CLOWNING AROUND IN CENTRAL AMERICA
By SARAH LEAMY
“A clown is like an aspirin except that it works twice as fast.” -Groucho Marx
Being socially inept, physically awkward and somewhat clumsy, clowning around comes surprisingly easy to me. Last summer I put all the pieces together. I travel. I clown. I write.
Clowning brings people together. Through silliness, irreverence, and innocence clowning is a bridge across generations, languages and cultures. Following in the footsteps of numerous hospital clowning projects, I set off for Central America, traveling in top hat and tails, with a bag full of toys and ties.
That first day in Antigua, Guatemala I woke up immobilized. What the hell am I doing here? Why did I think that a vagabond clown such as I am could make any kind of difference to the kids in Guatemala? I honestly had no idea what I was doing or where my first cup of coffee was coming from. I had arrived with neither local money nor a map. Not very sensible of me I admit. Why do I have fake flowers, two clown hats, juggling clubs but no sandals, sunglasses or even a sleeping bag?
Antigua opened up in a grid of cobble-stone streets, pastel painted adobe walls, tropical plants and parks, plazas and churches from the sixteenth century. Outside San Pedro hospital, Mayan vendors offered traditional colorful woven clothes, as people ate from the fruit stall next to the papaya tree. Tall and floppy in baggy blue pants, and a brightly striped t-shirt, not forgetting a top hat and bowtie I started to juggle. The balls, yellow, red, and green stripes, flew and fell randomly. Within minutes I had three kids watching wide-eyed in fascination. These Mayan girls, from three to eight years old, were barefoot yet dressed in elaborately embroidered huipels (blouses) and plain dark colored cortes (wrap around skirts). We swapped names in simple Spanish. The oldest one, Maria, counted to five in English for me. The shoe-shine boy behind me sat on his wooden box, staring solemnly.
“You want to play too?” I asked.He told me his name was Jaime and then grabbed a ball to play catch with me. Jaime even turned down a job shining shoes to keep fooling-around. He dove to make the greatest save in the whole world, falling to his knees, arms above his head, and with his head back, he crowed in delight. Jaime kept losing his lace less shoes, and his feet were as black as his shoe polish-soaked hands. After that, whenever I walked past the hospital, locals greeted me as “Payasita” (little clown) and mimed for me to juggle again. What can I say? I’m a clown.
A neighborhood to the east of the main square celebrated another fiesta one Saturday afternoon with a ten foot devil effigy, bonfires, music, and a parade. Crowds filled the streets, chaotic with fireworks, ice cream carts, kids charging around, and the benches overflowing with courting teenagers. The loud speakers next to the fountain pumped a mix of modern and traditional music, in competition with the bands of marimba, salsa, and Garifuna (Guatemalan Caribbean influences) lining the corners and smaller plazas. I squatted to my knees and soon enough little kids came to me, giggling and hiding behind hands and squealing when I made as though to tickle them.
One of the littler kids asked me, “Are you a clown?”
“Yes. Why?”
“You look funny.” and Anna, five years old and three feet tall, pointed to my patched trousers and striped tie.
Outside La Merced, a church first founded in 1538, a parade of brightly dressed monkeys, bears and donkey characters danced between the decorated pick up trucks, throwing out gifts and toys, or free samples of soaps, of shampoos, creating chaos as everyone screamed and jumped catching whatever they could. A toddler stood solidly in front of me. I pulled out my three juggling balls. He stepped closer and closer under his grandmothers watchful glances. Handfuls of curious youngsters wandered over. After finding out names and ages, both theirs and mine, I handed out tennis balls. Heidi, seven years old, and her younger brother Jergson, five, stayed with me as the others followed the sounds of parents and processions. On the grass we played catch. The toddler proudly took his ball to Grandma.
In school later that week I asked “what do you remember of the civil war?”
Louis sat back and began a story of the war that ran from the sixties until the Peace Accords of 1996. Louis is my Spanish language teacher, in his thirties, an educated Ladino in western clothes and traditional Catholic beliefs.
“Behind my pueblo is a mountain where the guerrillas lived. My village is just outside of Antigua, settled in a steep valley along the only road. Once a week the guerrillas came down this street, stopped all traffic and stole food, clothes, and money. They were very quick, maybe fifteen minutes at most. The military always arrived too late to catch them in town. Just outside in the woods the machine guns tore blindly into the hills. My family and I hid under the beds, under the tables and chairs, for an hour.”
“Once a week?”
“Yes. Once a week. I was twelve years old.” Louise sipped his glass of water. “Every morning before breakfast or coffee, before going to work, one by one the town people would walk to the western edge where the city dump was.”
“Why?”
“Everyday there would be bodies. Sometimes it was women, sometimes children, mostly men. We looked to see who they had killed.”
On my last night in Antigua I walked around the main square. Three Mayan kids, all babbling away, surrounded me. I crouched down as they gathered closer.
“Payasita! Payasita! Do you recognize me?” asked the oldest of the girls.
“Maria!”
It was the kids from that first day at the hospital. Maria’s eyes sparkled in delight at being remembered. Then they were gone again, leaving me sitting on the steps watching them skipping down the cobbled streets, looking over their shoulders to wave me goodbye before begging from the other tourists.
After twelve years of living in New Mexico, a desert rat like me needs to be near water. Lake Atitlan satisfies all such cravings. The mountains don’t just meet the water, they tower over it. Lava rocks line the beaches near a mix of bamboo, avocado trees, and cornstalks. Formed by a huge volcano that collapsed over 80,000 years ago the lake is simply breathtaking.
In the Mayan culture, Lake Atitlan is where the world was created. It is a magical place whatever your spiritual beliefs.
Traveling from one village to another is done by small boats (lancha), or in the back of pick-up trucks wherever narrow windy roads exist. One of the smaller and poorer lakeside villages, San Juan hid in the gentle slopes of a relatively flat valley. Once there, I sat on a step next to the dock. Kids stared at me, shy yet curious, as I made faces at them. Their faces lit up as they crept towards me. Still others gathered around me, now drawn by the bubbles, chasing them and each other, asking for more and more and more.
I wandered amongst the adobe homes, stray dogs and playing kids. I watched three girls in skirts and blouses playing basketball barefoot, teasing each other in the midday heat. Two girls behind me couldn’t keep away even though they would only say hello, then hide again. Elena is the oldest, she tells me finally, at seven years old. Maria at five is the most curious and bold, and the toddler, Pablo, was quickly overwhelmed and he ran away. Still, I had made him laugh out loud twice.
With only an occasional grey heavy cloud overhead and a strong wind that the locals call El Norte, I sat on the next boat taking me across the five miles to yet another village. I stared into the distance, thinking about the history and the culture of Guatemala, and the ongoing clash between the Ladino and the Mayan peoples.
Louis in Antigua had talked of his fears of the guerillas and their killing and stealing sprees in his village. He is ladino.
Diego took me around San Pablo with a devastatingly different version of events. Diego is Mayan. There is no tourism here. There is little work. Diego talks of the Civil War.
“My grandfather was shot for wearing traditional clothes. They, the military, see anyone in ´traje´, they kill them. No questions. It was Lucas, the President; he kept us down by killing us. He wanted us to work the land for no pay, no ownership. We are treated worse than the dogs.”
San Pablo celebrated its annual town “Feria” (fiesta) with streets filled with market stalls, food stands, and bright toys, despite the problems caused by such poverty and discrimination.
Tapped on the shoulder, I turned to see a ten year old girl in a green blouse and black skirt staring at me.
“Do you need a green balloon?” She nodded her head with a wicked glint and a hand is held out to me. In fact, I was surrounded by more than thirty children, jostling each other, teasing me for my bad jokes. I sat on the cobbled steps and started to blow up multi-colored balloons, drawing quick sketches on them, and tying them to a bit of wool. Handing them out, throwing them over their heads, and playing the fool, I was in bliss. All of these kids waited with sparkling eyes, stunned by this random moment of silliness in their streets with some “gringa” in odd clothes. Louis pointed out his new shoes that with each step flashed and squeaked. Marcos in his clean blue jeans, blue and white t-shirt and bare feet, followed me through the crowds, selling his tray of bright hair ties. I gave him a rose balloon and he beamed in delight, then tied it to his pants and followed me deeper into the market.
I’d seen a teenage girl with a whistle in her mouth and I couldn’t resist. When she caught my eye I blew up another balloon, making music to echo hers, then slowly as the yellow balloon deflated, so did I, sinking to my knees, my bum, then to my back, and ending face down in the sandy street as the balloon gave one final burp.
I stood back up. The girl and all her family stared at me eyes sparkling in merriment. I tipped my top hat at them, brushed off my patched and grey tails, handed over the yellow balloon and left, tripping over the rough road.
Another week, and as the Three Monkeys, a German man, an American woman, and I decided to make our way through all the villages around the lake. The catch was this; Linus couldn’t see, Sarah couldn’t hear, and I was to be silent. A clowns day out!
The first boat ride took us to Panajachel. An older American couple sat next to us on the boat discussing the contingency plans they would need to buy a lakeside property. She stared at Linus and his blindfold then whispered to Hubby. Back on land we wandered past the many private lakeside properties owned by wealthy “Guatemaltecos” and westerners. Whenever we asked for directions, Sarah prodded Linus to speak for us. He questioned the unseen voice in front of him. I then translated the route through mime for Sarah. It was most confusing for one and all, not to mention those I kept picking to talk to, but their shy timid looks broke into pure friendliness when I mimed out what we were doing.
From village to village we hung on in the back of the pick up trucks, speeding through the coffee fincas, past the volcanoes, one moment up high staring upon the huge expanse of the lake, the next down at the waters edge, stumbling through villages, steering Linus, and giggling at his oblivion to the kids staring as they followed us. I tipped my top hat to them politely. At one restaurant we mimed our order to the waitress. Hungry and thirsty I asked for a cold Gallo beer. I offered Linus a sip and the cheeky bugger finished it in three gulps. I ordered another and hid it from him.
Clowning around is magical! Such foolishness connects all of us across generations, cultures, and languages. It doesn’t matter where we are or how we live. It’s not the colorful clothes, the crazy hair sticking out in all directions or juggling that makes a funny clown. Truth is, playing and paying attention is something anyone can do, anywhere. A smile shared with another makes a difference. It truly does. It’s not just for the kids; I have to admit I love it!
What a way to live…and what a way to meet people as I wander cross country. I’m a clown, what more can I say?
As Red Skelton the clown once said,
“If someday you’re not feeling well, you should remember
some little thing I have said or done, and if it brings a smile to your face or a chuckle to your heart, then my purpose as a clown as been fulfilled.”
SIDEBARS for “CLOWNING AROUND IN CENTRAL AMERICA”
by SARAH LEAMY
1 A BRIEF CLOWN HISTORY: In ancient Greece, comics performed in exaggerated padded costumes, parodying the actions of the more serious actors. In Roman times, the clown wore colorful robes and became the brunt of tricks. Three traditional types of clowns include the circus clown with the white face, the auguste clown with the baggy mismatched costume in the style of the incompetent, and then the character clown is usually down on his luck yet often unperturbed, as typified by Charlie Chaplin.
2 HOSPITAL CLOWNS: Laughter heals. Nowadays there are many hospital clowning projects all over the world that visit children and adults alike, in clinics, hospices, refugee camps, and wherever daily life is a struggle. Organizations include The Gesundtheit Insitute and Patch Adams (USA), The Humour Foundation (UK), the Theodora Foundation (Switzerland), Clini-Clowns (Austria), Le Rire Medicine (France), Fools of Health (Canada), and Doctors of Joy in Brazil.
1 GUATEMALAN FACTS:
2 INCOME: In 2000, the United Nations estimated that 75% of Guatemalans live in extreme poverty. Tourism is the largest source of income, taking over from bananas, sugar, cardamom, and coffee since 2001. A recent report in national paper described how 94,000 children under the age of fourteen work for their families survival. Even the Ladinos who live in abject poverty proudly declare, “Well at least I’m not Mayan.” as that is the worst of the worst.
3 ORPHANS: In the Highlands there are over 20,000 orphans as a result of the Civil War. The Peace Accords in 1996 made many promises to address the needs of the Mayan Villages, such as education, clean water, and land rights. Little has actually been done.
4 EDUCATION: the average child receives 2 ½ years schooling. In the lake Atitlan area that becomes 18 months. Poverty is simply the root cause. To provide education for one child it only costs $1 a week.
5 WHAT NEXT? If you would like to sponsor a child’s education in any of the villages I mentioned, please write to me and I will arrange it with the teachers.
6 WHAT NEXT? Clowning around is simply paying attention and playing. Making house calls to the elderly or the sick is an excellent way to make a difference in your own community. Volunteering once a week to visit and play and laugh with someone truly helps lighten their experiences. If you would like to set up such a project in your community, please contact me at: Info@sleam.com.
