Bonkers in Binche Carnival in Belgium rivals Rio despite cold By Daphne Wayne-Bough After paying the death duties following the untimely demise of my husband Harold, I did not have the wherewithal to head for Rio this year, so I had to do my mourning somewhere nearer to home. For one weekend a year, several small towns in Belgium go completely bonkers. It's Carnival, and the most famous one, in Binche, boasts the status of a UNESCO World Heritage Event. The Binche carnival officially dates back to 1549 and the sumptuous parties of Maria of Hungary who held court there, but in fact there has been rollicking in one form or another in the area and around this time of year dating back to pre-Christian times, later hi-jacked by the church to mark the pig-out (the word carnival means the farewell to meat-eating) before the 40 days of Lent, when one is supposed to give up meat, or some other symbolic luxury. (I toyed with the idea of renouncing Neuhaus chocolates, but nearly passed out at the very thought, and decided to give up eating live witchety grubs instead). People wearing sprigs of mimosa were closer to the real meaning of carnival, as it's all about celebrating the end of winter and the coming of spring, fertility of the earth, the animals and the human race. All frightfully pagan and slightly naughty in the old days, I shouldn't wonder. It was difficult to envisage the end of winter in the subzero temperature prevailing on the last Sunday in February, and I had to resort to a few cups of “Banjo” (vin chaud to those whose hearing - and French - is better than that of my brother-in-law Cyril) before braving the parade, which kicks off properly speaking from the station square around 3.30 p.m. There are not many restaurants in the town, and most of them are shut on Sundays. Chips, hotdogs and hamburgers are available from many roadside stalls, but the cold was not conducive to swanning about. It is difficult, although not impossible, to squeeze into any of the pubs, which are all heaving with men either dressed as lobsters or draped in a tuba. A few more Banjos were downed in the sole interests of staying warm. In the exotic spirit of carnival, and having failed to find anywhere else offering hot food and a loo, I took refuge in the “9 Dragons” Thai restaurant, which was offering an all-you-can-eat-and-drink buffet for 25 euros. Engine duly stoked, I returned to the station square for the start of the big parade. While you are hanging about, have a good look at Binche Station, which is a faux-Gothic construction of 1910, delightful both inside and out. ______________________________ There was a group of Randall & Hopkirk angels dressed in white suits with wings; various Polish traditional costumes; pirates; French Republican Guards; monks; Uncle Sams; spacemen; and the cast of Alice in Wonderland. ______________________________ Once the carnival gets going (which takes quite a long time, the participants having to be dragged out of various pubs by their tail or tuba), it looks like a hundred stag parties on a very slow pub crawl. The drumming is very loud and approaches a vaguely samba-ish rhythm, but the dancing is certainly not up to Rio standards and is mostly shuffling and hopping up and down. Each group of costumed shufflers was accompanied by musicians and a big bass drum, each one bashed with gusto by a fat man with a big moustache and a cigarillo clamped between his teeth. The costumes were very impressive and ranged from the exotic and mysterious to the out and out barmy. My first prize would go to “GI Love,” who were dressed in pink camouflage uniforms, like a sort of gay army, closely followed by a bunch of “lay-dees” of the Little Britain school, complete with parasols. There was a group of Randall & Hopkirk angels dressed in white suits with wings; various Polish traditional costumes, from Krakowiaks to Podhale Highlanders; Vikings; sultans with outsized turbans and curly shoes; pirates; French Republican Guards; monks; Uncle Sams; spacemen; the cast of Alice in Wonderland; and children in exquisite traditional Thai temple dancer costumes, right down to the made-in-Bangkok trainers. The traditional “Gilles” were not on display on Sunday, as they get a special day all to themselves on Shrove Tuesday, or “Pancake Day” as we know it. The word “Shrove” comes from the term “to shrive,” which means to cook pancakes, and pancakes are “shrove” or “shriven” on the Tuesday before Lent, followed by Ash Wednesday when those who have enjoyed Carnival a bit too enthusiastically have to publicly scrape the cinders off their frying pans. The parade was led by mounted police, who came dressed as themselves. It moves at an incredibly slow pace; in fact I lapped it three times. The groups finally assemble in front of the town hall, where there is much mingling and shuffling and the party goes on into the small hours of Wednesday morning. I was too cold to hang about. I was offered a warm place under the sheepskin of an 11th century Irish chieftain who turned out to be one of Les Compagnons du Cerf who dress up and do turns at medieval banquets, promotional events and private parties. I gave the woolly Hibernian 5 euros to go away, while I imbibed one last Banjo for the road back to Brux. Daphne Wayne-Bough international style icon, epicure and older woman par excellence reports from the front line of a country on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Her homepage is http://daphnewaynebough.blogspot.com/2006/03/bonkers-in-binche.html. Go to Urban Mozaik Magazine This website: Copyright © 2008 Dream World Media, LLC. / Urban Mozaik Magazine. All rights reserved. The opinions expressed in Urban Mozaik Magazine are not necessarily those of Urban Mozaik Magazine and the publisher cannot be held responsible for them. This website/publication, in whole or in part, may not be reproduced without written permission from the publisher.