another annual event, namely the Celebration of African Brotherhood, an attempt, using the words of the late, great Bob Marley, “to see the unification of all Africans.” A most noble and worthwhile cause.

  Now, anyone who has ever attended an outdoor occasion such as this - a large craft fair, county show, or open-air festival - would be well aware of the sort of things that could be seen. Multicoloured stalls sold every sort of product imaginable and were set out in a crude, rectangular arrangement around the main display area, where currently performing was a group of tribal Zulu Dancers from the winner, Mr. Donald’s, country of origin.

  I stopped suddenly, forgetting the Professor and the reason I was here because the dancers had caught my eye, hurling themselves with abandon about the close-cropped and obviously well watered lawn. Their movements bore a striking resemblance - in an abstract way - to the little known kilted Scottish dancers who, sadly, perform only occasionally now, giving a similar demonstration at the Scottish Highland Games.

  I am not referring to what most people know as Scottish Dancing, the sort of urban equivalent to Morris Dancing, but the genuine thing: raw, unrestrained and energetic and unfortunately nowadays, rarely seen. It is a dance of great antiquity, marvellous beauty and forms the basis from where all folk dancing and even the modern day - dare I say popular - Scottish dancing originated.

  This was something that just had to be followed up. I noticed a chap leaning against the inside of the railings who seemed to be associated with the dancing troupe. The man was possessed by that easy African rhythm it was plain to see, by the way his legs swayed and stomped in perfect synchronicity with the drumming and chanting going on behind him. He was flamboyantly dressed in a batik shirt of many greens and blues and purple hues, with shoes to match his tailored trews. His flat-topped hat wore the same spiralling swirls and patterns as his shirt. Brighter than his clothes though was his huge, toothy smile, which he beamed at every person passing by, handing out pamphlets as he greeted them all.

  I walked over and hallooed him, taking the flyer he offered me with pleasure. They hailed from the Valley of A Thousand Hills near Durban, South Africa and travelled about putting on their displays all over the place - mostly in Africa, but their troupe had been to every populated continent on at least one occasion.

  I had scarcely managed to open my mouth though, to ask about the history of this type of dancing, when bursting through the crowds of people like a whirling dervish came Geeza, shouting out my name repeatedly, unconcerned - or unaware - of the attention he was drawing to himself.

  I thought it best to excuse myself and intercept Mr. Vermies before he got us thrown out - or worse. Pocketing the dancers’ leaflet for further investigation at a later date, I went to meet Geeza’s rush head on and tried to shush him a little as I asked him what on earth was the matter?

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