Seeing the Dead

Yes, a lot of people danced around Stonehenge to celebrate the summer solstice here in Europe, and yes, back in Australia there were probably naked bodies writhing by the light of a pagan pyre because the day was just too darn short. But, believe it or not, I think I experienced something weirder on June 21st.

After receiving directions from a man with a ponytail for a beard, I boarded a bus filled with people. No-one knew where we were headed, so I wondered if the majority of the passengers were actually just seeking shelter from the rain.

Oh yes, it was raining that night – quite heavily, actually, and you should remember this fact because it plays an important part later on.

Evidently, someone onboard knew where we were headed, because the bus pulled up a short while later in the most random of places: a desolate field of rubble and asphalt, punctuated by some ruined administration buildings and industrial lighting rigs.

A man in blue gumboots led us through this wasteland, the wet crunch of glass and rock underfoot, towards two rows of wooden benches. People continued to chat once we were seated, while others scanned the emptiness before us, trying to detect the slightest human presence.

Someone saw the man first and fell silent, then two others shut up, and soon more beyond that, until everyone stopped talking, as if a vacuum seal had progressively closed above us. The man, now centre of everyone’s attention, trudged mutely across the ruined ground, eventually stopping about fifty metres away from us. He sat down in a puddle.

Another man appeared, this time from the opposite end of the vacant lot, marched with purpose towards another point – this time almost 500 metres away – before collapsing to the ground. He did not move again.

With painful slowness, more figures arrived in the wasteland, and as if we weren’t there, carried out strange, menial tasks.

In complete silence.

Then they started killing each other.

An hour later, a naked woman – the last person that we could see – buried herself under rubble. And then it was over.

Now, paste atop that scenario an overzealous serving of rain and freezing wind, while remembering that we sat still and patiently throughout. Obviously, you can’t celebrate the longest day of the year in any other fashion.

What we’d just witnessed was a performance by a Dutch theatre group called Companie Dakar, and it was part of the Cork Midsummer Festival. For the record, it wasn’t enjoyable to watch, but it was of a good quality, by which I mean that the performers were committed, and that they were well-lit and the space added to the vibe perfectly. But, then again, people with university degrees can be very forgiving when it comes to the label “art”, so I’ll shut up now.

To completely transform the vibe, Andrea and I spent the next day in the warm, dry Spiegeltent, drinking beer from over-sized glasses while watching local artists perform. The first performer was a really dull, “soulful” singer/songwriter, but the next two acts definitely made up for it – especially Mr Ian Witty and the Exchange, who sang into telephones while playing violins and cellos (yes, I’m a sucker for gimmicks). I can’t remember the name of the other group, but their lead singer wore a cowboy hat (note my previous parentheses).

I actually had the chance to ask Ian, via a friend of his on a mobile, whether he was saying “prettiest dress” or “pretty-arse dress” in one of his songs. Ian’s a gentleman; it was the former.

Now, I’ve lost my Little Book of Segues, so I’m just going to detonate a hole in this stream of logic and say that Andrea and I drove a hired car between Cork and Galway. By which I mean, Andrea drove, because the car was a manual, and while I know my way around them, I seem to think that swearing and stalling (not in that particular order) are integral to the entire endeavour.

Anyway, our story takes up again just outside of Galway, in the beachside town of Salthill. The last time I was in Galway, I’d befriended Gabriella, a Brazilian-Italian girl who was moving to set up a new life here in Ireland. Since we’d parted ways, she’d found a house and now lived with her sister and parents. Andrea and I were happily put up for the weekend on a blow-up mattress that had been bought especially for the occasion – the entire family gathered around to witness its virgin inflation with the mood of guests at a christening.

Though Gabriella’s entire family were wonderful hosts, special mention must be given to her father, Salata.

If Belgian comic illustrators were allowed to create human life, Salata would be the golden child of their first generation. Short, pot-bellied, but with meaty arms that swung wildly as he talked, Salata commanded attention, whether he was standing or making a wooden stool look incredibly comfortable. He wore thick glasses that gave him cartoon eyes, and his moustache was more like an Amazonian bird that nested eternally upon his upper lip. Also, the way his head seemed to roll back into his body gave the overall impression of a man who was always relaxed.

And yet, he was never still.

Salata loved telling stories, and he couldn’t just tell stories with his mouth, he had to dance about, pointing at invisible actors and directing the rest of us in re-enactments. Often he’d point to me and say, “Now, you’re me, ok, and I’m the dentist”.

In fact, he loved telling stories so much that he refused to let his lack of English get in the way of a good yarn. This wasn’t too bad when Gabriella was in the house, as she could act as translator – though, sometimes she didn’t agree with her father, and would chastise him in Portuguese. He always responded to this in the same way: he’d turn to us, point at her and say, “No, no, no, she es stupido!”

When Gabriella wasn’t around, however, we all played a game of charades, trying to guess what the other person meant. Unfortunately Salata’s choice of story was such that simple ideas, like table and milk, weren’t enough – try working out “metaphysical” from random gestures and clues such as, “not here, but for here, yes?”

The reason for Salata’s need for complex language came from the topic of conversation. Before he’d moved to Italy, Salata had worked as a police officer in Rio de Janeiro, though he’d also made a foray into politics (it failed – “it’s stupid, people speak for you they love you, but only if you give them beer, and that’s why they do…I don’t have enough for that”). However, behind all of this was a 40-year involvement with the Brazilian spiritual practice of umbanda.

So, for the benefit of Andrea and me, Salata danced around his kitchen for hours, flinging his arms around, re-creating the world of Rio; a place inhabited by corrupt cops, drug dealers, demons and…

“I went to the dentist, yes, and I sat while he worked, but he speak for me (note: Salata would say this instead of “he said to me”) that I must wait one moment. He walk to the corner, and talk to a man, but the man was not there, no, but I could see him, and the dentist, he come back, and he speak for me, this may sound mad…but I stop him, because I saw and I know, and falle (Salata uses the Portuguese word for “I said”):

Yes, yes, I saw – now tell me what John Lennon told you!”