Upon our arrival, we were greeted by a messy, dirty construction site, but the Chinese work day and night.
Where there was debris, now there's a grass carpet; the errors in the concrete have been covered with red carpets; huge paintings were nailed to the walls; and the road leading here, which has more traffic than downtown Pest, was asphalted—all of this in just three days. So far, the visions of the performers, the directors, and the construction workers have not met, and there's no hope for that.
The food is edible, the cooks are very kind, the kitchen would blend into any Gypsy settlement, perhaps with the difference that it's dirtier here. The hotel is acceptable. My companions are excellent people, perhaps I would highlight Gábor Tóth.
The rehearsals are in a liquid and gaseous state, characterized by the sentences "not there," "not like that," and "not then." Some are greatly disturbed by this, but "no matter the storm, the sea and the border will eventually calm down!"
My preparedness and professional knowledge lag far behind my luck; all my knowledge would be worth nothing without a suitable horse for the task, but God always places one under my unworthy backside. Of the three horses we work with, one seems suitable for the task.
Maybe a hundred people can see the show at the same time, from tables placed around the ring in the covered riding arena. Judging by the luxury cars swaggering in the parking lot, our audience is not recruited from the deeply impoverished, and something tells me they won't be served by the kitchen we enjoy the hospitality of.
A famous Beijing director is responsible for the visuals. It's the first time in my life I've seen her. She can say the same about the horses. This posed some barriers to collaboration, making it almost impossible.
She struggled to understand the completely different nature of these creatures from the objects she's been surrounded by, such as a microwave, a smartphone, or a car.
The show's host is a popular announcer from CCTV, who plans to perform his task on horseback. He will be a big hit with his fans and leave deep impressions on those who understand a bit about riding. After all, a show is not yet popular here if only ten times the population of my homeland watches it because the production is broadcast.
Sándor Sasvári is the crown of the evening in both appearance and voice; Sándor Boros is my professional role model; the Mészáros family is a piece of my homeland; József Stojcsics is an organizer whose nerves could soon be played like a zither; and a few eye-catching and talented equestrian girls, whom I didn't know before, make up our team. The show's rhythm is provided by an excellent Gypsy band, and a Mongolian band of similar talent provides the music for dancing.
As for the Mongolians' relationship with their horses, a 180-degree turn would be enough for them to go in the right direction. But since they are already hugely successful, I don't see any hope for this in the foreseeable future. From the fog of chaos, the outlines of success are beginning to emerge before my mind's eye.
Only my instincts whisper this to me, as there are currently no visible signs of it. It's midnight here, only six in the afternoon at home. I snuck away from the applause, so I took the time to write. Tomorrow will decide whether "common sense" or the soul's delicate suggestion will be right. I already know the answer; again, common sense will be defeated. If it weren't so, I wouldn't be here, because I hardly find a rational explanation for why I am increasingly a guest in this huge, incomprehensible, and indescribable country.
Best regards,
Lajos Kassai
Beijing, April 27, 2013.
