That Sunday morning, a week before Carnival, I drove into Naousa at 8 a.m. We left the car and started looking for what the locals call the “mpoulouki.” The streets were quiet. A few men in costume were already moving between houses.
The Quiet Assembly and the Old Ways
Our journey began with a series of intimate visits to local households—a ritual known as the “kalésmata.” In each home, the young men, dressed in meticulous costumes and armed with a handful of treasured silver ornaments, were being called forth to join the mpoulouki. The process followed unspoken rules passed down through generations. Each participant seemed to carry the weight of it—unhurried, deliberate.
The tradition, known locally as “Boules or Genitsaroi,” is the heartbeat of Naousa’s Carnival festivities. Only young men participate, and even the role of the “bride-Boula” is taken on by a man, attired in a costume of broad, flowing garments adorned with floral headpieces and shimmering silver. I learned that months before the event, families carefully curated expensive, sometimes even heirloom, clothing and jewelry for this day. The act of dressing for the ritual is itself an homage to both past and present.
From City Hall to the Dance of the Streets
By mid-morning, the gathering moved to the city hall, where the ritual began with the mpoulouki leader presenting his credentials to the mayor. The zournas played Zalistó, and the Mpoules—paired dancers—leaned back with pride, striking the silver coins on their chests in rhythmic defiance. The νύφη-Μπούλα (bride-Boula), a central figure, moved gracefully, her bows honoring the earth. This tradition carries echoes of rebellion; during Ottoman rule, Mpoules would briefly reveal their faces to assure the Turkish ruler of their peaceful intent, while revolutionaries often hid beneath their elaborate masks.
I joined the procession through the narrow lanes. The route stopped at seven intersections—the numbers three and seven carry specific meaning in the ritual. At each stop, the same sequence repeated: calls, responses, movement.
Faces Revealed
Arriving at the designated spot (Psila Alonia), the masks were finally removed. Faces revealed, the participants looked out over the city—familiar faces in a public square, no longer hidden.
The Dance, the Music, and the Unspoken History
What followed was a procession with precise choreography. The daouli and zournades drove the rhythm as the group moved through dances—“Συγκαθιστός,” “Παπαδιά”—each with its own tempo and formation. The “νύφη-Μπούλα” led some of them. The steps connected back to older initiation rites, and to the period when this town lost a large part of its population to Ottoman reprisals.
During the Ottoman period, some participants concealed their identities behind the headgear for safety. The silver ornaments clinked with each step.
Evening Reflections: The Night of Unmasking and Togetherness
As the day drew on, the procession moved through the neighborhoods. At each stop the music loosened—the formal structure giving way to neighbors joining in, people calling out to each other. When the masks came off it felt less like an ending and more like the group finally breathing out.
By nightfall, after hours of dancing, the mpoulouki slowly dispersed. As we all made our way back home—exhausted—I kept thinking about the discipline of it. These men had been preparing for months: the clothes sourced, the steps rehearsed, the sequence memorized. The ritual held together not because anyone enforced it, but because everyone knew their part.
