Small Feathers
Haworth Hodgkinson
I had heard of a country where the indigenous culture was under threat from the
imposition of a Western-style capitalist regime, so I decided that for my final
year ethnomusicology project I would smuggle a tape recorder to make recordings
of the endangered traditional music. I discussed my idea with my Director of Studies,
and he suggested a village in the rural north-western province where he thought
the influence of the new regime might not yet have permeated.
Travel arrangements were made, and, after spending the winter evenings in the language
lab taking a crash course in the basics of the north-western dialect, I arrived
in early spring to stay with the Petricko family on their traditional small holding.
They grew mostly small barley and various small vegetables. They also kept a few
small chickens, not just for their eggs, but for their feathers, considered locally
to be a great delicacy.
Mr and Mrs Petricko had an eighteen-year-old daughter called Janka, who had learned
English at school, which was just as well because nobody seemed to understand my
attempts at the north-western dialect. Janka became my interpreter.
In the weeks that followed, I attended various song contests, made recordings at
all-night music festivals, and joined in the dancing at a village wedding. Janka
knew many epic ballads her grandmother had taught her, and her singing captivated
me. Sometimes I was so enthralled that I forgot to turn the tape recorder on.
One night as we sat around the kitchen table and Mrs Petricko served up her speciality
small vegetable stew, garnished with a single chicken feather, I chose the moment
to ask them about the cultural threat of the new regime. Mr Petricko looked nervous
and he made sure the back door was locked whilst his wife hid the telephone. They
explained that it was now government policy to replace the traditional village dance
band with synthesizers and drum machines or electric guitar and bass outfits. And
it wasn't just music that was under threat. In some villages, traditional dress
was already being replaced by jeans and T-shirts bearing the logo of the Freedom
Through Profit Corporation. Janka told me that only the week before I arrived they
had been visited by a gentleman from the English-Speaking Fast Food Franchise, who
wanted to buy up all the local small holdings to make way for a hamburger ranch.
“Tell him they want to grow big vegetables,” said Mrs Petricko.
It was that night that I realised the true enormity of the situation, and that it
was my responsibility to record every song that Janka knew before it was too late.
She reminded me that there were other singers and musicians to record as well. So
Janka and I spent the summer going to every dance, every festival and every wedding
that we could. No-one could question my dedication to my work.
By September I had filled all my tapes and the time came for me to leave for home.
Mr and Mrs Petricko threw a party for my final night in the north-western province
and it seemed that everyone in the village came to wish me farewell. According to
custom, the guests brought gifts of feathers, which they placed in front of the
TV set to ward off corrupting spirits. They all stayed until sunrise, at which point
those sober enough sang a toast to the Petricko family in magnificent twenty-four-part
harmony. But by this time Janka and I were outside in the yard. As we watched the
sun rising over the roof of the small chicken shed, Janka made me promise that I
would return soon.
“Just as soon as my degree is finished,” I assured her.
My tapes passed through airport security checks unharmed, and I excitedly played
them to my Director of Studies. He was impressed by my work and arranged to have
some of my recordings transferred to CD. He told me he was organising an international
conference on Music of Threatened Cultures, and asked if I would like to speak to
the delegates about my findings.
My talk generated much interest and debate. Afterwards at the conference bar I was
introduced to a Mr Torpicek, who came from the area where I had made the recordings.
He wanted to know all about my trip and insisted on buying me drinks for the rest
of the night. He said he remembered most of the songs from back home, and it turned
out that he knew some of the singers and musicians I had recorded too.
The next day I wrote to Janka, telling her that thanks to my work her culture was
no longer under threat because hundreds of people from around the world had heard
my recordings. I thought how proud she would be to hear that my Director of Studies
planned to make the CD available commercially.
I waited eagerly for her reply. It was not until the following spring that it came.
In her letter, Janka told me that the local branch of the Ministry for the Enforcement
of Progress had found out about my mission, and had somehow discovered the names
of most of the people I had recorded. Many of them had been imprisoned and tortured
for anti-progressive collaboration. Janka's parents had both been killed when a
mysterious intruder had broken into their house in the middle of the night, and
Janka herself had been badly beaten as she came to her parents' aid. She also wrote
that she had been pregnant, but had lost the baby as a result of this attack, adding
that she wasn't sure if the father of the child was me. It could have been the gentleman
from the English-Speaking Fast Food Franchise.
She ended her letter: “Please, do not return to my country.”
I poured out some coffee, and listened to the CD.
Written 1999
Revised 2000
Edited 2005
Published in Pushing
Out the Boat Issue 4, 2005
(Aberdeenshire Council)
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