A Beauty Pageant, Clowning Around, and My Adopted Family

I won’t bother boring you with the day-to-day details of my work life here in El Salvador. Instead I will provide you with a synopsis of the best of my life as of late.

A Beauty Pageant

Like most nations in Central and South America, El Salvador is a very heavily Catholic, otherwise Evangelical Christian, country that manages to infuse religion into even the most seemingly secular activities. If there is a chance to acknowledge God, it’s done. (My favorite is when I say, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” and the response is “Si Dios permite.” If God allows it.) Accordingly, each municipality has a patron saint and annually fiestas patronales, or patron saint celebrations, are held to honor their respective patrons.

Here in my municipality, we are cuidar-ed by Santiago, or Saint James, and every year during the third week of July (coincidentally the same time frame as Canal Fest) there is a seven-day long celebration. The resemblance to Canal Fest is uncanny: the crappy carney rides (they literally are the same rides from the original Canal Fest circa 1982), artery clogging gastronomic goodness, and after dark bolos bailosos. Just like Canal Fest, we, too, have a beauty pageant to elect the queen of the Fiestas.

About three weeks before the Fiestas began and when my friends at the mayor’s office were well into their planning stages and searching for pageant contestants, I was approached by a committee member, affectionately known as Pumba. “Rosellen, venga, venga,” come here, come here. Jokingly, I said, “¿Qué hice?” What did I do? Pumba’s response: It’s not something you’ve done; it’s something you’re going to do, ha ha ha. My immediate thought: Uh oh, what am I getting hoodwinked into now? Now, try to contain your laughter, because I wasn’t able to. Pumba proceeded to ask me to be a candidate in the pageant for reina of Lislque’s fiestas pastronales. At first I thought he was kidding, but on the contrary he was more serious than I had ever seen him. He explained how the purpose of the invitation was not to draw more people to the Baile de Elección or an attempt to raise more money, but rather because I was member of the community and a good potential candidate. Still trying not to crack up, I told Pumba that I would need a few days to consider it. I promised a response by the coming Monday, which seemed to satisfy him for the time being.

On my way home I thought about the absurdity of it all. Me, a 22 years old, 5’6’’, blonde haired, blue eyed, gringa competing in a beauty pageant against a group of 16-18 year olds, 5’1’’, ebony haired, with eyes the color of rich espresso. I’ve never competed in a beauty pageant in my entire life. I always violently refused my mother’s suggestions to compete in the Canal Fest Pageant, why am I even entertaining the possibility now?

I had heard of other volunteers being invited to participate as reina candidates in their municipalities, that it’s a great community integration tool, and, heck, who doesn’t love getting dressed up? Though I knew deep down in my heart, I simply couldn’t compete, (it just wasn’t right to steal that crown away) I was scheming of how my mom could get my prom dress from 2004 shipped down to me in time. Heck, I only wore it once, it was a teal, tacky and bedazzled cupcake doll dress. In a word, PERFECT for a Salvadoran pageant. I called my four main sources of support for advice: Dana, Katheryn, Isabel and Emily.

Dana gave me the response I expected. It started with hysterical laughter and ended in a, “Well, if you really want to, do it.” Katheryn also gave me a predictable response, which also began with laughter and an ultimate, “It’s your decision, but you’d hate it if you really did it.” Isabel surprised me the most, being the most likeminded to me. She rather excitedly said, “Do it! It’s like a dressing up for a theme party!” Much to my surprise, she had just agreed to be a candidate for a beauty pageant in her own community and had her baby chick yellow dress picked out, so she was already aboard the Pageant Express.

The last phone call I made was to seasoned veteran, Emily. Though she got a little chuckle out of my situation, she gave the only sound, sensible advice. “You definitely can’t do it. The other girls are 2/3 your age. Say you’ll be a judge so your committee is not offended and you’ll still get to participate.” So, that’s exactly what I did. I went to Pumba, and dropped the ever-useful f-bomb, “Fijese que…” and he willingly accepted my suggestion to sit as one of the judges. I guess I’ll have to save my teal prom dress for a costume party.

The next week I received my official invitation to serve as a member of the jurado for the “Elección de la Reina de las Fiestas Patronales del Municipio de Lislique.” I quickly gave my affirmative response that I was ready and willing to judge. I asked who else would be sitting on the panel with me, and the response was, “Specialists. From Santa Rosa and San Miguel. They really know how to pick a good reina.” Wow. Specialists. I was going to have to be super discerning if I was going to be judging with specialists.

As word spread that I was going to be a judge, people coincidentally started getting friendlier with me. One young girl, Magdalena, just so happened to be working on a project about illnesses and cultural beliefs about them, and wanted my help. Oh, and by the way she was the candidata representing her cantón.

While talking with the cooperative’s secretary, Milagro, about my new celebrity status, she threw in a plug for her niece who was also a candidate, then proceeded to grill me on my ensemble for the big event. I didn’t even consider a special outfit. Maybe I’d not wear a baseball hat and I’d but on a polo instead of a t-shirt, why, I asked. Wrong answer, Rosellen. Milagro so kindly informed that I really should wear a suit, or in the very least, a dress. When I packed for El Salvador, how silly was I not to pack my blue seersucker or cream linen pant suits? (I miss you both dearly, my beloved summer suits.) Something about living in a third world country just didn’t scream, “Pack sportswear!” I gave my outfit some thought, and went back to Milagro for approval. Yes, my black swearing-in dress was acceptable, but heels were a requirement; no flats allowed.

Finally the big day arrived, I primped and prepped, zipped up my dress and slipped on my pointy-toed red stilettos, and walked the fifty yards from my house to the alcaldia where the event was taking place. (A side note: stilettos and cobbled roads don’t really jive.) I was told the judges panel was to meet over dinner at 7PM, so being time-obsessed since kindergarten, I showed up right on the dot. Mistake.

I ended up dining alone, as none of the other judges had shown up yet and it was unheard of that I would wait to the others arrived to eat my cena. As I was enjoying my usual, lettuce and tomato salad, rice, slab of beef, and rice, the rains started falling something furious, which could only mean one thing: delay in the evening’s events. When it rains up here in Northern La Union, our dirt and gravel roads turn into precarious, muddy slip and slides, making quick transport a challenge.

After I finished eating, I was escorted into the mayor’s office to sit and wait until the beginning of the big event. It was already 7:30PM and only one reina candidata of six had arrived. Right then, I knew I was in for a long, wait-filled night. So, I passed the time chatting it up with the candidate that was there with her mom, waiting nervously. It was very interesting for me to see even in a developing country, this family had so obviously invested a tremendous amount of money in a young girl’s dress, money they certainly could have been put to different (perhaps smarter) use, to participate in a pageant. Showbiz dreams and stage mothers know no boundaries, cultural or geographic.

Finally by 9PM three of the other five candidates had arrived, we received word that one candidate was en camino and the other would not be making the evening’s events. The pageant specialists arrived as well. It turned out these “specialists” weren’t pageant experts, I can’t believe I was so gullible as to think they were, were really just the TV personalities of Northern La Union’s cable television station Canal 17. While we were waiting for the final contestant to arrive to explain the event procedures, we held a photo shoot. I really should have charged per picture taken, the amount of photos I appeared in. As usual, the novelty of taking a picture with a gringa was in full effect.

Finally the last contestant arrived (of course it was none other than the cheeky Magdalena), we explained the order of events and outlined the criteria by which we would be electing the 2010 reina. By the time all this was done, it was 9:30PM, well past my campo bedtime. Darwin, the event organizer and nephew of the mayor, escorted the candidates out to the casa comunal where the pageant and baile were taking place to greet their audience. The Canal 17 guys and I sat around for, what I thought would be mere moments, another hour until 10:30PM when we were paraded out to the judges table.

The whole pageant was very simple and consisted of a strut and question and answer session. From the strut session it was easy to identify the girls that were most confident and comfortable, which served as a good benchmark for the question and answer session. Of course, the election couldn’t take place in one straight shot, we had to delay, build the drama. So between the strut and question portions of the event, we had an hour-long break. By this point, I was absolutely exhausted, yearning for the comfort of my scrub pants and bed.

At midnight, we began the question and answer session, which of course was followed by one last prance. The “specialists” and I made a quick decision. It was simple to see who was the crowd favorite, who was most at ease, and the best spoken. The unanimous winner was Andrea, Milagro’s niece, and the representative of the casco urbano of Lislique. As soon as Andrea said her words of thanks primero a Dios, and then to her family and friends, I quickly, yet gracefully said congratulations, thank yous and goodbyes on my way out. After six hours of pageant festivities I was exhausted, yet pleased to have participated in such a big community event.

Clowning Around

By now I am sure most of you have seen and been appalled by my clown costume photos, and I will admit, I was pretty frightening. Believe it or not, I didn’t just dress up like that for the pure fun of it. I did it to help out my friend and colleague, Brian, who is a youth development volunteer and also part of the NLU crew.

One lazy Sunday afternoon during the beginning of July, I perked up hearing my $20 Nokia cell phone chime away that I had received a text message. This particular text message turned out to be the length of a novel, which could mean only one thing: that it was from Brian. The message went on about his school’s Dia de los Alumnos celebration, his great school directora, and about how all of us NLUers better get our clown pants on to help out. Also, we’d be having a little post-clowning party. At that point, after being in my site for over two weeks straight, I needed some serious gringo time, and this seemed like just what the doctor ordered.

As the date neared, it looked more and more like my schedule wouldn’t allow my little audition for the circus. But, I did commit to helping out, and nothing is worse than a bunch of disappointed kids with no clowns, or a disappointed Brian. So, being the Tim Gunn protégé that I am, I made it work. This meant an early departure the morning of the event and no post-clown party.

Finally the date arrived, EmBo and I woke up at an ungodly hour to make the 5:50AM bus up to Brian’s site (even closer to Honduras than I am) and two hours later from Emily’s (which means three and a half hours from my site), we arrived at the school. On the bus ride up, we encountered Tyler, the volunteer that lives the farthest away from San Salvador and the absolute nearest to Honduras, hiking towards Brian’s site. (He doesn’t even get Salvadoran cell reception. He has a Honduran telephone number!)

Brian greeted us with his usual optimistic grin and hugs, but it was quite obvious that everything was not well. As it turns out, Brian spent the better part of the previous night and the morning making love to the toilet in the throws of his first bout of giardia. I remember my first giardia experience. A complete No Fun Zone. Regardless, Brian still had more energy and pep than the Energizer Bunny, and a killer agenda with all the details of the day’s event broken down literally to the last minute.

We got to work right away at the school, organizing our props for our clown act. While we were busy at work, Niña Mari, the school’s directora introduced herself, we had a small conversation, and based solely on those few minutes it was easy to see she was indeed a mover and a shaker, the best school principal I have met in El Salvador. As we were finishing up our preparation work, Niña Mari even arranged for us to have the true breakfast of champions, pupusas and coffee.

Back at Brian’s, as he was purging his little bacterial friends, Tyler, Emily and I finished the final items on Brian’s to do list. We divided candy, elected our instruments for our grand arrival, and chose our clown outfits. Somehow, Brian was also able to teach us how to make balloon animal dogs. Now if any of you ever need a dog balloon animal-making clown, you know whom to call. We all vested up, I in some killer clown pants and Tyler’s Holland soccer jersey, and then helped each other with the makeup art.

Brian reassured us from the beginning that he’d be providing the clown makeup, no worries. Said clown makeup turned out to be three paint sets: acrylic, oil and water based. For those of you who have never experienced such variations of paint on your face, allow me to explain. Acrylic is the most washable and easiest to remove, but be sure to not use it to cover large surfaces of your face. It dries, hurts terribly, cracks and then chips off. Oil based paints are the most comfortable on the skin, but be sure not to touch a thing. They’ll smear if the wind blows on your face the wrong way, and good luck getting them out of your clothes. Removal is a challenge, but a mixture of rubbing alcohol and Dr. Bronner’s 18 in 1 Castile Soap does the trick. Last but not least, water based paints are simple, but provide little coverage. My recommendation, buy or have REAL clown makeup shipped from the States along with peanut butter, Sour Patch Kids, Clif Bars and dark chocolate. (Why, yes, I’d love a care package with those items!)

Finally the appointed departure time from Brian’s house to the school arrived. We held a photo shoot on the way, as well as encountered many community members. Brian felt it necessary to explain to everyone why we were dressed as insanely as we were, and I was content with just embracing our freak status. About 100 yards from the school, the four of us started blasting our musical instruments. Brian and I had florescent colored records, Emily manned the maracas and Tyler played the hell out of the sports whistled. The exact moment the kids heard us approaching was easy to identify. They were shrieking and cheering. Once as the porton of the school, we performed our shtick of asking permission to enter, getting the kids riled up, and then throwing candy.

Once the candy came out, the kids went ape nutty. All four of us were surrounded by little rascals literally clawing and grabbing at us for a piece of candy. “Please and thank you” was out of the question, and finally I got to flustered after a kid started scrounging through my candy bag that was attached to my body, I just threw the candy as far away as I could so I would have a moment to collect myself and pull up my pants whose suspenders had come undone in the fray. Sidewalk chalk time followed candy time and the same chaos ensued. There was no controlling these zoo animals.

The kids drew for a few minutes on the basketball court (fancy, I know), while the four of us were introduced officially to the crowd. Tyler, Wakeforest graduate and former frat boy, was by far the best and most popular clown. The kids just flocked to his 6’2’’ stature topped in a rainbow mullet wig. Emily was the most patient with the little rascals, Brian the most beloved and I, well I just tried to survive. It is a well-known fact that I am not the greatest fan of children in large numbers. I do much better in small ratios with structure, and there was anything but structure that morning.

Eventually the balloons came out, and you would have thought we were giving out gold. The kids’ grabbing and clawing got so intense that passing out the balloons became impossible and I threw them away in the same way I threw the candy, as though I were throwing them to save my life. The kids soon figured out that we could make animals and the flocking to the clowns began again. I swear, I have never been so popular in my life. And to think, I was a terrifying clown.

Finally the events wound down, The NLU Clown Crew said our goodbyes to the school and ran to quickly wash our faces. Tyler, Emily and I wanted to catch the last bus back down. Taking off my makeup was quite the challenge seeing as I had three variants of paint on my face. Emily took a great photo, which is now up on Facebook where it looks like my makeup is literally melting off my face. After a quick wardrobe change and a quick lunch scarfed and washed down with Salva Cola, we were on a bus on our way south. By far, that two hour ride was the best bus experience I have had, with the best playlist, my entire time in country.

My Adopted Family

I will honestly say the hardest part about my site relocation has been assimilating into my new community. My counterpart at the cooperative does not live in the pueblo like I do, nor am I living with a host family. What that translates to is that I lack someone to walk me around town, drag me to random events and introduce me to community members. Also, walking around the pueblo alone, introducing myself and trying to make friends it pretty challenging. But, as of late, I have been very lucky to be essentially adopted by a loving family.

On my first day in site, arriving exhausted and dehydrated while battling a case of giardia, I left my cooperative’s office in search of Gatorade. The first place I stumbled upon was a house that posted a Gatorade sign out front, so I went asking if they happened to have any. Of course they did, graciously got me a ponche de frutas and inquired as to why I was in their town and what exactly I was doing there. I quickly gave my PC equivalent of an elevator pitch to an audience of four older women, one older man, and three kids before returning to the office.

From then on, they always kindly said hello, and about once or twice a week I passed by in the evenings for pupusas that they sell. The most friendly from the get go was Anita, who is fifteen but looks about twelve and would always pass by the cooperative just to say hello. One day she even asked me to purchase votes in support of her to be elected reina of the church. (Some beauty pageants are decided based on who sells the most votes.)

Everyday I’d pass by, say hello, and continue on my way to or from the cooperative. One day, though, as I was waving hello, Anita was seated at a table with three other girls diligently working. Something in my pulled me to the house where I found the girls working on math, quadratic equations, and not having a clue of what they were doing. Mustering up my algebra skills from Mrs. Petersen’s and Mr. Magaris’ classes took a few minutes, but I managed to help them along just fine. When their homework was finished, I said goodbye and was on my way out the door. Anita stopped me short and asked if I could come again the next day to help with the rest of their assignment. Seeing as I had nothing planned, I said of course. Our date was set.

The next evening I headed over to Anita’s at 5:30PM, just like we planned. I helped her and the other girls with their assignment, and was then quickly fed by Anita’s aunt a meal of pupusas and pop. I left that evening thinking how fun that was, and figuring that I’d come to help only when asked. On my way out, Anita asked again, ¿Va a venir mañana? Sure, I’ll come tomorrow.

Eventually the math homework ran out, but the pupusas and friendship hasn’t. Nearly every evening I head over to the Alfaro’s, play math flashcards, make paper airplanes and eat. Anita, and her family consisting of her brother, Melkin; cousin, Jonathan; Aunt Golla; Aunt Marta; Grandma Maria; and many more have taken me in as their own. It has gotten to the point that if I don’t come over everyday and if I don’t eat pupusas, something must be seriously wrong. Honestly, I am going to turn into a pupusa, so Anita and I have begun to cook other things together, as well. So far, we have made homemade pizza and cookies. It’s my goal to introduce Anita, as well as the rest of the family, to food they haven’t tried and teach them different ways to prepare foods they know. So far, it’s been pretty fun. Believe it or not, Anita’s favorite pizza is pineapple and ham.

I can’t begin to express how utterly ecstatic I am to be able to share my Peace Corps experience with my parents this week! The short seven days they have here are going to be filled with a mountain of memories and special events, including the celebration of my 23^rd birthday. Remember, you are all welcome and I’d love to have visitors! (I do have a toilet and shower now, so no roughing it!)

Special thank yous go out to Vi and Janet for their pieces of mail. As you know, I love to receive letters, and, Janet, I absolutely love the photos. Also, thanks to Marsha, Debbie, Janet, Trisha, and Vi for my birthday surprises that I cannot wait to open on Tuesday!

Also, a special Congratulations! goes out to my best friend Caitlin on beginning medical school!

Last but not least, Happy Anniversary goes out to all my Rochester loves. Believe it or not, it’s been five years since we met during Freshmen Orientation.

I hope all is well with you back home. I love you!