Mela

Much of last weekend was spent in the capacious Peel Park, soaking up the atmosphere and contributing to a good cause at the world famous (well, sounds as if it should be) Bradford Mela, 21 this year. I joined a group of young christians, some with mild hippy leanings, who go to a groovy-sounding church called 'soulspace'. They were representing a campaigning and networking charity called 'Speak'. The event title: 'Little Big Dress' - a spin-off of a fair trade campaign years ago called Big Dress, which involved the production of thousands of tiles of fabric stitched together into a giant lady's garment. They'd assembled a Mongolian style yurt (large round tent structure presumably designed to withstand the ferocious conditions of the mongolian steppe) and covered it with this colorful patchwork quilt. Now why didn't I take a picture of that?
All of which served to remind me - except the dress - of a heady trip 11 years ago across vast expanses of nothingness on board the Trans-Mongolian Express. With a travel agency which charged the earth called, suitably enough, 'Monkey Business'. Sharing a cabin with two English lads who'd been teaching English in Hiroshima and were now heading to the Paris World Cup. Of a large male American passenger who, upon realising somewhere several hundred miles from anywhere that the train was running a day late due to striking Russian workers, declared that he was being 'held against his will' and insisted on leaving the train and being escorted to the nearest airport. I wonder whatever happened to him.
But I digress. Amongst the attractions of the Speak venue was a drumming workshop, where an enthusiastic African in trad dress sat in a circle of bongo drums and diligently tried to instil a sense of rhythm into an optimistic cross section of the general public. Also a very popular face painting corner which drew kids and their parents like bees to a honey pot. And a short drama about fair trade, in which I played the personification of an evil multinational corporation bent on squeezing as much out of poor exploited developing world workers as I possibly could. And cackling diabolically at appropriate moments. What can I say. Typecast as usual.