One Saturday of Saint Bartholomew about thirty years ago, at Ca na Poeta in Montuïri, I fell in love with the *xeremiers*. I knew how to see the cultural transcendence of that tradition, the healthy bond that those big, bearded, sweaty men established with the town. I understood them, which is, after all, the definitive way to fall in love. I don't know how many there must have been, a dozen, perhaps. It must have been that breezy heat typical of those days, inside Ca na Poeta. Bodies soaked in sweat touched each other jerkily, jumping and dancing in front of the *tasser*, driven by the festive rhythms of the *xeremiers*. We trod the cloying soot of the festive days in the cafes. The smell of drunk juice and spilled juice mingled with the aroma of *alfabeguera cossiera*. We sang and laughed in a bar where the town redeemed itself from the sins of not wanting to be what it is. Without thinking, without wanting to. Natural and authentic. Free, which is how towns should be. The youth of Montuïri were there in full. And a handful of irreducible old-timers, as always happens. The outsiders were just four friends from the surrounding towns. And Montuïri, with a quarter of the people who are there now, was packed.
Since then, I have looked at the *xeremiers* with different eyes. I have seen them in Sant Antoni de Gràcia, gathered and massive on the platform and at street level. I have seen them in a ceremonial way at a fair in front of the authorities and leading a blessing of Saint Anthony. I have seen them mourning in Son Coletes honoring republican memory. I have seen them playing inside houses, and I promise you, there is nothing more exciting.
When mass tourism arrived in Mallorca in the sixties, popular culture, the connection with the land and tradition on the part of the indigenous population was affected. But the heritage was fresh. Young and old all over the island had sung and heard singing, had danced and had seen dancing, had played and had heard playing. The Europeans who came to the island were perhaps still visitors, a mix of tourist and traveler. It was easy for more than one to be fascinated by the rustic life that so many Majorcans still practiced before selling themselves to foreigners for a plate of lentils.
The most clever aborigines would take old clothes out of chests and wardrobes and dress up as their ancestors, to the amazed astonishment of the people from the north. In Portocristo, Toni Fita, dressed as a peasant, played the bagpipe in front of the shiny hotels that presided over the privileged main tourist line of Portocolom. His descendants are still known as 'the bagpiper's family' in the port. Culture was being de-localised, taken out of context, becoming a hoarse pantomime that led to native self-hatred. This is what happened with the peasant dance in the hotels, and with the Algaida cossiers at Cal Dimoni. 'Folklore,' said Rafel Ginard, 'is not for entertaining the audience. It is for entertaining the actors.' Fortunately, we knew how to see it, and today we enjoy and live the festivities with pride and fun.
A friend told me that, not many days ago, he wanted to go swimming in a cove I won't name (we natives no longer give the names of the places we love). He stretched out, naked, in a perfect natural fusion: bare, he and the entire country's sea before him. At dawn, in silence. At that moment, another man appeared. More modest, he wrapped a towel around his waist to put on his swimsuit. But he didn't swim. From the bag he was carrying, he took out a bagpipe, the Catalan 'sac de gemecs' of Mallorca, as the beloved Toni Artigues called it. It made an imperceptible breeze, but lively enough to make the water sound every time it kissed the sand of the cove. 'Like a spider of subtle art,' the music led him to the lyrics and he was moved. A few days later, another friend visited the same cove, also at sunrise. She wanted to taste the coolness of the water, sated by the unbearable sirocco of the night. And the bagpiper reappeared. 'Do you mind if I play it? I come here because it's very early, and I don't want to disturb the neighbours.' 'Not at all,' she said, intrigued. He inflated the bag and blew. She closed her eyes. The sonic stridency softened beyond the sky. Her eyelids trembled, and she opened her eyes again to let two drops of happiness roll down her cheeks.
First the Spaniards colonized us and then money has colonized us. But the people, nevertheless, like that martipolian murmur, persist, because there is landscape, because there are people who are afraid to bother and people who cry for music, because there are people, because there are ears to listen and hearts to feel. Because there is the sea. Because it accompanies us, making us fall in love, the sound of the bagpipes, the flute and the drum, the measured beat of a people that, despite everything, floods every corner of the panorama. They will be able to do nothing...
