Elections, evacuations, and cross-dressing Mayans

The standfast/evacuation was officially lifted Tuesday morning, so I said my goodbyes to my wonderful Zaragoza hosts and headed back to site.  I wasn't happy about being pulled out of site (again), but I've gotten to the point where I know that complaining will get me nowhere.  Sure enough, no major violence or unrest broke out in Campur (nor our municipality, San Pedro Carcha), and life went on as usual.  It's a funny thing in Guatemalan culture--there's often so much build-up, so much planning and talk--that once whatever it is happens and is over with, I'm always surprised at how quickly everything goes right back to normal.  It's like how I remember Christmas as a child.  So many months of writing letters to Santa, seeing lights on the houses, singing songs, wearing red, imagining what presents I would be getting--that come the day after Christmas, when all the wrapping paper had been bagged, the presents opened and set aside, the turkey eaten, the relatives gone, I couldn't help but feel utter disappointment that it was all over, just like that.  It's the same here--schools will strike for two months, political candidates will campaign for half a year, town leaders will meet for a month to plan la Feria--and then, one day, it's all over--it's like it never even happened.  So much of Guatemalan culture revolves around pure ceremony, that I find myself expecting a "Now things will go back to normal" ceremony.  But alas, the elections happened, a President was not elected, and things went immediately back to normal.  Just long enough, that is, to go right back up in arms over Independence Day. 

Crowning the winners. Don't they looked thrilled?

If there is ever a ceremony to beat all ceremonies, it's Guatemalan independence day.  One day (September 15th) turns into 10 days of contests, beauty pageants, parades, fireworks, celebrations, and, of course, tradition.  While I missed most of the build-up this year due to the election-evacuation, I couldn't miss the Tzibal festivities which were held on the night of the 14th (to avoid missing the big celebration that happens in Campur on the 15th).  I was the honorary guest and photographer, and arrived early to help the primary students dress in their traditional costumes for the beauty pageant.  The pageant was a typically long and painfully overdrawn event, but two winners were chosen, who I had the honor of "sashing" as the queens (no crowns, to my dismay).  I remember thinking, as I sat at the judges/honorary invitees table, how Guatemalan events like these beauty pageants make me think of how a child would put on a beauty pageant, if asked.  I mean no disrespect to Guatemalans--this is the way they are, and have been, for years and years.  This is all they know.  But I couldn't help but think back to my babysitting days, when my kids would put on these painfully long and unrehearsed shows for me--there was never any purpose to these shows--they were showy for showiness' sake.  I can remember myself as a child and how I spent hours and hours on tasks with invented importance--lining all my toys up in a row on the windowsill, coloring in my coloring books just so, matching my socks to my shirts--it's these fickle habits that Guatemalans never seem to outgrow.  What I now would deem as silly, time-wasting formalities remain a central part of Guatemalan culture.  An unrehearsed beauty pageant that lasts four hours is how it's done.  So I sit, smile, and do everything in my power to keep from sitting there thinking how I could put on a better beauty pageant in a half hour (but let's be honest, I wouldn't even put on the beauty pageant in the first place). 

Laughing with my costumed skit partners.

The highlight of the night, however, came after I crowned the Señorita Reinas.  Profe Erick gave me and the women's group a slot in the "program" to put on some sort of group performance.  My original idea was to teach the women the Electric Slide and perform it in front of the community.  When we met to rehearse, though, they claimed the dance was too hard for them, and decided that we should do a skit instead.  The skit, in Q'eqchi', revolved around a story of courtship.  I acted the part of the single daughter of a family who is paid a visit by another family who would like to marry me with their son.  The skit was way too long (and made me flash back to skits my sister and I would perform as kids), but again, I kept my mouth shut except to say my two lines.  Come show-night, while I sat up at the judges' table ready to take the stage, I was surprised to see that most of the women were missing from the audience.  Sure enough, this skit wasn't so much a skit as a big joke on me--as the women filed in to perform, half of them were cross-dressed as their husbands!  One thing about indigenous Mayan women is that you never, ever see them wearing anything but their traditional dress.  I remember back in the beginning of my service my indigenous friend Olga came over late at night to drop off something.  She was wearing her laundry washing clothes--cut off jean shorts and a Mickey Mouse t-shirt--and it was like seeing a dog in a suit and tie walk on two feet.  When you've only seen a person in one style of clothing day after day, it's surprisingly jarring to see them in anything else.  So when the women filed in, not only in Western clothes, but MALE Western clothes, I lost it.  I managed to choke out my line, and the community LOVED the skit--we were the comic hit of the night.  A gringa in indigenous dress acting alongside cross-dressed Mayan women.  Go figure.