Dole is nothing more than a rather greasy looking patch of ground next to the road which runs to the spice plantation at Kizambani. Tonight, however, it is lit up with an eerie whitish glow from the dozens of hurricane lamps hanging off the stalls selling tiny packets of cassava chips, plastic hair decorations and big thermos buckets full of dark purple tamarind juice. Kids run in circles playing obscure games, or dance outside to the muted beat of the disco with their siblings. Even preparing to go to Dole is an exhausting process - it takes all day and involves plaiting hair, painting henna and climbing gingerly into stiff nylon party dresses that crackle with static electricity. Little boys don't escape, stepping cautiously around in a variety of outfits and styles, from shiny three piece suits la Bugsy Malone to full English football strips, complete with socks.
Some boys go the whole hog, dressing up as little girls in a sort of African 'trick or treat'.
Adorned in kangas, with rags stuffed under their skirts for maximum wiggle and scarlet cochineal on smeared on pouting lips, they proceed from house to house to drum and dance in return for cake and sweet lemongrass tea. Now, however, the children glow in the dark like fireflies as they plod up the road behind their parents, drooping with fatigue. Most have had their finery captured for posterity in the tents set up around the periphery of the party by professional photographers, who bustle around arranging family groups like football teams. Tonight is the last night of the celebrations, and as the children leave the party turns from school fete to rave. Teenagers and twentysomethings are now bounding wildly around to tunes that become increasingly bombastic.