On the evening of November 5th as I came home from work, just as it was getting dark, my phone began to ring with a sound that cut through my ears like a sharp knife in the heavy cold air. It was Chris’s mother reminding me of that evening’s bonfire night celebration. I had never heard of bonfire night until this week, yet it is a tradition important to the English.

I had no idea what I was about to experience for the first time as the British bonfire celebration came to a head. It was a brisk, bitterly chilly evening, so I layered up and wore waterproof boots to be warm. As soon as we arrived at Chris’ family compound, we were greeted by his entire family, particularly his young nieces and nephews, who were all ecstatic. Chris’ mother led us across the field. Her motherly voice, combined with her keen sensitivity of our safety, cautioned us on the hazards of rabbit holes that lay ahead of us. Chris was chuckling and pretending to fall down the holes in an attempt to aggravate his mother. Even though there was unseen rabbity danger lurking at every step, we bravely hauled our beach chairs through a dark, chilly field. Our chairs were set up in a rough semi-circle in the middle of the field surrounding a pile of old lumber. Surprisingly, a man’s outline could be seen sprawled across this pile of timber. “Who was this figure atop the soon-to-be inferno?”, I wondered. Upon close inspection, it turned out to be an old pair of trousers and shirt stuffed with straw. “These Brits are strange!” I thought to myself as I looked at the effigy. They had carried an effigy to the centre of the field to be burned in the dead of night. I imagined he had done something truly heinous to deserve this fate. I leaned in to listen as Chris’ mother narrated the story of the strange dummy to the children.

It turned out the effigy we were supposed to burn represents a man called Guy Fawkes. His heinous crime was to attempt to blow up the palace of Westminster (the home of the British Parliament). He and his catholic co-conspirators smuggled many barrels of gun powder into the cellar beneath the building. Guy was reportedly chosen by the Cabal to ignite the gun powder on November 5th, 1605, since the monarch was scheduled to speak to parliament on that day. Unfortunately, Guy was in for a harsh awakening when one of his comrades revealed a part of their plan, and he found himself surrounded by a number of the King’s soldiers underground. Guy and his gang were publicly slain in gruesome circumstances shortly after their apprehension and brief trials. Thousands of effigies of Guy are burned every year on the anniversary of his arrest, so obviously the brits still haven’t quite forgiven him. By the end of the story however, there was a surprising amount of sympathy for these men who had attempted to blow up the monarch and parliament from those surrounding me.

Following the story, one of the children with us was handed a lit match and stooped over one corner of the fire. Soon I saw a flickering of orange. The blaze had turned into a raging inferno eager to devour the man with straw-hair lying atop of it. For a second, I thought he was made to resemble someone familiar. A twirled moustache adorned his face below his beady black eyes, and he wore a white shirt with blue jeans stuffed with straws. He hung hopelessly on the wood, awaiting his inevitable demise. At first, I was jealous of his warmth, but as the flames proceeded to lick his posterior, my jealousy turned to pity. As the flames became brighter, we swarmed around the fire, trying vainly to remain warm. Nonetheless, as the catholic began to blaze, the flames became so intense that we all began backing away. When the flames engulfed poor Guy, the Brits in the vicinity began to cheer and chant, “burn Guy, burn!!” They chanted, “Let him die, let him die.” We then sat down at a distance, bringing our chairs closer to the fire. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed someone fidgeting with the fire. Within seconds, a streak of flame soared upward. Then, there was a mighty explosion. Everyone around began making odd noises as I shrieked, thinking the Germans were bombarding England again. “Oooohhh and aaahhhh”, they said, slightly sarcastically. A Shropshire sizzler had just been fired. It was the first time experiencing firework displays up close and personal. In most cases, I observed them from a neighbor’s house or at an event, but from a distance. Then I heard, “Hold on for the Tropical twister.” I geared up for another big blast but was slightly taken aback when a slightly sad, one-meter tall fountain of sparks appeared 10 meters away. Despite only lasting 10 seconds, the oooohs and aaahs made it seem like something spectacular had happened. As you can imagine, I was somewhat underwhelmed. Compared to the previous fireworks, this one was far less impressive.

On the other hand, “Wilfred’s wizard” was far more intriguing. There were twenty-five shots fired into the air. Two or three of them would spark and bang simultaneously, generating flashes of red, green, and blue. Then I heard someone exclaim, “Here comes the Zanzibar Zoomer”. My thoughts wandered to Zanzibar, its warmth, and its palm trees clear in my imagination for a brief moment. I was certain that there would be a huge boom in the air with palm trees made of dancing lights, and colours evoking all the different shades of the beach. I anticipated its arrival as I shifted in my seat, holding my breath. The Zanzibar Zoomer began firing when a fuse was triggered. Our resident pyromaniac dashed away from the lit explosive, tripping over one of the terrifying rabbit holes infesting the area. My gaze was locked above, anticipating the Zanzibari extravaganza. Unfortunately, this did not occur. The firework made a modest shoot a few metres from its source with only one spark, going off with a whimper rather than a bang. My heart clenched as if blown over by a gale of disappointment after learning it was not a Zanzibar Zoomer after all. Following an unpleasant performance, then came the Bromsgrove Boomer. I began to worry it would be much the same. To my delight, the Boomer made a great fire starter. It launched two hundred meters into the air. The blast nearly knocked me off my feet when it blew, forcing me to retrace my steps. In a matter of seconds, twinkling orbs of light appeared in the sky and shot to the ground around us. It was a sight to behold, like something straight out of a Disney film.

Our conversation wound down as the fire died. Afterward, we trudged back to the house, picking up our beach chairs and feasted on a great dinner. It was a life-changing experience for me, one that I will never forget.

Remember, Remember, the 5th of November, gun powder, treason and plot.