It is commonly accepted that for the most part human activity has gone unrecorded. Indeed, it has always been thus; only the doings of Kings, the murmurings of wild eyed priests and rich lives of notable great men being sufficiently worthy for chronicling. We can know the foibles of Egyptian pharaohs but must guess at the motives of those that served them, and of the rarefied discussions of scholars and saints, but hear few words from their servants and converted. We are just as guilty of venerating our present-day worthies (read Hollywood celebrities) and find no interest in the mundane day-to-dayness of the honest citizenry who lap up their celluloid or digital performances. We prefer buying a copy of Hello! to Carp-Talk any day: it's probably a genetic thing...
Thus it is there is no confirmed historical record of the first Jízdě Králů. 'The first what?' I hear you splutter. Why, The Ride of the Kings of course! We'd never heard of it either our until friends Svetlana and Milon kindly took us to see the Jízdě králů in Doloplazy, a ribbon-like village not far from Olomouc. In processional form the village celebrates the arrival of a virtuous, silent king in drag and on horseback to the accompaniment of as much pageantry, music, dance and alcohol that can be mustered. That he is virtuous is ascertained by his virginal status (fnar-fnar), that he is silent by him holding a rose between his teeth – the rest being obvious.
This tradition used to be widespread across the Czech-speaking lands and there are similar processions in Poland, Austria, Switzerland and even further afield. The procession may also coincide with specific agricultural activities such as springytime sowing or harvestytime reaping and is likely to have had association with ancient preexisting religious observances. The arrival of Christianity saw these activities co-opted into the more acceptable Easter or Pentecost festivals. Such seasonal cultural punctuations being no longer necessary, the festivals are now held more for their bright colour and excitement as for any religious or regal connotations and since 2011 has been on the UNESCO list of Masterpieces of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity.
The commonly held assumption is that the king (Svatopluk II, one of the blokes called Wenceslas or the Hungarian king Matthias Corvinus – take your pick!), after a disastrous battle or similar military escapade, found himself in hostile territory. Disguised in ladylike attire and remaining silent by holding a rose in his mouth, he then had to make the perilous journey back home without exposing his identity. His re-appearance was thus celebrated with an imitative procession on horseback and much joyous peasant singing and dancing.
Despite copious research over the centuries, the true origins of this cultural activity are certainly, to use a cliché almost as ancient as the festival itself, lost in the mists of time. Some have seen similarities in coming of age festivities celebrated in Kyrgyzstan where wrestling, horseback riding and polo is accompanied by much decorative horseyness. These similarities may be abundant, but perhaps there is a common and forgotten pre-Christian ancestry to it all.
So we arrived early afternoon in the pretty, but fairly standard Moravian village of Doloplazy – nicely mown lawns and pretty window boxes galore. It didn't take us long to find the village hall where beer tents, trestle tables and two stages were set up. Taking our local Zubr beers with us, we trotted back out to the street to watch the procession.
The first part of the afternoon was taken up with the local folk song and dance group that tried to get the mood going. The local dances can be lively, but tend to centre around the men standing with an arm raised singing a stately verse, whereafter during the exciting chorusy/instrumental extemporising bit the girls either join in or get vigorously swung around to much excited screeching before they retire back to the side, the whole thing continuing until at the very end the blokes jump into the air making sure they smack their heels in a testosterone-fueled display of Moravian extra-bravura.
That done, everyone takes a quick swig or two of homemade slivovitz, and another folk song starts up in pretty much the same style, the whole thing continuing all day until the necessity of toilet break/incapacity/over-intoxication compels a cessation. The girls' many-petticoated skirts are set delightfully above their brown woollen Nora Batty knees giving the appearance of overturned double flake fairy cakes. Each village also has its unique headscarf/hat routine. In truth, the scene was not too dissimilar to the six o'clock dancing workers at Chigley!
The costumes are lovingly constructed, each bearing the recognised characteristics of that village or region, displaying a genuine love for authenticity that testifies to the love people have for these traditions. There are, of course, notable absentees – the teenagers who obviously think the whole thing is way below them: I heard it mentioned that even those steeped in the tradition suffer ridicule in school and drop out for fear of complete social death. That said, the primary school-age kiddlies nicely-adorned in traditional costume sang nursery rhymes in a simple little performance on one of the stages, something that will hopefully stay with them and positively colour their future cultural feelings.
The parade proper began when the horsemen and horsewomen in all their feathered and booted finery, akin to old Austro-Hungarian military cavalry, escorted the riderless horse to the top end of the village. Once picked up, the retinue returned the King back down the village street to much hoopin', hollerin' and noisy crowd interaction. These parades, however, were not always so very well behaved. In the past each village in this region had it's yearly King, the intense rivalry was so bad kidnapping and ransoming had become regular features of the culture. So bad did this get that early in the 19th century occurred the Battle of the Four Kings, a scene of carnage between King's men from four villages – 8 out of the 80 were killed on the spot, 20 later died from their wounds and 40 more were seriously injured! Since those rather more impassioned times the festival has taken on the character of an English village fete, but without the vicar's opening speech, cake marquee and coconut shy.
The remains of the afternoon were spent drinking beer, watching performances by singers and dancers; more of the local stuff, beer, Spandan – a sparkling touring troupe from Rajastan, beer, and Uralskaya vechora – an astonishing Russian teenage singers and dancers (did I mention the beer?).
The young whistling Russkies whirled around dressed in traditional 3/4 length folk dresses and nontraditional crimson lolita lipstick and bright blue eye shadow, or leapt courageously in boots and slavic tunics, much to the delight of the audience. Many in the crowd would have witnessed the 1968 invasion and occupation of Czechoslovakia by Russian troops (in the following period of 'normalisation' folk customs would have been tolerated only if they glorified the inherent virtues of a patriotic proletariat). Time, however, appears to be a great healer and there didn't appear to be any grievances directed towards the children in respect to their soviet forbears. As such, this excellent troupe's effect as innocent cultural ambassadors of the new glorious Russia worked wonders. I also think the beer helped.
The local song and dance group Moravian-Slovak Ensemble Lipina from Vracov, accompanied by darn good fiddler, drone, bowed bass and cimbalom (a hammered dulcimer), continued on and off for most of the day. Finally a band popular at the national level, the wrinkly blue grassers Druhá Tráva, played on into the fading light until falling over time.
That ancient Moravian folk traditions should be alive and well in 2013 may come as no surprise: such things have experienced similar happy revivals in other countries. That these traditions are maintained with vigour is testament to the cultural identity held in this and many other villages in the region. Long may they continue!
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