In the center ring, the director shouts through his bull horn, then waits for the echos of French, then Russian, then Chinese translations to die down before barking his next command. Limp bodies are set into motion, scrambling and rearranging themselves like pieces on a chess board. From backstage can be heard the tropical sounds of bird calls, whistle blows, and drum beats. Barefoot Gambonaise acrobats accelerate through the doorway and somersault from one ring to the next, building a pyramid in the center one with backward flips and hand stands. Their chanting and clapping and stamping of feet is contagious and I m not the only one who watches.
Heads turn, production crews stop their noisy work.
This isn t a circus act. It s a religious ceremony that pays homage to the spirits of the rain forest. The mirrors in Holst s sunglasses focus relentlessly on my reflected image, and a marketing campaign worthy of P.T. Barnum begins. Extreme security measures were taken to preserve her identity. No tape recordings, no photographs, no interviews.