Koadi: the procession
The koadi procession finally got under way on Sunday, after two days' delay. (It would normally run for two nights, but whether because of the weather or something else, only one was held this year.) Irfaan rang me up: 'Where are you? Do you have a white shirt? I will come, I will come.' He came to collect me, gave his approval for a white T-shirt with a Notting Hill Carnival design (not a traditional Dhivehi cut; but the whiteness seemed to override all other considerations), and handed me a tasselled and ornamented piece of woven cloth which I recognised as a traditional ceremonial waistcloth or feyli. (A few old men still wear the everyday equivalent or mundu - better known in English as a dhoti.)
We sauntered down to Shahud's home. (They were both my students and are now finishing A-levels.) Assorted people were milling about; we put on our feylis. Three or four people had bodu-beru and were casually practising beats. Shahud happens to be one of the island's greatest exponents of bodu-beru: his father and grandfather are too, I believe, but I've never heard them play, and in the current generation Shahud is unsurpassed, both for drumming and for leading the songs. When the time seems ripe, and the koadi and the drums and a fair crowd are assembled, he confidently starts one of them and we set off at a stately pace. Everyone chimes in with the responsive lines of the song, and the other drummers take up the beat.
Traditionally (I'm told) the songs sung would have been specific koadi songs, but no-one knows those any more, and ordinary bodu-beru songs take their place. We proceed slowly right round the main streets on the island. An assortment of young men take turns to carry the koadi, generally guided by an accomplice to help avoid obstacles and the many large puddles. The rest of the crowd mostly follow behind, led by the drummers and singing the responses to Shahud. At times one or two boys will take it into their head to dance for a a little, or more likely to instruct me to do so. The dance style is a kind of cross between the motions of a slightly indecent boogie and an Indian snake charmer, and happily no video footage of my attempts survive. At certain points timed to intersect with major street intersections, the procession will pause for a few minutes, the music come to a fever pitch, and the koadi itself dance by sharp twists back and forth and slight jiggling motions.
The koadi took several people half a day to make and its procession would be a stunning sight in the daytime. As it is, it takes place at night under only the light of the dim streetlamps, so it is little more than a silhouette. It seems a bit of a shame, but the cover of darkness is required for the final leg of the journey. The drumming stops and the boys in the procession go into a big huddle. When they emerge from it, one is carrying the koadi, no-one knows who, and the others form a tight protective ring around him. The drumming starts up again for the final leg of the procession. Girls and women crowd round, trying to deduce the identity of the koadi-bearer; an old woman gaily manages to get hold of a corner of his feyli so that she won't lose track. Getting into the spirit, I gently but firmly loosen it from her grip. She grins at me.
Suddenly the knot round the koadi makes a break out to one side. They drop the koadi inside the front door of a house (people rarely shut their doors here) and call out a name, then some shuffle about a bit and others make a getaway through the back door. The koadi procession is over.
*
The house, and the name, are those of Samiyya, yet another of my students. Tradition has it that if she can uncover the top secret identity of the koadi-bearer who chose her, he must grant whatever she asks, typically to marry her. When the procession starts again it will be from this house with the girls carrying the koadi; this should be the following evening but is now deferred to next year. (In 2010 I remember two processions, though I hadn't much idea then what was going on.) No-one is ever seen together as boyfriend and girlfriend here, as officially such relations are frowned upon, but in practice of course they do have boyfriends and the identity of Samiyya's boyfriend is no great secret. I presume that he was the bearer who left it at her house. But of course, I cannot say for certain.
Most of the crowd quickly disperses once the procession is over. The bodu-beru players and a bunch of others make their way down to the fini-maizan for some more songs. Shahud has been leading the singing in the procession for an hour and up, but his voice is as strong as ever as he leads the rest in a series of other songs.
In my imagination, in 50 or 60 years' time the island will be built up with sea walls and skyscrapers and noisy bars and cafes and supermarkets and Shahud will be the grand old man who sits grinning in a corner of the ramshackle old fini-maizan, with a huge drum and a handful of other old men and women, singing songs that everyone else has long ago forgotten.
We sauntered down to Shahud's home. (They were both my students and are now finishing A-levels.) Assorted people were milling about; we put on our feylis. Three or four people had bodu-beru and were casually practising beats. Shahud happens to be one of the island's greatest exponents of bodu-beru: his father and grandfather are too, I believe, but I've never heard them play, and in the current generation Shahud is unsurpassed, both for drumming and for leading the songs. When the time seems ripe, and the koadi and the drums and a fair crowd are assembled, he confidently starts one of them and we set off at a stately pace. Everyone chimes in with the responsive lines of the song, and the other drummers take up the beat.
Traditionally (I'm told) the songs sung would have been specific koadi songs, but no-one knows those any more, and ordinary bodu-beru songs take their place. We proceed slowly right round the main streets on the island. An assortment of young men take turns to carry the koadi, generally guided by an accomplice to help avoid obstacles and the many large puddles. The rest of the crowd mostly follow behind, led by the drummers and singing the responses to Shahud. At times one or two boys will take it into their head to dance for a a little, or more likely to instruct me to do so. The dance style is a kind of cross between the motions of a slightly indecent boogie and an Indian snake charmer, and happily no video footage of my attempts survive. At certain points timed to intersect with major street intersections, the procession will pause for a few minutes, the music come to a fever pitch, and the koadi itself dance by sharp twists back and forth and slight jiggling motions.
The koadi took several people half a day to make and its procession would be a stunning sight in the daytime. As it is, it takes place at night under only the light of the dim streetlamps, so it is little more than a silhouette. It seems a bit of a shame, but the cover of darkness is required for the final leg of the journey. The drumming stops and the boys in the procession go into a big huddle. When they emerge from it, one is carrying the koadi, no-one knows who, and the others form a tight protective ring around him. The drumming starts up again for the final leg of the procession. Girls and women crowd round, trying to deduce the identity of the koadi-bearer; an old woman gaily manages to get hold of a corner of his feyli so that she won't lose track. Getting into the spirit, I gently but firmly loosen it from her grip. She grins at me.
Suddenly the knot round the koadi makes a break out to one side. They drop the koadi inside the front door of a house (people rarely shut their doors here) and call out a name, then some shuffle about a bit and others make a getaway through the back door. The koadi procession is over.
*
The house, and the name, are those of Samiyya, yet another of my students. Tradition has it that if she can uncover the top secret identity of the koadi-bearer who chose her, he must grant whatever she asks, typically to marry her. When the procession starts again it will be from this house with the girls carrying the koadi; this should be the following evening but is now deferred to next year. (In 2010 I remember two processions, though I hadn't much idea then what was going on.) No-one is ever seen together as boyfriend and girlfriend here, as officially such relations are frowned upon, but in practice of course they do have boyfriends and the identity of Samiyya's boyfriend is no great secret. I presume that he was the bearer who left it at her house. But of course, I cannot say for certain.
Most of the crowd quickly disperses once the procession is over. The bodu-beru players and a bunch of others make their way down to the fini-maizan for some more songs. Shahud has been leading the singing in the procession for an hour and up, but his voice is as strong as ever as he leads the rest in a series of other songs.
In my imagination, in 50 or 60 years' time the island will be built up with sea walls and skyscrapers and noisy bars and cafes and supermarkets and Shahud will be the grand old man who sits grinning in a corner of the ramshackle old fini-maizan, with a huge drum and a handful of other old men and women, singing songs that everyone else has long ago forgotten.