- Feb 3, 2024
- LitBits
- 0
New blog post by Laura Rikono
The Unexpected Pantomime
Deep in tribal territory in Jharkhand, India, three schools — one by a road, one in a forest, and one on a hill — hosted eight development education interns from around the world. We were there to learn and teach, but mostly to bridge worlds. Our gracious and welcoming hosts had already treated us to feasts, picnics and processions. When December rolled around, we wanted to do something in return for the teachers and students who boarded with us.
The schools were strictly vegan and teetotal, and raisins were the most celebratory food available, so cheer had to be found elsewhere. We suggested a Christmas play, based on the students’ favourite comic, to be held beneath a large tree at the roadside school. The script was duly written and distributed to all interns.
In the school on the hill, the envelope arrived via a six-year-old cowherd. The interns — a Finn, a Finness, and a California girl — opened it and read the Christmas Pantomime ~ Script.
The text, scrawled across tattered notebook pages, laid out the scenes. The Finness would play the queen, the Finn the king, and the California girl the warrior. “Not bad,” they said. “Oh look, she’s added a note.”
We’ll finish with a song thanking the organisation and the teachers. Lyrics are below. Tune is Country Roads. See you on the 25th!
Laura xxxxx
The warrior, the king and the queen looked at each other.
“Country Roads? Is that a song?”
“I think so, but I don’t know it. Do you?”
“Nah. Do any of us?”
“Nope.”
It was the era when going online involved a three-hour bus ride to the nearest telephone line. There could be no quick fix.
On the 25th, the interns in the roadside school were preparing the stage when the interns from the forest school traipsed in, tired yet happy. The German accepted his villainous makeup with good grace and an evil grin. The burly Canadian laughed when we showed him the dress he would be wearing as the washerwoman.
In the dwindling late afternoon light, the interns from the hilltop school emerged from the jungle trail. They wore strange smiles and kept sharing secret glances. Surrinder, the head boy of the roadside school, muttered darkly about witchcraft.
Bewitched or not, the performance went well, all eight foreigners capering their way through our hasty adaptation. Surrinder set aside his concerns about dark forces long enough to lead his peers in shouting “He’s behind you!” and “Oh no, it isn’t!” Mirth and cheer filled the circle of kerosene lamplight.
Then came time for the song. The interns from the roadside school sang their verse confidently.
Chorus.
The interns from the forest school sang their verse with gusto.
Chorus.
Then came a pause, a moment of breathless silence, and all eyes turned to the hill school trio. The Finn and Finness seemed oddly calm, but the Californian looked excited. The audience leaned forward, waiting. Suddenly, our warrior scrunched her body and choked. Surrinder’s eyes widened in terror, clearly certain that his deepest fears had come to pass. She choked a few more times. Then she laughed, restarted, and found her stride.
Boom-ts-ka-pff, boom-ts-ka-pff, boom-ts-ka-pff.
Beatboxing. She was beatboxing.
Jaws dropped all around.
The Finn King began rapping the verse.
The audience gave a round of spluttering gasps.
The Finn gave way to Queen Finness, who spun the chorus into a Nordic folk melody. King and queen took turns, trading their tunes, taking us from a midsummer haunting in the Finnish fells to a Helsinki hip-hop club. The warrior provided the beat.
The rest of us were, by now, well on the floor, awestruck and gobsmacked. When hill school interns finished, they stood over us wearing mad grins, eyes bright in the yellow light. It took us half the night to get our breaths back.
Of all the Christmases before and since, this one will forever be my favourite: the night of the beatboxing panto under kerosene lamps in tribal Jharkhand, with festive magic of an entirely unexpected kind.
---
The Unexpected Pantomime
Deep in tribal territory in Jharkhand, India, three schools — one by a road, one in a forest, and one on a hill — hosted eight development education interns from around the world. We were there to learn and teach, but mostly to bridge worlds. Our gracious and welcoming hosts had already treated us to feasts, picnics and processions. When December rolled around, we wanted to do something in return for the teachers and students who boarded with us.
The schools were strictly vegan and teetotal, and raisins were the most celebratory food available, so cheer had to be found elsewhere. We suggested a Christmas play, based on the students’ favourite comic, to be held beneath a large tree at the roadside school. The script was duly written and distributed to all interns.
In the school on the hill, the envelope arrived via a six-year-old cowherd. The interns — a Finn, a Finness, and a California girl — opened it and read the Christmas Pantomime ~ Script.
The text, scrawled across tattered notebook pages, laid out the scenes. The Finness would play the queen, the Finn the king, and the California girl the warrior. “Not bad,” they said. “Oh look, she’s added a note.”
We’ll finish with a song thanking the organisation and the teachers. Lyrics are below. Tune is Country Roads. See you on the 25th!
Laura xxxxx
The warrior, the king and the queen looked at each other.
“Country Roads? Is that a song?”
“I think so, but I don’t know it. Do you?”
“Nah. Do any of us?”
“Nope.”
It was the era when going online involved a three-hour bus ride to the nearest telephone line. There could be no quick fix.
~~~
On the 25th, the interns in the roadside school were preparing the stage when the interns from the forest school traipsed in, tired yet happy. The German accepted his villainous makeup with good grace and an evil grin. The burly Canadian laughed when we showed him the dress he would be wearing as the washerwoman.
In the dwindling late afternoon light, the interns from the hilltop school emerged from the jungle trail. They wore strange smiles and kept sharing secret glances. Surrinder, the head boy of the roadside school, muttered darkly about witchcraft.
Bewitched or not, the performance went well, all eight foreigners capering their way through our hasty adaptation. Surrinder set aside his concerns about dark forces long enough to lead his peers in shouting “He’s behind you!” and “Oh no, it isn’t!” Mirth and cheer filled the circle of kerosene lamplight.
Then came time for the song. The interns from the roadside school sang their verse confidently.
Chorus.
The interns from the forest school sang their verse with gusto.
Chorus.
Then came a pause, a moment of breathless silence, and all eyes turned to the hill school trio. The Finn and Finness seemed oddly calm, but the Californian looked excited. The audience leaned forward, waiting. Suddenly, our warrior scrunched her body and choked. Surrinder’s eyes widened in terror, clearly certain that his deepest fears had come to pass. She choked a few more times. Then she laughed, restarted, and found her stride.
Boom-ts-ka-pff, boom-ts-ka-pff, boom-ts-ka-pff.
Beatboxing. She was beatboxing.
Jaws dropped all around.
The Finn King began rapping the verse.
The audience gave a round of spluttering gasps.
The Finn gave way to Queen Finness, who spun the chorus into a Nordic folk melody. King and queen took turns, trading their tunes, taking us from a midsummer haunting in the Finnish fells to a Helsinki hip-hop club. The warrior provided the beat.
The rest of us were, by now, well on the floor, awestruck and gobsmacked. When hill school interns finished, they stood over us wearing mad grins, eyes bright in the yellow light. It took us half the night to get our breaths back.
Of all the Christmases before and since, this one will forever be my favourite: the night of the beatboxing panto under kerosene lamps in tribal Jharkhand, with festive magic of an entirely unexpected kind.
---
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