Folklore Essays

When Serbians Dance
Calendar Occasions When Serbians Dance
How I Annoyed Bulgarian Communists and Found Folklore
Pontian Music and Dance
The Yianitsari and Boules of Naoussa

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As a young folklorist, visiting Yugoslavia for the first time in 1963, I wrote the above impressions of Dalj, a Serbian village on the Danube River, where the river borders the regions of Vojvodina and Slavonia. These impressions have remained with me through all my folklore adventures. This enchanting rural way of life has provided the setting for one of the most impressive dance traditions in Europe.

In the village no holiday, Saint’s day, wedding, or other celebration could go without dancing. Almost every Sunday villagers gathered after church to dance, next to the church, in a field just outside the village, or in a central square near the community well. Fall and winter had Saturday evening dances too. Montenegro has stone terraces on the mountain slopes near the village. In South Serbia, in winter and on rainy days, dances were in barn-like structures known as čardak (literally, the enclosed porch on the first floor above the ground in a Turkish-style house). Traditionally, mastery of the dance was important. A man’s standing in the community was often shown by his place in the dance line, and naturally the best dancers led. The best dancers might marry sooner, even if poor.

When I was in the villages south of Belgrade, everyone looked forward to the Saturday night dances called igranka (from igra, “to play” or “to dance”). The young people came to meet their friends and to distinguish themselves with the more difficult dance steps. I first saw this in the village of Pinosava, south of Belgrade not far from the landmark and park-area known as Avala. The local kolo (literally “wheel”, the common Serbian word for folk dance) is a form of the nearly universal Serbian dance known as U Šest (literally “in six”) or Moravac (after the Morava River). The tempo is slow and delicious, and the dance pattern, instead of going equally to the right and left, changes after two measures to the left, and travels right again.

It was a brisk dark autumn night. Lights strung over the village square added to and reflected the harvest moon. By the time I arrived, a few hundred people had already gathered and were dancing the kolo. I had come forty minutes from Belgrade by the local bus. Imagine my delight to find all the young women of marrying age dressed in full regional costume from head to toe, including necklaces of dukati (large heavy gold coins that are family heirlooms and part of a girl’s dowry). The young men were somewhat drab in West European dress, but an occasional old–timer had on bits and pieces of folk costume.

Then came a moment I’ll never forget. “Crashing the party”, a group of young men in old–fashioned Serbian costume burst onto the scene and immediately paid the musicians for the next dance. In their opanci (leather shoes open at the top with curly toes) and šarene čarape (multicolored socks), they dazzled everyone with fancy step work, double bounces and a surprise dip. Their version of the Pinosava u šest was a work of art. I later introduced it to American folk dancers under the name “Pinosavka”.

An even better time for dancing than Sunday or Saturday was a sabor (church fair), or a vašar (village fair). These events could go on for days, with dancing from sunup to sundown. At a sabor, groups from many different villages, complete with their own musicians, would meet on the dance field in a swirl of sound and color. The best dancers vied with each other to lead the next kolo, and if there was dust, as there often was, it rose to cover the dancers, who in their enthusiasm never seemed to mind.

While the young folks danced, their elders watched and gossiped; now and then they danced too. The very young were eager for the day when they too could join in. While tending the sheep they would ask the older girls to show them the steps, and after much practice, they would build up their courage and try their first dance. It was a moment of pride for everyone, especially for the youngster’s family.

At the dance there might be traveling Rom (“gypsies” in English, cigani in Serbian), or traders, or soldiers coming home. Any new dances they would be eager to share. Names of dances such as Rumunjsko (Romanian), Bugarska (Bulgarian), and Čoček (probably from a Turkish word meaning “a dancing boy or girl”) show a lively exchange from all over. Vranjanka, Čačanka and Užičko kolo are named for three towns with strong dance traditions, Vranje, Čačak and Užice.  Banaćansko kolo, Sremsko kolo, and Bačko kolo, all versions of the popular Malo kolo (malo means “little”) which has long been in the basic repertoire of American kolo dancers, are named for the three regions of Vojvodina. The famous Montenegrin dance Zetsko kolo, which seems like the flight of an eagle, is named for the 13th and 14th century Montenegrin kingdom Zeta. These dances are still done today. Some can be seen in the 1948 folklore film Jugoslavenski Narodni Plesovi (“Yugoslav Folk Dances”) which I was able to rescue.

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Calendar Occasions When Serbians Dance

SLAVA (Patron Saint’s day) 

On a smaller scale, but equally important today, is the celebration of “Krsna Slava”, a household holiday which honors the family patron saint.   The excitement and planning begins several days in advance with the coming of the village priest to bless the water.  Long hours are spent preparing a sumptuous feast of roast suckling pig, sarma (stuffed cabbage rolls), specialties of all kinds, and most important, the special “slava” bread stamped with the family’s traditional slava seal.

On the day of the slava the best linens and woven tapestries are displayed for the admiration of all the guests. After the guests arrive, the holy bread is blessed by the priest. Then the host ceremoniously breaks the bread which has been stamped, and shares it with his guests. He bids everyone to be seated while he, according to custom, remains standing at the head of the table throughout the feast. After the feast, plum brandy flows freely, and dancing, singing, and story-telling go on late into the night.

SVADBA (Wedding) 

The most important family celebration is the wedding and its ceremonies. It is also the best time for dancing, since Serbian weddings are on a grand scale lasting for days and sometimes weeks with hundreds of guests in attendance. For the occasion the finest musicians are hired, and dancing is enjoyed to the accompaniment of accordion, frula, violin, and bass.

It is the groom and his family who are responsible for all the arrangements for the actual celebration. The stari svat (the groom’s uncle on the mother’s side) coordinates the entire produc­tion. The groom’s brother, or best friend, serves as the dever (best man), and the most important guests are the kum and kuma who will be the god-parents of the young couple’s children.

In some rural communities on the morning of the wedding, the groom and his party ride in caravan to “capture” the mlada or nevesta as the bride is called.  In Šumadija the groom must shoot an apple at the top of a ten-foot pole before the bride’s family will open their gate to him. In South Serbia, he is met at the gate by the bride’s family who will ask in feigned ignorance why he has come.  He answers in poetry, explaining that he has come “for the little star which shines most brightly.”  Upon entry there is an exchange of toasts, the orchestras will start up and everyone joins in the dance for a short while. After a grand feast, the groom leaves with his bride for the wedding ceremony, accompanied all the while with songs and dancing. 

TOWN DANCES 

With the coming of King Peter Karadjordjević to the throne in 1903, an almost unbelievable blossoming of cultural activity took place in the Kingdom of Serbia, thanks to the real democracy brought to the country by King Peter the First.

At this time, there grew up a type of bourgeois urban dance, reflecting the need to be “chic” as well as to bolster national pride. These dances of “national” character came about when various professional societies in the towns began to organize balls. They hired dance masters who created new kolos, based on the more simple of the peasant dances. They were slightly arranged to have a more pleasing effect and symmetrical form and renamed with new titles, which had sentimental and nationalistic significance. For example, the dance, Srpkinja, (Serbian woman), was the work of the Serbian composer, Isidor Bajić, who incorporated the dance in his 1903 opera, Prince Ivo of Semberia.

All the balls began with Kraljevo kolo (the King’s dance), which was led by the most eminent person present. This idea spread and such dances as Doktorsko, Trgovačko (Merchant’s), Oficirsko, and Djačko (Student’s) appeared. There were even dances named after political parties such as Radikalka, Liberalno kolo, Demokratsko kolo and Radničko kolo (Worker’s dance).

Many dances were named after cities or a well-known part of town.   A few which come to mind are: Beograđanka (girl from Belgrade), Dorčolka (named after a quarter in Beograd), Čukaričko kolo (named after another quarter in Beograd along the Sava river), Niševljanka, Sarajevka, Zaječarka, and Bitoljka (composed in celebration of the liberation of Bitola from the Turks).  In all, there were many dozens of such dances from this culturally rich period of Serbian history. 

RITUAL DANCES 

           Rituals give us an insight into how dance was an inseparable part of the people’s lives. They date back to a time when dancing was not only a question of social events and festivals, but was an expression of prayer and supernatural rite.  Through the dance, a man could heal the sick, summon and dispel the forces of nature, bless the fields and the community, and bestow good fortune on himself and others.  Ritual dances might be either the main expression of the occasion or simply an integral part.  Sometimes they were performed by secret societies or special clubs of boys or girls who had banded together specifically for these rituals.  Many of these rituals still survive today, either in original or changed form.  Here are a few.

DODOLE (rain dance) 

           Rites to ensure rain are not unknown in Serbia.  On the road to Kosovo, at Toplica, there is a well known ritual dance, the “Dodole”, performed in the dry summer months. Groups of little girls and perhaps some younger boys dressed up like girls, cover themselves with green leaves and flowers, and go from house to house singing ritual chants.  The master of each house, as a symbolic gesture, pours water over the youngsters. When visiting each house, the dodole rain-maidens sing a chant: 

Naša dodo Boga moli,
Da orosi sitna kiša,
Oj, dodo, oj dodole!
Mi idemo preko sela,
A kišica preko polja,
Oj, dodo, oj, dodole! 

          The dancers at Toplica tell an interesting story.  They say that along the way to the river, as the rain-maidens go in pairs through the streets of the village, they steal a cross from the grave of an unknown soul; and from the house of an expectant mother, they steal a dinner table. They explain that this thievery is of course, proper and right.

        Reaching the river, they sit down around the stolen table in shallow water and eat specially prepared millet cakes, singing: 

Od dva klasa, simil žita,
Od dva grozda, ćabar vina,Oj, dodo, oj, dodole! 

           Finally at the end of the ritual, the dodole float the table with the cross on it, down the stream. 

PEPPER DANCE 

“How The Black Pepper Is Sown” is danced and sung in a comic solemnity in the villages near Leskovac by young men holding hands in a semi-circle.  Holding a stick in his right hand, the leader conducts the dance and raps any awkward performer who does not mime properly the actions of sowing, gathering, pounding, and threading the peppers on strings to dry.

             Called “Ovako se biber tuče” in Serbian,  the dance depicts men pounding peppers first with their heels, then as a comic gesture with knees, elbows, heads and other imaginable parts of the body. 

NADIGRAVANJE (competition dancing) 

            In Vojvodina an old dance which has lost much of its ritual significance is still performed today as a competition dance for young men.  The men dance around knives stuck into the ground, vying with each other to see who can execute the same steps around the knife without spilling the wine.  The older men recall the ori­ginal meaning of this dance. They say that when a man possessed with spirits had died, it was the custom that three men should approach the grave, one with a knife, another with a staff, and a third with a flask of wine.  Linked together, the men would perform a symbolic dance showing their fear of approaching the grave with trembling movements.  With the knife they would cut out the heart, and with the staff poke out both eyes; and then they would sprinkle the grave with red wine from the flask, thus exorcising the evil spirit. 

PREVELJ 

In several Serbian villages on the Mlava River, “Prevelj” was a ritual-dance enacted around a fire for the peace of dead souls.  A large bonfire was built and each family who had had a recent death, would carry a log to this fire in dedication to their dead relative.  The women were not usually allowed to be present at this event, but sometimes one woman would steal toward the fire and touch it with her spindle as a symbolic gesture.  The dancing around the fire would get under way as soon as the musicians had first played a somber piece to which there was no dancing.  The villagers would stand around the fire holding on to each other by their waistbands, while the mourners who did not dance, held lighted candles.  The kolovodja, or leader of the kolo, held a long rod or staff in his right hand, and as soon as the fire died down, would call out to the line of dancers to jump over the fire.  Those who wouldn’t jump might be admonished by means of his large staff.  Today the custom of jumping over the fire is largely dying out, through dancing around bonfires is still popular.

 LAZAR

The week before Easter, Serbians living near Sredska celebrate Lazarus Saturday.  A group of six girls, one of whom masquerades as Lazar (Lazarus), and another as Lazarka (the female equivalent), go from house to house singing and dancing.  The girl who is Lazar wears a man’s white shirt and a man’s hat decorated with flowers.  In his hands “he” carries a staff or sometimes an umbrella. The Lazarka wears a necklace of golden coins, and on her head, money, greens, and garlic to scare away evil spirits.  The girls carry two baskets; in one they collect beans, in the other, eggs.  After dancing in front of each house, they sing songs to bless the head of each house­hold, the house itself, any young boys or girls in the family ready for marriage, the livestock, and of course, the bees.

Za kuću (For the household)
 
Dobro jutro u kuću!
Ovde kuća bogata,
Tu se braća čuvaju,
Vedrom pare mereju,
Sad dukati zborea. 

Za junaka (momka) (For a young man) 

Ovde junak neženjet!
Što ga majka ne ženi,
Što ga tatko ne ženi?
Nigde lika ne nađe,
Bela lika  jaglika,
Crno-oko devojko. 

POKLADE (Mardi Gras) 

The months of January and February are the time of carnival throughout the country. Dancers appear wearing fantastic masks, sometimes more than six feet tall, decorated at the top with bird wings and feathers, heads of animals, as well as mirrors and colored streamers. Covered with sheep skins and armed with long clubs and wooden swords, they leap and jump to the deafening sound of drums and the cattle bells on their belts. In some areas the men blacken their faces and wear women’s overdresses to perform these carnival dances that drive out evil winter demons and ensure health and good crops.

In some ways the carnival custom of Serbia is the most spectacular and colorful of all the ritual dance events. Performed mainly during the week before Lent, the festival in its entirety may last for a good part of February, beginning sometimes as early as January.

It is interesting to note that remnants of this fascinating custom of carnival dancing can still be found in Greece and Bulgaria and surprisingly in England’s “Morris Dancing”, Germany’s “Fasching”, and  France’s “Mardi Gras”.

KOLEDARI (carolers)  

Around Christmas and New Year’s the old Slavic Koleda is celebrated, each village in its particular way.  On Christmas Eve, groups of young men sometimes visit from house to house.  In Kosovo the “Grandpa” (dedica), as the chief of the New Year’s visitors is called, carries a plowshare and a hank of yarn and wears a bell below his knee. The leader of the kolo carries a large staff and the dancers, treading through the deep snow, perform a different repertoire of songs and dances for each house. Near Leskovac where the Koledari wear masks, the “grandpa” conjures up fertility by poking the fire and saying, “Let’s bake bread, fry bacon, and roast a chicken”. 

PRELO (spinning bee) 

In the villages around Pirot, Serbia, women gather in the fall evenings to build a huge bonfire in front of one of their homes.  Clustered around the warmth of the fire, they spin their wool, singing songs to accompany their work.  The work and singing last late into the night.  The custom is called “sedeljka” (spinning bee).  Sometimes groups of boys crash the parties, but they do not partici­pate in the work or in the singing.  Bringing with them musicians to play for the kolo, they dance with the girls and generally just cut up, sometimes even jumping over the fire.  In the moonlight the singing and dancing around the fire create an enchanting impression in the chilling fall nights.

In the Šumadija region of Serbia, the “prelo” (spinning bee) is an opportunity for the boys to meet the eligible girls.  While the girls spin and chatter, they eagerly anticipate the coming of the boys.  They know when they have arrived by the sound of low voices in the shadows behind them; then the boys and girls tease one another, joke and sing songs, while the mothers or married women watch the proceedings.  In some villages the girls like to compose special poetic verses for these parties: 

Ide Stojan od oranje,
Bela Rada od belenje,
Sretoše se uz prolazu,
Ljubeše se uz obrazu.
Dok stajaše, dok dumaše,
Konja noge zaboleše
A kobilka lastar pušti,
Ajde, Rado, doma da idemo.

                While years pass, timeless things are unchanged. After World War II, the Communist government took an interest, and State-sponsored performing troupes arose. Stage choreography came to have a large influence on the U.S. folkdance movement. With all these changes, one thing has remained certain. In country villages, and in emigrant communities from Australia to America, Serbs still love to dance.

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In 1964, I went to Bulgaria for the first time. Since then I’ve probably visited all parts except the Rhodope Mountains, with an extensive look at villages in the Shope region, Pirin, Thrace, and in the North from Shumen to Pleven, including along the Danube River. I found dances that delighted me which I’ve hardly ever taught to folk dancers, and I still have field recordings from my first trip that I haven’t released.

One day in 1962 while I was a student at U.C. Berkeley, I had a call from the Mandala folk dance club. A Bulgarian man was there who didn’t speak much English, but needed some help getting around the Bay Area and was looking for an American who understood some Bulgarian. So I went over and met him. He was a photographer named Konstantin. We started dancing. I knew a couple of steps of the Chetvorno Horo. He said, "In my village we do it this way," and showed me another step. I took him out to dinner and offered to drive him around San Francisco. I didn’t realize that a lot of other people wouldn’t have taken the trouble. He said, "If you ever come to Bulgaria, write me a note, or send me a telegram, and I will come to meet you." Well, I knew people on tours say these things and often don’t come through with them. But I was planning on going to Yugoslavia and told him that. He said, "Send me a wire from Yugoslavia when you are ready to visit my country."

In 1964, after I had been in Yugoslavia for about a year, I thought it was time to go to Bulgaria. I sent a wire from Belgrade to Konstantin and caught the train to Sofia. At the station in Sofia, while I was marveling at all the new sights and savoring my first impressions of a country quite in contrast to the one I had just left, a long black limousine pulled up. A chauffeur in a cap called out to me in Bulgarian, "Are you Mr. Dennis Boxell? Come here, please, one moment." The back door of the limousine opened. Long shapely legs in nylons slipped out. It was a beautiful blonde.

She said, in perfect British, "Hello, Dennis. I’m your interpreter, Natasha. Konstantin sent us to pick you up." Could this delegation have been sent by a lonely peasant from a Shope village? "Where is he now?" I asked. ‘He sends his regrets," she said. "He couldn’t come himself because of important Government business. You see, he is the Minister of Education and is kept very busy with his official duties." I was astonished. She went on, "He’ll see you, he’ll see you in a day or so, we’ll set up an appointment. But please, first we must take you to your hotel."

I climbed into the limousine, and they took me to the Rila Hotel, the great luxury hotel in Sofia at that time, and brought me to the penthouse suite. I said, "My goodness, I didn’t expect all this from the cup of coffee I bought Konstantin and the little driving I did for him. I only wanted to thank him for the Chetvorno he showed me." They said, "Here’s your schedule." I said, "What?" They said, "Your schedule for the next two weeks, Mr. Boxell. You’ll have Bulgarian language lessons every morning at ten. At noon, you’ll go to lunch at famous folklore restaurants, listening to the best kaval, gaida, and gudulka players, enjoying our finest folk singers. Then a nap in the afternoon, or if you prefer, time to shop in our bazaars. In the evening, on the first night, the Maiakovski Ensemble; second night, Koutev Ensemble — all the folklore troupes of Sofia, plus a little trip to Blagoevgrad, Macedonia, for the Pirin Ensemble, one of our best."

It was quite a schedule those first two weeks, and I was thinking it was very good of them. Yet still coming, after all that, was the "Ten Day Grand Tour", to visit remote parts of the country. Several interesting folklore areas throughout North Bulgaria (the village of Dragoevo near Shumen) and in Thrace (the villages of Petrovo and Opan near Stara Zagora), the Valley of Roses and even the Rila Monastery. Chauffeured, hotels paid for, everything done and provided by the Slavyanski Komitet. I was flabbergasted. I was twenty-four years old, and all these things were lavishly being given to me as the only American to befriend a lonely Shope traveling through our land. I never forgot what that one small gesture of mine meant to a man from a Balkan country. Hospitality is tremendously important to them.

So my two weeks in Sofia began. But as these people escorted me from dance group to dance group, I couldn’t conceal the disappointment from my face. They asked, "Isn’t this wonderful? These are our best ensembles. Isn’t this what you came to Bulgaria for?" I said, "I’m so sorry. You certainly are wonderful to me, and these shows are so beautiful, and the dancers are so talented" — and they were talented, the groups were marvelous for talent and skill and overall dance ability — "but it’s not what I came to Bulgaria for." "What," they said, "what?" "Well, no," I said. "There’s something missing in my heart. I want to see village people dancing, to music by typical Bulgarian instruments. I don’t want to hear 101 gudulkas or 50 gaidas playing all at once. That isn’t the sound I love. I’d be happy with one accordion and a drum, thank you, or one gaida and tapan. Or a small band with clarinet, or violin lead." "Well, we don’t have that," they said. "We have Grand Art." This went on all through those first two weeks until we hit the Grand Tour.

After we had met with and seen the Pirin Ensemble, I was even more miserable. By that time, they thought I was crazy. "If you don’t like these Macedonians....! They’re the best we’ve got!" So they started calling ahead. "Change the plans! He doesn’t want to see the State Folk Ensemble, or the People’s Wine Bottling Plant. He wants to go to a village wedding." They were on the phone constantly. I was prodding them. "Well, do you have any weddings happening? We have this guest here. He wants to see a wedding. He wants to see folklore events. Do you have any people in costumes? You don’t? Well, put them in costumes. We’re coming in four hours and we want the whole village in costumes, celebrating something or other, we don’t care what." So I finally got to see villagers. The first stop was outside Stara Zagora, in Thrace. Some of them, especially women, still wore their costumes as daily attire. The whole village dressed up and re-enacted part of a wedding for me. Then, as long as they were dressed up, they danced. The whole village performed with great gusto a Pravo Trakiysko and at the end, the men separated from the women and broke into a Chesto, powerfully intense and delightful to watch. That was wonderful.

My hosts grew impatient and very annoyed with me and this village stuff. They were, after all, members of the Communist Party, and they were trying to show off the most impressive accomplishments of their modern Communist state. They were disappointed in me. They tried hard to take me to steel mills and factories. I was only happy with peasants. They would sit in the car bored and anxious to move on while I eagerly explored each new village we visited. They were so unhappy. My beautiful blonde interpreter pouted. "This is disgusting, these villages. We don’t understand why you’ve come so far, from a great country like America, to see these peasants dancing around in their simple surroundings with their crude, coarse ways. We want to leave right now for the luxury hotel in Stara Zagora, with the red plush carpeting and classic European dining next to the night club and bar, and get some real food."

At the moment, we were at the most exciting wedding I had ever been to. I was sitting at the men’s table parallel to another long table set up for the women. Bread was being brought to me — home-made bread. It smelled so good. There was chorba, a great big goulash-type soup. Roast chicken. Lamb. Rice pilaff. Shlivovitsa. No one makes shlivovitsa like the Thracians — the most golden, wonderful plum brandy in the world. And wines, with their rich tastes. Real food? I was beside myself. I said to Natasha, "No, I don’t want to leave." "You’re impossible, Dennis! You’re the most unpleasant guest we’ve ever had! We’re thinking of canceling the tour and returning to Sofia immediately! We can’t stand these villages any more!" I let them sit and pout, and I went back to the raucous sounds of Thracian clarinet, violin, accordion and drum. The wedding party was enjoying a wild Kyuchek in 9/16 rhythm and I joined them. But right then and there I made up my mind to come back later on my own. Fortunately, after the tour, I was able to stay in Bulgaria for three more months. And yes, I did go back.

The excitement for me, then and on my later trips, was seeing what people did for their own entertainment. They loved spectacle. I’m using the word in the French sense — a gala event with lots of colors and music and food. They loved to dress up, have a big festival, put on all the old-time costume pieces. They were amazed to find an American like me who was interested in the costumes. I had done my homework in the museums, so I knew the right questions to ask. "What about that little bracelet the girls used to wear?" They were delighted. "You know about that?" And they’d rush to their trunks to dig one out and put it on so I could see the right way to wear them.

I wanted to understand each area I went to. I wanted to learn all the dances of Thrace, all the dances of Shope-land. After that, I went up to Pleven and got a big surprise seeing the Vlach and Romanian dances up there. Those are dances like Cherkeska and Kamenopolsko and Chekuryankino. The versions of those three dances that I later taught are just arrangements of village dance steps edited to fit the recorded music. One reason I love to have live music for teaching, as a University of Chicago festival gave me in 1990 and an Atlanta, Georgia, festival did in 1999, is that you can understand better how the dance works: dancing each step as long as you like and then signaling the musicians to go on, either slowing or speeding up the tempo.

In Thrace, the great dances are Ruchenitsa — done all over Bulgaria — Pravo Trakiysko, Paidushka, Trite Puti. From Stara Zagora to Sliven, and south to Haskovo and Topolovgrad, is where they do Chesto. Everyone is dancing the Pravo, and after a while, as the music grows faster, the men break out of the line, come forward, and start fancy tapping steps. Around Sliven there are many variations of Trite Puti. Throughout Bulgarian Thrace and down into Greek Thrace (as in much of Southeast Europe, Thrace is an ethnic region that political boundaries run through; another part of Thrace is today in Turkey), they love a dance called Kyuchek, in 9/8. Greek Thracians call it Syngathistos, because it is danced in couples. Around 1923, Greeks in Thrace were resettled into political Greece. I became especially interested in them in 1985 because of the work I had begun to do with the U.S. Greek community. Anyway, no Thracian wedding would be complete without that dance. It can get raucous. Thracians use their arms and hands in very tasty ways.

The Shopluk borders on Serbia and Macedonia. The Serbs have a certain looseness of the upper body that Bulgarians don’t. The natrisané, or trembling of the body which so many people associate with Shopes, mainly appears in their local step that Bulgarian dance teachers call shopka. The Shopes also enjoy a variety of unusual rhythms, like 13/16 for the dance Petrunino, 11/16 for Kopanitsa, or the amazing 25/16 for the dance Sedi Dimka (7+7+11) and, of course, Ruchenitsa in 7/16. A basic dance form that Shopes share with Macedonians is called Graovsko on the Bulgarian side and Kopachka on the Macedonian. They start to fancy it up. They add such embellishments that, before long, we don’t recognize it. All the little places are completely filled in with hop-step-steps and twizzles and twinkles, especially as the music grows faster. That’s very exciting and one of the reasons people are attracted to Shope and Eastern Macedonian dance.

Actually I found more things in common than different throughout the Balkans. It’s true the costumes are different, and each region has its own dances, its own style and idiom, its favorite songs and melodies. But we magnify the differences in grotesque ways. We should be studying the basics, the things in common. Then to enjoy dancing like a Thracian, or like a Shope, would be much easier for us. I’ve definitely found that true with performing groups.

It’s very interesting trying to put folk dances on the stage. I met the famous choreographer Kiril Haralampiev in Bulgaria. In the early days he had what I consider the right philosophy. You learn dances from the village. You perform village steps and you maintain the village idiom. Even though villagers might not do all those dances together or quite such complex combinations, your work is at most to amplify or concentrate. It is as if you put on the best saint’s–day dance or wedding ever, with all the best dancers and musicians there. The stage should display the dances, not distort them. Seventy per cent of the impact comes from the traditional village dance style and technique — how they are done; thirty per cent from how you edit and frame them.

Everything has to be based thoroughly on the village. In Bulgaria, as is the case elsewhere, not everyone has understood this. Instead it was, "I’ll go to choreography school and study geometric figures. Those villages are dirty and the villagers are simpletons anyway." Fantasy became popular. And of course with State performing troupes, many people joined them for political and personal reasons more than from taking delight in the traditions. The curious thing is that while I keep hearing how this fantasy approach pleases audiences, it doesn’t last. In today’s language we might say it isn’t good ecology; it may bring a rush of energy, but you can’t live on it. I’ve had great artistic satisfaction, and won applause and prizes, by teaching folk dancers and performing groups to be as authentic as I can. They tell me they have more fun that way, and I do too.

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THE YIANITSARI AND BOULES OF NAOUSSA

 The tradition of the Yianitsari and Boules is the heart and main feature of the famous Carnival (Apokrias) of Naoussa which takes place just before the forty days of Lent that preceeds Orthodox Easter. Related to the French Mardi Gras and German Fasching, it has, seemingly, its origins in the celebrations of Dionysos of Ancient Greece.  

According to historical documentation by Takis Baïtsis, the present day form of the celebration first took place in 1705 when the Turks first came to the area for the “pethomazema” (the taking of young boys to become Janissaries*) which was the last attempt of this sort in Naoussa during the Ottoman occupation. The inhabitants of Naoussa refused to comply to the order and killed the emissaries that were sent to accomplish this. Under the leadership of Zissi Karadimou and his two sons Vasili and Dimitri a resistance army was formed,  but was later annihilated by the Turks in retribution.  

The following year as a memorial tribute to the dead, the citizens of Naoussa originated the Armatolitki costume (see photo), covered their head and faces and roamed the streets in the same manner as those singled out to become Yianitsari. The ancient route that was taken at that time is still followed to this day. 

Only unmarried, single, young men are permitted to become Yianitsari and Boules. A few days following Christmas the traditional clothing and accessories were assembled in preparation for dressing the young men who will lake part in the tradition. It must be noted that this traditional celebration is a sort of  “ritual rite of passing” for all young men in Naoussa and to this day everyone takes part in it. 

The costume consists of a red fez with a black tassel, a wide-sleeved shirt which was embroidered in red or white silk thread in the herringbone pattern (psarokokkalo) on the front and collar.  The most crucial piece of the costume is the foustanella whose length is approximately 1 foot above the knee (this length differentiates it from the foustanella of mainland Greece which is longer) and has between 250-400 pleats. The pisli was a type of vest usually made out of velvet or fine quality wool material which was embroidered with corded thread. A Selahi, a very elaborately carved leather belt was worn over the zonari (sash) and was used to carry money, pen and ink, pistols or knives. The legs and feet were covered with light weight white woolen stockings, accessorized with black tassels worn above the knee and sturdy black tsarouchia (footgear with pom-poms).  The costume was relatively easy to find, it was the silver accessories and jewelry that was hard to find. The front of the chest is covered with a vest like garment on which silver coins, roupia from the 17th, 18th, and 19th century have been sewn on. The coins were usually French, or Austrian and hung on chains. In more recent times the coins are sewn directly on the vest. The top part of the vest is covered with  “giordani” which is a type of very ornate silver necklace. Originally the sewing of the coins on the vest took place on Saturday night, the eve of Apokrias, and lasted all night. It was the duty of the older Yanitsari to dress the younger ones and was a very tiring ordeal. The Kiousteki is the most elaborate piece of silver jewelry and covers the entire back of the vest. The vest was also decorated with silver figures of saints, St. Sophia or the double eagle, symbol of Byzantium. The head and face are covered with a mask. The mask is made of plaster and wax and has approximately 5 meters of woven fabric attached to it and covers the entire head. The openings for the mouth and eyes are very small because large eyes and mouth were considered unattractive and ugly. The white color of the mask symbolizes the mortality of nature and more specifically of Hellenism and the red cheeks the rebirth of hope for the restoration of freedom to the enslaved nation. These details have been documented from elders who have passed them down from one generation to other. Once the mask is put on, it cannot be removed for the entire day or until the ceremony of the Boules comes to end. While the Yianitsari are dressing, the door of the home is always left open for friends and relatives to drop in with wishes and to be treated to a sweet or drink from the hostess. 

Once the Yianitsari are dressed, they go from house to house picking up other Yianitsari and Boules the “mazema” (assembly) and form the “Boulouki” (troop). The Boules are men who are dressed as brides. The “Boulouki” is accompanied by zournades and daouli who play  popular Macedonian songs from the early 1900s. 

  During the Turkish occupation (which lasted until 1912 in some areas) the troop proceeded to the konaki (government office or mansion) of the Moundiri (mayor). For the present day celebrations, the boulouki proceeds to the City Hall where the leader of the boulouki asks permission from the mayor to begin the celebration. The lead Yianitsaros and Boula appear before the mayor, remove their masks so the mayor can see their faces and be reassured that they are not enemies and grants them permission to begin the procession. The Boula bows before the mayor and he gives “her” an asimona (donation of silver or money). The boulouki is now ready to proceed to the main square for the dancing and glendi followed by the ceremonial procession of going house to house collecting donations. During the Turkish occupation the asimona consisted of not only money, but also guns and gun powder and new conscripts in order to continue the war of liberation against the Turks. 

The tradition of Yanitsari and Boules has taken place in Naoussa for the past 300 years without any interruption from foreign influences. It is a memorial tribute to the brave warriors who gave their lives for the liberation of Greece from the Turks. The tradition is passed on from generation to generation and remains unaltered from that time. It is believed that this tradition dates back much earlier than 1705 and had its beginnings in ancient Greece as part of the Anthesteria which were ceremonial festivities dedicated to Dionysos.

*Janissaries or Yianitsari - A powerful Turkish military fighting unit composed of Christian subjects, recruited and trained when young.  One fifth of all Greek children were forcibly taken every five years.

Every day folk costumes of Naoussa

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Macedonian Dances of Promahi

by Dennis Boxell

Region: Greek Macedonia – county: Pellas (PELL-ahs) – district: Almopias (all-moe-PEE-ahs)

Nearest city: Edessa (EH-thes-ah) – nearest town: Aridea (ah-ree-THEY-ah) – village: Promahi (PRO-mah-khee) 

My music: CD FA-11 Edessa                                                           

I first visited Promahi in the winter of 1964.  I arrived in this northernmost, literally end of the road, mountain village just as a fierce snowstorm struck.  Forcing me to hunker down for a longer stay than I had planned, it also freed up the villagers from work as usual and gave me the perfect opportunity to extend my research.  I had no inkling of the wonderful dances that awaited me and the adventure in learning how to do them that was ahead.

I had come from Athens, and before that, a year in the poorest rural areas of Yugoslavia and Bulgaria where the folklore was.  We might sleep five in a bed but those people knew songs and dances.  In those countries I almost had to fight to meet peasants.  The Communist authorities wanted to show me new tractors and factories.  When I said I was interested in folklore they took me to concerts.  I’ve told that story elsewhere.

In Athens I stayed at the home of Nana (na-NA) Stefanaki.  As it happened she came from a wealthy family.  For her, this was the wherewithal to pursue folklore research, particularly to collect authentic costumes, her first love.  She was a dance instructor, researcher, and patron for the women’s lyceum of Athens, which was very keen on authentic village dancing.  Several times a week I joined the men invited to rehearsals and practiced the basic repertoire.

Nana had visited Promahi several times.  She arranged for me to go.  Promahi, on the Yugoslav border, was a forbidden zone for tourists then.  Greece was just coming out of a terrible civil war.  The Army was afraid that people looking to travel in the north might be agitators.  Nana through her political friends in high places arranged for all my travel papers.  Finally I headed north to Macedonia, in a borrowed Volkswagen, with my trusty Uher tape recorder.  The Army stopped me just south of Edessa.  They cleared me for travel to the border villages but assigned a police guard to keep me from trouble.  Recording songs in the Slavic language was strictly forbidden.  It was inconceivable to them that I might want to record songs because I was a folklorist.

I was to stay with the village arhon (AR-khohn; the lead citizen of a village, often the most wealthy; the English word “monarch” has the same Greek root).  Today his home is preserved as a museum to show a typical large house of that time, with kitchen, living rooms, bedrooms on an upper floor, and stalls for animals on the ground floor, the custom in this part of Macedonia.  The upper floor has a chardak, a balcony or porch.  I was born in Minnesota and knew cold winters, but my idea was that bedrooms should be heated.  Not here.  Beds were covered by what seemed a ton of thick blankets, flokati (in Greek) or yamboliya (in Slavic), made with 5-inch strands of lamb’s wool.  Only in the kitchen a wood fire burned through the night for baba (grandma), who slept next to the stove.  In the morning my challenge was to get up and dress in the freezing cold and then run to the kitchen as fast as possible where baba had put more wood on the fire and breakfast was being prepared.

On my first morning, after a few minutes of warming up next to the stove, I asked where I could wash and shave.  My hosts pointed to the chardak outside, where a water basin was sitting on a table.  I dashed out as snowflakes fell.  The basin was under an inch of ice.  What should I do?  I quickly went back to explain that the water was covered with ice.  I think it was one of the women who gave me that You Americans must be really dumb look and said “It’s simple.  Just break the ice and shave!”  “But,” I protested, “I am used to shaving with hot water!”  Everyone began to laugh.  Imagine, a country where men shave with hot and not cold water!  But in keeping with Balkan rules of hospitality, the women of the house ran out and grabbed the basin and heated the water on the stove for me.  Then one of the men piped up, “Would you like to sleep in the kitchen with baba too?”  This brought another round of hearty laughter.  My new friends were convinced Americans were a very soft and spoiled people with strange habits.

I was eager to start dancing but I was told it would take a few days for the local gaida (bagpipe) player to reach us on donkey-back because of all the new snow.  We also couldn’t get the local brass band together until the following Saturday. 

Finally the gaida player arrived, resplendent in his kalpak (lamb’s-wool hat) on a well-groomed donkey.  He played solo.  Oh, what incredible music.  I managed to follow the steps after a few days if someone else was leading, but I could find absolutely no relation between the dances and the music. Without percussion instruments to help I couldn’t hear the beat at all.  Who were these people?  Was it something in the water?   Had I discovered new rhythms never before known to man?

Way too soon the gajda player returned to his village and I was forced to continued my studies to taped recordings made on my trusty Uher tape recorder..  At first I started on the chardak where the ice water had been, outside, above the livestock - dressed in full winter garb.  But as more villagers arrived to help teach me (as a letter from Nana had asked them to do) we were forced to go down to the more spacious courtyard below where we continued to go through these unusual and intriguing Macedonian dances from Promahi.  When Saturday came and the band arrived I at last began to comprehend how the dances went to the rhythmic phrases and melodies.  Melodies!  What melodies?  With the local combo of clarinet, trumpet, and trap-set drums the rhythm was clearer, but their harmony seemed to be from another planet.  Gradually I understood.  I recorded the band and practiced just about daily, during my stay and after I left the village for the next few months, alternating between the two: gajda and brass band.   I was afraid I’d forget these dances for sure.

Back home I tried to teach the Promahi dances.  I wondered if I myself had been transformed.  There seemed to be only three or four people across the U.S. and Canada who could follow them.  I gave workshops, appeared at festivals, and directed performing troupes, with good success in various folklore.  If the moment felt right I would offer dances from Promahi.  People couldn’t tell what I was so enthusiastic about, and they couldn’t do the dances.  I heard reports of other travelers saying “No one in Greece dances like that.”  After a while video recording was a lot easier, and videos of Promahi got around.  The yearly Folk Dance Festival of the West Coast Diocese of the Greek Orthodox Church in America began to take an interest in many folklore regions.  I taught FDF groups, and worked hard to give some of them Promahi dances.  By now hundreds of dancers or more in America, France, and Germany have found how much fun these dances are.

I have been going through my library re-issuing music on Compact Discs.  For these CDs I have used modern electronic hardware and software, greatly improving the published sound quality.  My CD FA-11 Edessa has music of Promahi and the nearby region, including my 1964 field recordings.  I recommend it as the best I know.  Here are the main dances.

Gaida (GUY-duh) in 2/4 rhythm is a local version of the common Sta Tria or Hassapiko found throughout Macedonia.

Hasapia (ha-sap-YA) is another local version.  The Serbian dance tune Uzicko Kolo often appears.

Patrounino (pa-TROO-nee-no) is in 11/16; music 3+2+2+2+2, dance 3+4+4.  “Patrouna” is a woman’s name.

Sarakina (sa-ra-KEE-na) is an eleven-measure dance originally in 3/8 i.e. 1+2; recently also in 7/8 i.e. 3+4.  Also called Paidouskino (pie-DOOSH-kee-no); other dances in the family, farther north in the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia and in Bulgaria, are often in 5/8 or 5/16 i.e. 2+3.  Recently I dug up the words to the song, Sarakina moma (moma is “young unmarried woman” in Slavic).  A popular 7/8 tune Raiko is named for a nearby mountain.

Stankino (STAN-kee-no) is in 11/8 (slow music) or 11/16 (fast music); music 2+2+3+2+2, dance 4+3+4.  “Stanka” is a woman’s name.  Other local tunes are Molaevo (mo-LIE-eh-vo) from mullah, a Muslim clergyman, and Suleimanovo from a Muslim man’s name.  South of Aridea can be found other versions of this dance, e.g. Bukite Razviat and Marina.

Tikfeskino (tik-FESH-kee-no) is in 2/4.  Tikves is a pumpkin, also a town in F.Y.R. Macedonia.  Also called Krivoto (the crooked dance) or Koutsos (koo-TSOHS, limping; Greek).

Trite Pata (TREE-teh PA-ta) is in 7/4 (slow music) or 7/8 (fast music) i.e. 3+2+2.  Trite Pata is “three times” or “three steps”.  Also called Saflitsena (saf-LEE-tseh-na).

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