Zarate Pt. I

MC and accordion player...and fellow teachers.

Remember talent shows?  It was kind of like that.

A few weeks ago, I watched in awe as my still uniformed students sang, drummed, clapped and screamed (more on that in a second) their way through what is basically a folkloric talent show.  They were competing in the school's Zarate (zah-rah-teh) for spots to represent Colegio Rafael A. Moreno (hereafter referred to as CRAM) in the regional Zarate coming up at the beginning of August.  The event is a big deal: even teachers came in dressed in traditional hand made dresses, shirts, and sporting their sombreros pintados.  Students had been practicing for weeks.  The school sold snacks (of course, there was rice) and there were special invited judges.

Of all the performances, I'm most proud that I caught the following one on video.  It's what they call a grito (scream, literally translated), and the tradition goes deep among people from the countryside. I don't really know how to describe it, but essentially it's a competition of voice, the screams produced from way, way deep in the throat and coming out sounding like a bark from a strange animal.  Two guys try to out-scream each other while also mimicking each other.  Think dueling banjos.  What's crazy is the sound projects.  I've heard it a lot around here (again, reminder that the azuero is all about tradition), and still have yet to figure out exactly where that sound comes from or why they do it.  But it's impressive, and always charges the atmosphere with a certain sort of festive energy.

The grito permeates all kinds of speech here.  People communicate with it, have their own sort of grito, recognize that of others.  Even the Spanish accent has a little touch of grito--often adding so much up and down intonation that it sounds like the person is still going through that awkward voice change.  In casual settings (read: home, school, the street, with friends, pretty much anywhere that's not the presidential palace), it's common for people to respond to their name being called with a little "ah-ooh?" which I am happy to say I've adopted.

Anyway, enough about screaming.  Enjoy the video!

Dancing with myself

Growing up in New Mexico, fairs and festivals inevitably included pump-stomping, skirt swinging presentations from Mexican folkloric dance troupes.  I would stand by mesmerized, jealous of the big wide skirts, the makeup, the thick black braids wrapped around buns that just looked so fly.  I would never get to be one those girls.   

Or would I?

A couple of weeks ago, one of my teacher-counterparts told me to come to school that evening to see dancing.  Sweet, I thought, and showed up that evening ready to watch what, for some reason, I thought was going to be a presentation.  Instead, what awaited me at the school was a group of out-of-uniform students that I recognized from the morning session and a boombox.   The teacher looked at me, and said, in plain English, “are you ready for practice?”  At first, I held back, unsure of my role between chaperone and dancer.  Then, little by little, I inched my way to the back of the line of girls shuffling, swaying back and forth to accordion-laced music.  By the end of practice, some students from the night school had shown up and begun to dance around in the back of practice as well.  The music changed and I felt awkward dancing solo in the back, so I humbly excused myself, making up some excuse about getting home too late.  Yet as I walked away from the library, a kid from night school came rushing out after me.  “Where are you going?” he shouted, “We’re going to dance!”  It was my childhood dream come true.

Yes, ladies and gents, I may have joined the junior high folkloric dance troupe, better known around here as the conjunto tipico.  The troupe has 12 boys and 12 girls, so at practice I’m usually left to dance alone or with the instructor, unless a girl is missing and some poor awkward middle school boy has to dance with the tall gringa (although, in my defense, I am a gringa who dances bien suave, which I have no shame in claiming.  Also I’m really not that tall.). 

The last practice I went to was in our school gym during the afternoon session (that’s 10^th,11^th, and 12^th grade), and since it was an exams day, schedules were light.  At one point during practice, I looked over the shoulder of my invisible partner to see the gym doors wide open and the students crowded in the doorway staring at their teacher dancing alone with a bunch of junior high kids.  I remembered the immortal words of Billy Idol: If I had the chance I’d ask the world to dance.  I motioned the gape-mouthed students over, hoping that one would join me and allow me the luxury of having a dance partner for a few seconds.  Thanks to the Panamanian custom of pena (which deserves its own post), no one moved.  Ah, well, I thought, finishing the song in my head: for now I’m dancing with myself.