Pow!

the profits. I may not yet have taken my Buddhist vows but I'm aware that so much of what human beings say and do runs counter to the spirit of Buddhism. Isn't that right, Wise Monk? I note a smile on his face but can't tell if that's a sign that he's affirmed my enlightenment or that he's mocking my shallowness. A few dozen young people in baggy red pants, white jackets with buttons down the front, white cotton towels over their heads and red silk sashes round their waists stand in a circle on the bed of the cow-headed float. Their faces painted red, they passionately pound a drum with drumsticks as thick as laundry paddles. The beats of this very big drum go right to the hearts of all within hearing. Attached to the sides of the float are banners proclaiming in big, decorative, Song Dynasty-style characters: Kenta Hu Meat Group. They are followed by a chorus of ‘rice-sprout’ singers, all girls in the bloom of youth. Dressed in white pants and red jackets, cinched with green silk sashes, they dance to the beat of the drum, hips and buttocks moving in choreographed rhythm. Next in line is a rooster-headed float, sporting a rooster and a hen. Every few minutes the rooster thrusts out its neck and releases a bizarre crowing noise. And every few minutes the hen lays a larger-than-life egg, accompanied by a burst of clucks. A truly imaginative float, so true to life it should get the most votes and win first place in the float category at the Festival climax. Of course I know that the crowing and clucking come from humans inside the bellies of the birds. The truck is identified as belonging to Aunty Yang Poultry Corporation. Eighty men and women in four columns come next, all in cockscomb hats and feathered arms; they flap their ‘wings’ as they walk. ‘To keep sickness away,’ they intone, ‘eat an egg every day’ and ‘Keep a healthy supply of Aunty Yang's eggs.’ The parade from West City approaches behind a formation of camels. I don't realize they're real animals until they pass in front of me. A rough count reveals more than forty of them, all draped in colourful garb reminiscent of prize-winning model workers. A short acrobatic man in front performs a nifty tumbling manoeuvre every few steps. He carries a showy baton loaded with oversized copper coins that make a whirring sound when he thrusts it up and down. Under his direction, the camels begin to prance, making the brass bells round their necks ring out shrilly. A well-trained honour guard indeed. A pole rising above the hump of a white-faced camel in the formation bears a flag embroidered with large characters; I don't even have to read it to know that Lao Lan's contingent is approaching. On the basis of the United Meatpacking Plant, where I was employed ten years before, Lao Lan founded the Rare Animals Slaughterhouse Corporation. The camel joints and ostrich steaks they produced earned a reputation for supplying high nutritional value to the people's diet and generating considerable wealth for the company. Word has it that the son of a bitch sleeps on a waterbed, that his toilet is trimmed in gold, that his cigarettes are ginseng flavoured and that he dines daily on a whole camel hoof, a pair of ostrich feet and an ostrich egg. A two-column contingent of twenty-four ostriches follows the camels. Each is ridden by a youngster, boys on the left, girls on the right. The boys are wearing white sneakers, white knee-high socks topped by two red stripes, blue shorts, white shirts and red streamers round their necks. The girls are in white leather shoes over ankle-length white socks to which are tied red knitted pompoms; they are wearing sky-blue dresses with short skirts and golden bows on the tops. The boys’ closely cropped hair makes their heads look like little rubber balls. The girls' braids are tied at the ends by strips of red silk, making their heads resemble little embroidered balls. All the riders are sitting up, backs straight, chests thrown out proudly. The ostriches hold their triangular heads high—spirited, proud, arrogant marchers, despite the lacklustre grey of their feathers. Bright red silk bands round their necks offset their lack of colour. Seemingly incapable of slow movements, the ostriches take long, running strides that cover at least three feet; annoyingly hindered by the slow-moving camels ahead of them, all they can do is twist and turn their long, curved necks. The two contingents—East City and West City—have stopped,