On the first Thursday of September, something strange happens in Sint Nyk.
At ten in the morning, time disappears.
Not completely, of course. The clock on your phone keeps ticking, and someone somewhere will probably still check their watch. But in the village streets, different rules suddenly apply.
There goes Hannibal.
Not in a history book, and not in a film. Just passing through the street on a huge elephant, surrounded by Romans. Jurre is among them, wearing a helmet, armour and a purple cloak. For a few minutes, he is no longer a boy from Sint Nyk. He belongs to a story more than two thousand years old.
A little later, the street changes again.
An old telephone exchange appears. Cowboys pass by. A steam train approaches. Cotton, music and blues tell a story from another past. People who, only a few hours ago, were sitting at the kitchen table or visiting the bakery have become soldiers, workers, musicians and strange figures from worlds that no longer exist.
This year, I suddenly noticed how many floats had drawn their stories from history.
Perhaps an allegorical parade is uniquely suited to that. You do not have to recreate the past exactly. You can play with it. Enlarge it. Add music. Paint faces, bring in light, let smoke drift through the street and turn it into a story.
Fourteen musicals for the price of one.
The KPJ showed just how far you can take it. At four in the morning, Lize had already started applying the make-up. Every year, she comes over from De Knipe to do it. Hours before we line the streets, the transformation of ordinary people into characters begins behind the scenes. By the time the group finally moves through the village, everything is right. Clothes, faces, movement, colour.
That is the remarkable thing.
We see a few minutes.
Behind those minutes are months of building, welding, painting, sewing, rehearsing, discussing and probably a fair amount of coffee and swearing. On the morning itself, the make-up artists, musicians, escorts and all the other people arrive who make the illusion complete.
And then Maeykehiem passes by.
Maaike is walking with them. She sees me and comes over.
“Are you joining us tonight as well?”
Of course.
“Just send me a message.”
For years, I walked alongside them and helped escort the group. Tonight, I will probably be riding in the little train. And from inside a parade like that, you notice something that is easy to miss from the pavement.
The people along the route.
You are no longer watching the parade. You are looking back at the village from within it.
At children pointing. People waving. Familiar faces calling out to one another. Older people sitting on chairs outside their homes. Faces lighting up when they recognise someone. That is when you see what all those builders have really made.
Not a float.
Not a set.
Not even a competition.
They have created a few hours in which an entire village is willing to believe in something together.
Tonight, the time machine will start up once more. Darkness will fall, and light, music and smoke will be added. The houses will fade into the background. The technology will become less visible. And perhaps Hannibal will no longer be riding through Sint Nyk on a float.
Perhaps Hannibal will simply be riding through Sint Nyk.
Tomorrow morning, everything will be normal again.
The streets will be empty. The Romans will have gone home. So will the cowboys. The elephant will be standing somewhere in a shed, and everyone will simply have to return to work.
But not today.
Today, the time machine exists.
And all of Sint Nyk may come along.