It came to him abruptly that he was surrounded by a shock of color.  It turned out to be folk in native dress participating in the World Day festival, their clothes in colors people who feel they belong to the West would find excessive, even self-denigrating — and would yet still be a little envious of.  All in native dress were clapping, and no one else.  Then came a low and tremulous chant for what might be the length of a few lines of song, capped with a sudden high and elongated whoop to its end.  He noticed at a glance that the overall crowd was turning into an audience, and yet, surrounded as he was by natives, he felt obliged to join in the clapping.  He followed the man in a wrap in front of him, clapping with a like shiver in the body.  He got so lost in the task of trying to replicate the shiver that he soon found he had taken to the chanting.  He took to the low tremor, but the high-pitched callout at the end scared him off.  In short time, he began to feel uncertain of where he was, noticing that, despite the clapping and the shiver, the collective low chant of the natives was starting to tire him.  He kept the clapping and shiver going, but, not wanting to feel woozy, stopped the chanting.  He could always recall how helpless he had felt in trying to stop — because it very soon became apparent that he couldn't.  With mouth shut, he still sang the chant low and despairingly within.  Suddenly, then, quite involuntarily, he jumped into that high and long whoop and tried to carry it to its end.  For long moments, that's all he did, clap with a shiver and then jump into the whoop — when, in sync with the man in front, he started to sing out the low part of the chant again, note by note, out to a World Day audience, making his tremor more tremulous and his whoops more elongated, till he saw himself step directly into a realization: What made the tremor bearable and do-able was the long whoop at the end — that, even in life, one made the other necessary.