Saturday 18^th July 2009

At 2 we assume grand frockage and ascend to the Orphanage above the village. In the streets, my new white suit by Theory is stared at, Robert Nevil’s Indian garb is not.  The orphans’ great moment has come. They are to give their Bollywood Show for which a group of actors from Sofia have spent the last three weeks preparing them. Anthony Mottram, as the patron and benefactor, is presented with a huge bouquet of meadow flowers. Two hundred people have gathered before the outdoor stage erected on the bare asphalt in front of the Orphanage. There are speeches. Anthony, cradling the toddler-sized floral tribute as if born to such deportments, Robert Nevil and I sit in places of honour, two grand London queens and one grand Prague queen now fully conspicuous in this poor, remote place. Robert says my white suit is perfect Bollywood gangster. It is boiling hot; I imagine that we will remain on the hard seats, bolt upright, glazed, dutifully present, lending support, for the rest of the afternoon. We have been told that the performance will last for three hours. To begin with there is a rock band from a neighbouring village. We start to know what the Queen must feel when, on an African tour, tribal dances of some duration are offered. Then the orphans begin. We can see them in all their Indian chiffon and glitter and bangles and necklaces bursting to get on. There is some stylised fighting with sticks by small boys in Gandhi loin cloths and turbans, then yoga, then a puppet show by the five-year-olds, then a mask dance. The music from the sound system is enhanced by live orphan drummers, pipe-players and singers. For the finale, the costumes are at the limits of the possible – headdresses, saris, garlands, beads, shawls. All the children are on the stage. Annie, who can’t look up and has limited speech, is amazed and delighted. Some hurl themselves about with thrilling abandon, others, whether aged 4 or 16, are exhilarating dancers.  Towards the end, a row of older boys made an unexpected entrance, slicing across the back of the stage. Finally, the entire cast of 40 odd whirl round and round and round and dissolve into a crazy haze on the floor. We beg for an encore. I  had not expected to be moved, let alone bowled over. What an achievement for the acting troupe, who had brought all this off while appearing to be sauntering in the other direction! What an achievement for these troubled children! What camperama, exuberance and invention! Don’t forget that it was rich gays who made this possible. Anthony Mottram not only put up the money but he had the idea in the first place for the theatre school. How many other ‘consultants’ would be so imaginative? How appropriate that the end result should, in a way, embody the poor rich gay spirit. When it came to the handing out of the certificates, the final cake, the parting of the ways, the actors returning to Sofia, the orphans left behind, distraught, there was nothing for it but to clamp on dark glasses and be brave. Watch the orphans’ Bollywood finale show.

More importantly, give, give, give to the Orphans of Shiroka Laka: bulgarianorphans@aol.com