Edi blurted out again, with an expression hard to decipher. Now, the fiesta was never for only a day. There were at times the celebration would last for weeks. As a result, not only were work delayed, the money obtained from hard work usually fell prey to the charms of the dice. There were no savings, said Edi, disgruntled. He looked on anxiously. I asked the waiter to pour us more beer.
Edi drank the beer, cooled by the lowering temperature of the night. He explained that the fiesta in his village had never been like this. It used to be celebrated with customs and rituals — for weddings, village events and the like. Even for deaths, a host would usually only invite a mask dancer, never a sexy karaoke dancer like nowadays. It used to be that the sense of community gatherings would be observed and guarded well.
A half-drunk man approached the stall. He borrowed a lighter to light his cigarette. The night had turned to dawn. A drop of dew fell from the stall rooftop straight into the cup. I drank the beer mixed with dew, feeling disturbed. I was definitely not drunk, and wanted to hear more of Edi’s stories.
“Edi, who started the karaoke sessions in this village?”
“I don’t know when, but it was since We’ Bunga. Now it has become a norm at each festival. As far as I can remember, it happened since the road to our village opened,” said Edi.
