It is cold. And windy. And I can’t feel my toes. To think that this is a situation I have intentionally put myself into! On the upside, the sun is peeping over the hills, melting the morning’s frost as it goes. My plastic cup of over-hot tea in my gloved hands, I contemplate the world in general and my own little place in it. Why on God’s green earth am I sitting in a huddle outside a tent that has frost on it – seriously, there is frost on the apex! – clutching tea and praying that I won’t need to go to the loo until it has warmed up enough to take off a layer or three? Aah, yes, that little thing called Marketing.
Not the cushy office version of Marketing that has fresh cinnamon buns and branded give-aways, no, this is Real Life Marketing, otherwise known as “having a stall”. We are a unique bunch, Marketers. Some of us have “other jobs” that we go to every weekday, but all of us regularly descend on an unsuspecting village that is having an Exhibition, Fair or Craft Market. We move in and take over the village gardens, halls or, as in this case, the Sports Grounds. Like mushrooms, our tents, gazebos and other assorted - and occasionally tacky - structures grow until the field is unrecognisable.
I should move. In a short while The Public, that elusive creature that we traipse around the countryside looking for, will arrive and my scruffy slept-in-a-tent look will be frowned upon. As I watch, other stall holders emerge, shrouded in assorted coats and blankets, oblivious to anything other than getting ready for the onslaught of customers. Instead, I snuggle deeper into my wrappings and sip more tea.
Now two hours later, the table has stopped steaming, the tent is dry and packed away and I am sitting at my stall with yet another cup of tea, enjoying the sensation of mountain sunshine on my skin. The temperature is now Crisp rather than Toe-Freezing, and I’m ready to take on the mountain folk. The stall looks lovely. Poi of all colours, shapes, weights and designs flutter gently in the breeze, a bright and cheerful corner in amongst other more mutely coloured stalls.
“What are they? Flags?”
“ No, they’re those throwing things, like the warrior people use. To kill enemies, you know? The balls on the end wrap themselves around you, I’ve seen it”
“Really? Even the pink ones?”
I will admit, it is very tempting to sit here and let the conversation continue. I am continually amazed at how people try to explain what they don’t understand. I should stand up and try to explain that they are poi and the aim is not to let them go, although the do have a tendency to wrap themselves around your neck when you are not expecting it. The truth is, I’m battling to contain my self since every time I look at the second speaker, I am imagining him frantically flinging lumo pink ribbon poi at his khaki clad companion. I cannot admit this, you understand, since I’m here to sell poi, not be garrotted by 6 foot farming boys who are not renowned for laughing at themselves.
Deep breath, and I launch into my spiel about how they are for exercise, dance, building stamina and so on, only to have their faces fall.
“So they are not for killing things?”
“No,” I say “ not even the pink ones”
As they stomp off, pushing each other in a show of strength, brawn and extreme non-pinkness, I sit back down. After all, it takes a very special boy to play with poi, regardless of the colours. Most fellows want to go directly to fire without the boring practice version. And while I do have a variety of fire toys with me, I don’t like to encourage the “practise with fire” types. After all, their mother’s said not to play with fire and I don’t cross Mothers if I can help it.
You know how fishing floats will bob on the sea when something is nibbling a the bait? Well, my poi are doing a remarkable impression of that. As I watch, one set of poi bounces ever so slightly on the stand. Peering closer, I see a tiny girl, caught frozen as she tries to pull a set of poi off the rail. She looks at me and I look at her. I love teaching poi to kids. Unlike adults, they don’t over analyze or dissect the actions, they either like poi or they don’t. They do however, get very shy and this little deer like creature is at the point of bolting.
I take my own set of poi, well worn to the point that they are extensions of my fingers, and make a big show of how to put the finger loops on.
She watches.
I swing them gently, taking care to do only the simplest moves so that she can follow if she chooses to.
She watches.
I play for a while, then move towards her to help her put her fingers into the loops – kids have such stumpy fingers, there is an art to stuffing them into the loops. Still she stands there, looking torn between staying and playing and running back to mum.
I swing, she swings. We swing together. I have an imaginary voice in my head that narrates as if we were in a child’s reading book, “Jane swings, John swings. Watch them swing” . She is following my movements so I try a gentle cross-over. She tries, smacks herself and is gone. It is almost a single movement, so fast I can do nothing but watch her retreating as fast as her pint-sized legs can go. But she will be back, I know she will. I hang the poi on a lower rail so she can get to them when she wants to try again. And she will want to try again. I know this because as I sit down I see her standing across the field, swinging her arms and looking at my stall. The poi bug has bitten. All I need to do is wait.
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