Catalan culture

I was ill-prepared for the questions that confronted me as the tower collapsed. I asked myself: Did I cause this? Am I an agent of chaos?

In the shadows of the Sagrada Familia, I fortuitously tripped over a colourful human carpet, each person a fibre weaved into the elaborate tapestry. The human amalgamation expanded horizontally, as more people joined in the festivities and vertically, as teams built castells or human towers.

Sturdy, ox-strong men fleshed out the base and lower levels, creating a solid foundation for the scrawny fledglings to crown the tower. Only when an agile toddler with jellyfish limbs clambered to the top and triumphantly raised four fingers, and the tower was dismantled, was the castell deemed a success.

A clandestine smile curved my lips and I wandered if the Catalans perceived the symbolism captured in their tradition: older generations working in unity to lay the groundwork for the younger generations to build upon. Brilliant!

Desperately wanting to take part in the allegory, my eyes searched for a girl of similar stature that I might replace, a preposterous notion as I couldn’t even manage a cartwheel. I spotted a girl on the fourth level. I could easily cut her out and transpose myself into the link of limbs.

My teeth would bite into the cloth in my mouth, the cotton oozing salty saliva. The lively folk music would inflame my stomach muscles. The sun would sting my eyes, the shadows a luxury for terrestrial dwellers. I was an arboreal human now.

Then my legs started to shake, like two drenched dogs. Into my head popped Harry Belafonte’s Jump in the line. The song vibrated in my ears. Suddenly, the whole tower was shaking to the lyrics. THUMPPP! A foot, attached to a child’s leg, clubbed my head. The air playfully tugged my hair as I fell.

The crowd gasped!

I gasped for an altogether different reason, mine an exclamation of relief. I wasn’t a part of the tower that caved in.

“I didn’t cause the collapse!” I fervently protested my innocence as I swatted the guilt away, like a swarm of flies.

But just as a precautionary measure, I untwined my body from the human carpet to marvel from afar. The distance could not curb my awe.

A fellow gawker suggested that I attend the La Merce Festival in September.

“It’s like the Oscars of the castell world,” he shrieked.

Should I go? As I pondered the question, it occurred to me that no more towers collapsed that afternoon. Perhaps I was an agent of chaos after all...