Take-off
As we gather for the final rehearsal, we are told artistic director Amir Nizar Zuabi would like to see the swallows operating in unison. Consequently, we play ‘follow the leader’ initially as a group and then operating the puppets. We have the advantage of working with the Curious School of Puppetry who understand exactly what is required to make the process successful. Volunteers copy the movements of the dance leaders or, if they are not visible, the person in front of them. I find this approach tremendously liberating, Replicating the movements of the person in charge of the team, rather than thinking of my own, is a great relief. There is a significant addition to the puppets: small torches have been taped onto the poles, so, although the darkly dressed puppeteers remain anonymous in the autumn gloom the illuminated swallow puppets will make an impression.
We while away the time until the actual event in the usual manner—rehearsing movements and eating far too much chocolate and other snacks. Finally, we are given the okay to proceed and leave the hall full of adrenaline but not yet able to take part. My group, the Gliders, is not one of the primary teams so waits, offstage, for the cue to begin. Therefore, although stationed just around the corner from St. Peters Square, we miss the opening of the events in which representatives of Invisible Cities and Marzia-Babakarkhail educate Little Amal about the suffragette movement and she is entertained by the Yandass dancers outside Manchester Central Library which helped keep me sane during lockdown.
My group, The Gliders, is stationed at Manchester Central Station hidden behind a wall but, hopefully, our birds providing a strong visual background for a recitation by local, if not national, treasure Julie Hesmondhalgh of a poem about the Peterloo Massacre—a somewhat odd memorial to that which is in the vicinity. Annoyingly, although close, I cannot hear the recitation by an actor who could make a reading of the phone book moving. However, I do get to witness one of the moments that make participation in When the Birds Land special: unexpectedly, Little Amal’s head peers over the wall where we are spinning the puppet birds. It is a genuine moment of a child’s curiosity and incredibly moving.
The procession avoids the main roads, and the backstreets route takes Little Amal to meet the choir of Webster Primary School from Rusholme. Walking close to Little Amal is a bit daunting; she sets a rapid pace and has heavy steps.
A sense of improvisation develops among the puppeteers. We have been briefed the concept is that the swallows will serve as visual cues guiding Little Amal to her destination. But the sheer volume of the crowds makes this difficult to achieve. I’m distracted by someone dressed as a (hopefully not an actual) nun who praises the effect of the swallows. Tremendously flattering to know we have had the desired effect, but I’m trying to concentrate on keeping the beak of my puppet facing forward. We have moved from being casual volunteers to actual performers; there is no chance of a break—the sheer size of the crowd means we are on stage all of the time. "Keep it real," instructs the team leader, reminding us an audience is watching and deserves to see the birds flying as a flock. Actors must have to do this stuff every day. God help them.
There are compensations. Money cannot buy the moment where Little Amal pauses to play with a swallow puppet (wish it had been mine) and I’m chuffed as mintballs to surprise the manager of 53two by parading past his venue as part of an MIF event. During the initial walk-through, the Watson Street Bridge was ominous but the additional of banners makes it warm and welcoming as does the presence of a choir from Women Asylum Seekers Together (WAST).
By now, the puppeteers are merged into the massive audience. Little Amal follows Badly Drawn Boy, who emerges from behind Upper Campfield Market playing on a truck. Puppeteers are stuck within the crowd—if we move, it is with their consent.
We make our way—puppets overhead—to the Duke Street staircase. Manchester has a proud musical heritage—the notorious concert at which Bob Dylan was called a Judas took place at the Free Trade Hall, as did the Sex Pistols concert which inspired the formation of Lord knows how many wonderful groups. Yet poor old Little Amal is exposed to the MADchester scene; a hedonistic, ephemeral movement. It ought to be trivial, but the sight of a twelve-foot puppet dancing to rave music along with the ‘shock in a frock’ Anna Phylactic and vogue performers from the House of Ghetto becomes an expression of pure joy. Little Amal is a child and has been through a lot—she can develop a taste in quality music later in life—and deserves the chance to just cut loose and dance.
On the final leg of her journey, Little Amal meets Poets from Young Identity and poet Lemn Sissay arrives on a barge in the canal. He recites a poem and introduces Little Amal to some people who want to meet her: the audience at Castlefield Bowl, which promptly goes wild.
As we enter Castlefield Bowl, the mood gets heavy. Some very assertive guards refuse admission, despite waving around a bloody puppet, until a security band is produced. Mind you, can see their point: so many tickets have been issued, the venue is packed—the dance floor is standing room only. The dance routines rehearsed yesterday are redundant—there is literally no space in which to move. It is unclear if chants of "refugees are welcome here" are part of the act or if a pressure group is trying to make a political point.
Yet, in the distance, we can see colleagues who have worked through the crowd making patterns with their torchlit puppets. It becomes clear if we can do the same it will provide a striking visual bookend for Little Amal who is walking through the crowd greeting well-wishers. As Hunter S Thompson once said: we are, after all, professionals, so we press on.
We have been briefed that the audience at the Castlefield Bowl will have seen, via recorded transmissions, Little Amal’s adventures along the way but a live summary is enacted on stage in the venue. This climaxes with Little Amal hearing her mother’s voice and, after an emersion in dry ice, the puppet is transformed into a real human girl ready to begin her life in Manchester with a game of football. The mist is, therefore, the cue for the puppeteers to exit the venue. Once the mist pumps into the bowl, we leave only to be invited back inside—always pleased to get an encore, we oblige.
In dribs and drabs, we make our way back to Upper Campfield Market. There is the option to remain and see the performance through to the end, but I’m older than dirt and desperate for a drink. Sea Change ended on a melancholic note, but the organisers of When the Birds Land know how to bring an event to a successful close—they set up a bar. I consume far too much alcohol, say my goodbyes, pay my respects to the youngster who played the real life Little Amal and stagger off to travel by public transport while holding a swallow puppet.
It is hard to determine how far The Walk has succeeded in raising awareness of the plight of refugees. However, When the Birds Land was certainly a demonstration of the vibrant Manchester culture and participation an experience that is hard to forget.