Here come the Kings!

We spot them first by the dust cloud, as in those old Westerns where the bad guys in black hats are distant specks raising the desert sand with galloping hooves.

'There they are!' yells Paco with his sharp eyes. 'Los Reyes!'

Los Reyes Magos! The Three Kings are on their way to visit our village! Far from being bad guys the Kings are a once-a-year miracle. As any child below the age of doubt will tell you, long ago the Kings took weird-sounding gifts to the infant Jesus but now they bring prezzies for the rest of us.

Being North African in origin they normally trot around on camels but this afternoon, perhaps through time constraints or a shortage of camels, they arrive at our village perched in the back of dust-stained Army Land Rovers, by way of the dry riverbed for dramatic effect.

Paco, who is happily locked in permanent childhood and tends to lead the pack on such occasions, scampers towards the first Land Rover as it comes to a halt.

The King rises to his feet, an imposing figure in colourful robes with a white beard the size of a gooseberry bush and a spiky golden crown. This could be Gaspar or Melchor but not Baltasar because he's the one with dark skin and a Moroccan turban.

Paco doesn't care which King he's got, he knows that the sack this King is reaching into contains - golosinas! Sweeties! Handfuls of them! The Reyes Magos throw them to the kids with reckless abandon.

Baltasar beckons J towards his Land Rover and lobs a few sweets towards her, traditional hospitality for the foreigner.

They drive off through the village scattering yet more golosinas behind them, chased by a posse of squabbling children. A typical scene on the fifth of January when Los Reyes Magos finally turn up after sleepless nights of anticipation by the kids.

That same evening the Kings enter the main square in town, usually more elegantly on camels (imported from neighbouring Tenerife), and after due ceremony are led to the stage where they seat themselves in royal splendour on golden thrones to receive supplicants in person. The tiny ones they take on their knees, the better to hear their secretive whispers. (They wouldn't be allowed to do that in Britain any more, which is terribly sad.)

Imagine the scene tomorrow morning, the sixth of January, as little Laura (for instance) wakes at four o'clock with a sudden thrill of excitement. She switches on her bedside light and eagerly examines the plate on which she left three chocolates to help the Kings get through their busy night. Have they taken them? They have, they've all gone!

And the shoe over there by the door, into which she stuffed a bunch of nice fresh weeds for the camels. The shoe's empty, they've eaten their food!

The Kings have been! And there, beside the bed, are her presents!

What a wonderful job they've got, these three ancient Kings who bring so much excitement and pleasure.

Unfortunately there's a newcomer invading their territory these days. Papá Noel - Father Christmas or Santa Claus - has enthusiastic backing from the barons of commerce who would dearly love children to receive presents on Christmas Day as well as Three Kings.

Parents are much less enthusiastic. Little Laura probably found only a token packet of sweets hanging from the tree on Christmas Day, although some weaker souls are beginning to succumb to the pressures. It's increasingly common on Christmas morning to see children wobbling around on new scooters or rollerblades.

My best hope that the Kings will survive this unwelcome competition is that nobody really knows what to do with Papá Noel. He doesn't have a role to play here. Mostly he just hangs about in shop doorways trying to look useful. Sometimes he climbs up walls on little ladders to relieve the boredom.

And looking on the bright side, he brings with him the novel concept of snow, an unknown phenomenon on this subtropical island but it looks very pretty in the shop windows. And it leads to delightful anomalies such as this year's seasonal icons dotted around the town, three Arabian camels accompanied by an endearing snowman with a carrot nose.

Feliz Reyes, and let's hope that in some distant day the real world will also manage such happy harmony.


Postscript: a letter to the Kings
I couldn't resist adding this. The magic of Los Reyes starts a couple of days before their arrival when Los Pajes Reales, the Royal Pages, visit the island to receive children's letters specifying what presents they would like and why they deserve them.

The Pages look like Arabian versions of Buttons in a pantomime and I bet they have fun reading the letters. (Don't tell the kids though.) This is one of them, translated:

Dear Kings
My name is L.... and I live in San Sebastian, La Gomera. Last year my behaviour was average. But as I think you are good I would like to ask you for HAPPINESS for all the children of the world.
For me I would like a bicycle, some roller skates and a story book.
A kiss and a hug for all three of you.