Friday Fun

Oh boy. It’s just a little past noon, and my day has already been all kinds of silly.

Today is some sort of national teacher’s day, and all of the teachers from the region have come to Xejuyup for a big celebration. No one seemed particularly capable of explaining the whole festivity up until today; everyone claimed to be in the dark with regards to the time, and what would be happening, and where it would be taking place. Then, around 8:30 this morning, the school director came knocking on my door (I was fresh out of my icy shower…probably still shivering). He explained to me that the reason for today’s celebration was to honor all teachers, and that there would be a variety of cultural events taking place along with the coronation of some sort of regional queen of education. Uh, ok.

Of course, all of this was done with the very wordy, round-about, pomp-and-circumstance manner in which formal conversations take place here. I could tell he was trying to get to some sort of a point, and by the time he got around to mentioning the fact that all of the teachers from our school would be dancing a typical Guatemalan dance, I wasn’t surprised. However, when he suggested that I, also, should be taking part, I was a bit taken aback. They’ve been talking about this event (albeit in frustratingly vague terms) for the whole week. No one could have mentioned the fact to me that I would be expected to dance in front of a crowd of several hundred teachers? And perhaps taken a second to teach me the dance steps?

I think my hesitation to participate must have been obvious, and the director mercifully let me off the hook this time. Next time, it probably won’t be so easy.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m all about new cultural experiences, and trying to learn about the typical customs and traditions here. But dancing in front of a crowd of several hundred adults, with only a half an hour of forewarning? Let’s be reasonable.

I went down to the town center along with Manuela, who is basically the head coordinator of the boarding program. She’s a very nice girl, if not a bit space cadet-y, and quite long-winded when given a microphone. But other than that, delightful. We got all the way to the town center (it’s not that far, but I say “all of the way” because we had, I kid you not, five false starts. We left her room and got various distances towards the center before she realized she’d forgotten something FIVE times.) Once we sat down and looked around, she said “Aye! We should have put you in a traje typica! (traditional dress.)”

So….back up the hill we went again, and she found me a traje typica to put on. The outfit that nearly all of the women here wear is a standard style, with different regions of the country adopting variations in pattern and color. The tops are called huipuils, and they are kind of bag-with-sleeves shaped giant heavy cotton shirts which are tucked in and bloused out over the skirt. They are pretty much always appliquéd or woven with some sort of brightly colored design, and are usually very pretty.

The skirt is basically a giant cloth tube which, when held out, could easily fit five people inside. It’s wrapped around your body several times, and covers from the waist to the ankles. It’s all held on to the body by simply tightly wrapping a woven or beaded belt around the waist several times, securing it by tucking in the belt edges.

They look, in a strange sort of way, like latino kimonos. They certainly require the wearer relatively small steps, and the give the body a very uniform shape, which only changes when it widens at the shoulders. I’ll try and post a picture once I get some good batteries for my camera. I’ve tried to buy some here, because I forgot to pack the ones I had at home, but they sell them already used and dead. It’s a pain.

Anyway, I felt like a silly, hot, bound-up fool in the outfit. As they were putting it on me, everyone around was delightfully chatting away in k’ichee’, and the only word I was consistently picking out sounded like “ooh-t.” I became convinced that “ooh-t” must mean something along the lines of “outlandish” or “absurd,” since that’s how I felt. Finally, I mustered up the courage to ask. Turns out, ladies and gents, that “Ut” means “Guapa,” which, for you non-Espanolites, is the feminine version of the word “handsome.”

I still wasn’t entirely convinced that I looked alright, but they were, so I just nodded and smiled and went along with it. It’s funny, because for the most part, I feel like no matter what I do I’m going to stand out here. I’m not going to normally wear Guatemalan outfits, and if I do, I’m so much taller than everyone else, and my hair is obviously a far cry from long and jet black. I’m noticeable no matter what. Although that should probably encourage me to take extra care of my appearance, instead, it’s kind of made me not care. I’m not going to conform, even if I want to, so I may as well be comfortable. Besides, I don’t have a mirror, so I don’t really ever know what I look like. Eh. Whatever.

Anyhow, we headed towards the town center (again) and I continued to receive compliments and stares. I even was whistled at a few times, which is the first time I’ve heard that happen at all since I’ve been here. Not only that, but once we finally got back to our seats at the festival, I even caught another upper-twenties aged teacher taking secret pictures of me. Turns out, I’m a babe in Guatemalan clothes. Sweet.

Of course, I almost blew my cover when I bent over in my seat to pick up a piece of paper which had fallen, and nearly toppled myself. I’d forgotten that I was bound up like a baby in bunting, and was expecting a bit more mobility. Luckily I caught myself in time; disaster averted.

After I got tired of sitting around at the presentation (as I write this it has been going on for 4 hours, with no signs of slowing, and so far it’s just been people standing on a stage and talking about how great teachers are) I headed back to the school, wanting to make it in time for lunch.

This is the second part of my day being ridiculous.

As always, I pushed my bowl through the little pass-through into the kitchen, the cooks took it, dished me up, and handed it back. I got my tortillas from the tortilla-distributor lady at the end of the line, and went to sit down. As I believe I’ve emphasized before, pretty much the only thing we eat here is rice, beans and tortillas. Today, however, we were in for a treat.

An orangy-red sauce sloshed around in the bottom of my shallow bowl, causing the few cooked potatoes and little slice of – meat? – to slide into one another. As I sat down, I timidly sniffed the dish, only to discover an odor reminiscent of barnyard bovine autopsies. Hm. That’s odd. The thin piece of meat was a rectangle a few inches long, with a smooth, connective tissue backing and a rough microvillus top. Although I inquired amongst my companions what this dish might be, they only giggled shyly and shrugged their shoulders. Odd.

I tried to eat a few of the potatoes, but couldn’t quite hack it. Everything had a sickening, rotten, dead smell to it. The girls around me were tearing into theirs with gusto, but anyone who’s heard me tell about Peruvian cuy knows I’ve learned my lesson with unknown, exotic foods.

I finished my tortillas in silence, wondering what vile ingredients this potion in front of me could possibly be concocted from. It didn’t take much deliberation for me to come to the obvious conclusion. I am, after all, a student of biology. This was clearly cow stomach soup. My suspicions were confirmed upon a more detailed quizzing of the girls. No one had wanted to tell me, for fear of my disgusted reaction, but Sherlock Jenna figured it out.

I passed my bowl down the table, letting someone else enjoy this culinary gem, and retired to my room to eat a sweet roll I’d purchased yesterday. Much safer, thank you very much.