Since we arrived in site some 15 months ago, women around town have asked me, “Where is your corte?” They all understood from the beginning that we’re here both to work and to get to know and understand their culture, so they’ve expected me to participate from time to time by wearing their traditional dress: the corte, the huipil, and the faja. To please the gente during a few festivals, I borrowed one of many trajes (the whole package deal) from the ladies next door. Last year when we surprised everyone in town by dressing up in the traditional dress for the Virgin of Guadalupe celebration, a few older ladies in town actually cried, overwhelmed with happiness. They really like it when we emulate them. And of course, Fletch bought the traditional capishay and has been sporting it for nearly a year on a pretty regular basis, which only made the “Where’s your corte?” a more frequently asked question. Then Fletch joined them in their questioning, “Why don’t you get one?” or, “You should get one like this!” or, “When are you going to buy your corte? You should definitely have one.” I think I put it off for so long because 1) I found all the questions and prodding annoying so I was being stubborn in my refusal and 2) the traje is expensive; not just a little expensive, but really expensive. In fact, the price of a traje is one of the major factors threatening its continued manufacture and use in many parts of Guatemala. Often young girls and women will skip the huipil or blouse, and just wear t-shirts, or cheaply made sweaters with the skirt, the corte. They opt to wear the traditional blouse only on formal occasions.

In spite of feigning disinterest at the whole traje purchase idea, I have been eyeing the regional trajes the entire time we’ve been here. I’ve heard that trajes were assigned by the conquistadores to the all the different ethnic groups in Guatemala, as a way to keep them straight, so the traditional styles and patterns used differ, sometimes greatly, from region to region. In my opinion, their levels of attractiveness also vary greatly. In our municipality the most traditional traje consists of a red skirt with sparse vertical stripes, a little thicker than pinstripes, of blues and greens and a little bit of white. The traditional top is a white shirt that goes down to mid-shin, and the top is billowing with layered stripes on the collar. Fletch says it makes the grandma’s (they’re the only ones who still use the old-style tops) look like big white Christmas trees, and that the collar looks like a stack of crochet doilies. This is a pretty accurate description. I like the traditional corte for its simplicity, but I don’t dig the traditional blouse. I even dislike the more modern version, a short stack of doilies that tucks into the corte so that it looks less like a tent. These pictures are show me in the more modern version of the local dress (the one with Fletch is at the Virgin de Guadalupe dinner). In addition to the changes in the top, the preferred cortes in our area are no longer hand woven on a backstrap loom, rather machine made and full of sparkling threads and tons of colors. The faja, or the belt that holds it all together comes in all sorts of variations: thick, medium, thin; embroidered, beaded, or woven; designs from the mayan calendar, birds, flowers, or geometrics in any and all colors imagineable. And to top it all off, all the different cortes have certain types of ribbons or head dresses for tying up their hair. In our area, the most traditional is a simple read ribbon that ties the hair into a wreath around the head or is woven into two braids (replace the blue ribbon in the photos with a plain red one). In some areas of Guatemala, the headresses are massive affairs with multi-colored pom-poms or thick masses of silver colored beads. Our home sweet home in Guatemala is comparatively very simple.

My favorite huipiles come from a place in southern Huehuetenango known as the Mesilla. They’re hand woven in dark maroon and white verticle stripes, the bottom is lined with twisted tassles from the extra thread, and they embroider brightly colored geometric designs all across the front and back. They’re generally left untucked from the corte because of the decorative tasseling. Unfortunately, as my favorite, I picked one of the most expensive designs available. Just as the cortes are now machine made, so are many of the huipiles, but in the Mesilla the women still weave these beautiful tops on a backstrap loom. The result is a very soft, flowing fabric–and in spite of being short sleeved it’s really warm from all the embroidery. In my opinion it’s much more comfortable than the acrylic lacy tops so popular here.

About a month or so ago, as we lined up speaking engagements for our Thanksgiving trip back to the states, Fletch brought up the traje again. We will be speaking at two different schools, middle school and elementary. “You know, it’d be really cool if you had a traje to wear so you could actually show them what the typical dress here is like.” And he had a point. I imagined being a kid in one of those classes and it seemed it would make the whole thing much more real. Also,in our village the end of the school year was coming up, and we were sure to be asked at the last minute to hand out diplomas in our village (much like being asked at the last minute to judge the Independence Day beauty contest). A traje would be just the gear I needed to fit in. So I started talking to my trusty pal Reyna on Friday, just over a week ago, when she came home from work. “You know, San Rafael is having their feria, so there are all sorts of traje vendors there. Tomorrow is the last day, but we could go try and find you one there.” It felt like a now or never moment. I talked it over with Fletch to see if we had the funds to handle this purchase, and before saying goodnight to her that evening I asked, “So what time should we leave in the morning if we’re going to go buy my traje?” She started laughing–I was fairly certain that when she made the offer to go with me she didn’t think I would take her up on it, which is part of the reason I decided to do so. And we made our date for the lenghty ride to this “neighboring” town to buy a traje.

I had this problem growing up, being the fifth of six girls in my family, where I had a girls telling me what I should like and what I should buy all the time. Being a total tomboy, I was also fairly fashion retarded. This led to many annoying incidences where I would go shopping with a sister or two, listen to what they told me to do, and come home with something I realized I absolutely hated and never wanted to wear. I’ve mostly kicked this habit but for some reason here, I often just listen to what people tell me to do even when their instructions are non-sensical or inefficient or seemingly aburd. I’m just trying to fit in. I know this family, so I know all of my 6 host sisters had conferenced Friday night about what I should buy Saturday morning. I was only going shopping with Reyna, but I was shopping with all of their opinions, and I was determined not to buy something I didn’t like.

I told Reyna we needed to buy the huipil first, because I wanted one I really liked and could potentially wear from time to time at home post-PC. “The corte and the faja should be bought to match the huipil,” I told her. She was down with that plan. The bargaining, we knew, would prove difficult because, being bright white means all vendors assume I have lots and lots of disposable income.

I found a huipil close to the type worn in the Mesilla, but rather than maroon and white stripes the base color was blue. It was still hand woven and brightly embroidered, which made it very soft and comfortable to wear. We left the vendor hanging, and came back after we’d seen all the stalls. Still we only got him down to 450 quetzales. I think a local could’ve gotten it for 250-300. I feel we maybe should have tried the walk away technique one more time before settling on a price, but I was probably too anxious. Bargaining is not just skill; it can be an art.

After the huipil was purchased we moved on to looking at cortes. I wanted one that was simple. I don’t like the machine made brightly colored, sparkly threaded “modern” cortes, but the traditional red with blue, green and white stripes wouldn’t go well with my top. In the corte store we were presented with about 10 different options, most of them being the “modern” cortes. I kept telling them, “I want something simpler. No, not that one. I want something simpler.” Reyna would point out one she liked, the “modern” kind. Little did she know how much I hate, HATE, the color pink when she picked out a predominately grey and pink one for me. My sisters in the states would not consider pointing out anything that resembled a shade of pink. I found a dark blue one, with vertical striping similar to the traditional Eulalense corte, though it’s actually from near the Solola area, and the colors complemented the embroidery in my huipil. One of the challenges is that a traje works in so many different colors it feels like some great secret to me how they decide what looks good with what. Reyna was not a fan of this corte, but I began to feel it was the right choice. A coincidental bonus, it started out about 300 quetzales cheaper than the ones I didn’t like. The cortes, much like a scottish kilt, are yards and yards of fabric, which accounts for the high prices. Reyna really did try to talk me out of it. She said it was too simple, too dark, too plain, too uninteresting. She worked on me, but I wouldn’t budge. Then the vendor, since he had shown me so many cortes, thought I wouldn’t notice if he upped the orginal starting price by a few hundred quetzales. He was wrong. Again, I’m not sure I drove a hard enough bargain for the corte, but I walked out of there with the skirt I wanted and 600 quetzales lighter than I’d started.

For the last piece needed, the faja, I had one stipulation. It had to be a thick belt rather than a thin one. The corte is held up entirely by the faja, which means if you don’t tie the belt tight enough, you’ll loose your skirt. This happened to little Michelle one night at dinner. She stood up to cross the hearth and her corte fell down around her ankles, “Ayy!” she yelped. Everyone laughed hysterically, but this has become a running joke every time I put on a corte. “You don’t want to end up like Michelle,” they say, “Ayyy!” So the faja needs to be tied really tight. If it’s a thin belt tied tight, it’s amazingly uncomfortable. The thick belts distribute the pressure a little better and are therefore less uncomfortable–I wouldn’t say any faja I’ve ever worn could be described as comfortable. We found a belt, practical, colorful, wide, and fairly priced at 35 quetzales. Thankfully we’d finished buying the entire traje before noon. I felt very accomplished.

Add it up. The whole shebang came to 1,085 quetzales, divide that by 8.2 for the price in american dollars. But to give you some perspective, I receive a living stipend of approximately 2300 quetzales a month; nearly half of my monthly stipend. Most women here do not have jobs, and Reyna, a nurses’ assistant, is paid about 2500 quetzales a month. She owns several cortes, but doesn’t usual wear the huipil. Buying the traje is no small investment for these families. Maintaining their cultural heritage comes with a pretty high price tag.

We were exhausted and hungry by the time we made it home, and as luck would have it, much of the family was in town running errands and buying new clothes for the upcoming graduation celebration. I was resting in our house when I heard Reyna yelling across the field, “EMILY! EMILY! COME SHOW THEM YOUR TRAJE!” They’d all come home. Lena, a daughter/sister-in-law of the family had her sewing machine out in the yard already working on the new cortes they’d brought home from the market. I came out and put the huipil on over my t-shirt. They liked it, but then everyone started speaking quickly in Q’anjob’al and Lina looked at me and asked, “Why did you get this huipil instead of one like this?” She held up Gela’s brand new blouse, a lacy, transparent affair with flowers embroidered all around the neck. “Well, that’s pretty, but I probably wouldn’t wear it ever in the states, and this one I will.” Reyna agreed the one I bought looked good with my jeans. All the sisters started taking off their shirts and passing around Gela’s huipil. “Try it on,” they said, pushing it at me. I felt very awkward just taking my t-shirt off in the yard but equally awkward about excusing myself to go inside since they were all changing in front of me. Weird culturual moment, what do I do? I made a joke about them preparing to be blinded (it was very hot and sunny out that Saturday). They laughed and made jokes about how white I was, and Masha made some joke I only half understood about how small chested I am, probably because I haven’t had babies. Nice. They gasped at the sight of the huipil, “It’s so pretty on you! You should have bought one like this! Oh, you should wear this one!” I just smiled in spite of the fact that I was NOT a fan. It really is completely transparent, mesh-like lace. I came over to show it to Fletch, who agreed it was a good thing I didn’t buy it, but then said, “Actually, I do kind of like it. It looks a little like something you’d find in India.” I would never wear a transparent top to a Guatemalan graduation. It’s just not my thing. But since I played along, the ladies finished up criticizing my huipil.

“What’s your corte look like?” I pulled it out of the bag and they erupted into Q’anjob’al–I understood that they weren’t that happy with my choice and they were telling Reyna about it. I understood her to say, “I couldn’t make her buy one she didn’t like!” So I broke in with my Spanish and said, “Don’t regañar her, she tried to get me to buy the other ones, but I like this one. It’s not her fault.” And everyone stopped and laughed–they still forget that I can understand a lot more of their conversations than I used to. So they switched to telling me in Spanish all the reasons that the other kind was prettier. I just smiled. Then, “Do you want us to sew on an extra length of fabric at the bottom. It’ll be shorter once you wash it and it won’t look good.” Ok, so in some regions they sew on the extra length at the bottom and in some regions they don’t. I simply don’t think it looks good, especially because they never line up the two pieces of fabric to make the pattern continues. Maybe I’m just too picky, but that’s just the way I am. I told them to not sew on the extra piece and we’d keep it around in case we really needed after it was washed. They cut the extra length of fabric off, finished the edges, and little Delmy got a corte to match mine. Sadly, we don’t have a picture of that. She’s pretty cute.

I was gathering up all the pieces of my outfit and couldn’t find the faja. “Where’s my belt?” Everyone started looking around. Eventually Masha pulled her shirt up and it turns out, she liked it so much when she tried it on over her faja that she just left it there. She was laughing and red with embarassment.

The next step was to wash the corte. Most trajes and artesanal products made from trajes are dyed but without the use of fixants, so the colors bleed terribly any time they get wet. Just handling my corte had turned my hands a light shade of blue. Again, it was Reyna who guided me through the process, and it took forever. It’s so much fabric to wash by hand and there was so much excess dye to get out of it. Another reason I’m not a huge fan of the traje is that it takes so much time to wash that corte. By Sunday afternoon it had been washed and dried and the family demanded I try it on for inspection. Though I could wear the huipil outside of my corte because of the decorative tassles, it makes me look like I tent, and the majority of the ladies agreed tucked in was better. This was the family inspection. And just after I put the traje on, they tied Reyna’s little boy, Nasito, on my back so that I could look really authentic.

As predicted, the traje was a huge hit with the community on graduation day, and when the director saw us walk in with our tipico outfits on, he put us in chairs of honor on the stage and had us hand out diplomas. We even helped them kick off the marimba dance with the baile del panuelo, the dance of the handkerchief, where you pull people in to dance with you by wraping a red handkerchief around them, and the marimba players can’t stop the music until the last woman to dance places the kerchief on the marimba. I usually get to end it.

The funniest occurrence didn’t take place in our village though. Nas and Lina’s youngest daughter, Lucia, and their oldest grandchild, Galindo, both graduated from high school on Thursday night. The high school is located in the main town, and the graduation wasn’t set to begin until 7 o’clock, so the family rented a microbus to take us all in and bring us home. The day I bought my corte the family was talking about upcoming events. Reyna looked at me and asked, “Are you two going?” then demanded, “You HAVE to come.” So the decision was made.

The main town here is pretty big compared to our aldea, and most people there don’t know us. We put on our outfits and took off into town with the family. Since we’re rarely out after dark there’s always this twinge of excitement that comes with being in cars at night–it reminds us of home where that stuff is allowed and fairly safe, but it also means that something special or out of the ordinary is happening. It was funny to be in a micro full of our host family, everyone dressed up, lots of cologne and perfume wafting around. To make it still more interesting, one of our closest volunteer friends, Anne, had arrived that night to visit us, and was on her way to the graduation as well. So our family and their three gringos, two in traje, walked into a packed high school with hundreds of Guatemalans, graduates and their families. Everyone’s heads were turning, laughter, smiles, gasps, pointing fingers, rippled through the crowd as we walked through the nearly full room. There were so many people there, if fire codes existed in Guatemala, I’m sure we would have surpassed the permissible limit of people inside.

As the ceremony started, the attention shifted away from us, for the most part. The people sitting all around us wanted to know who we were, why we were there, why we were wearing traje. There were 130 some graduates that night–two from our host family, two from our radio-host friend Lorenzo Mateo’s family, the oldest son of local counterpart from the ministry of health. It was funny to realize how many people in town we do know even though we don’t live there. The ceremony started around 7 and all the diplomas had been handed out by just after midnight. As soon as the diplomas were awarded the crowd shifted to clearing a dance space on the floor so the marimba band could play for all the graduates and their families. In the interim, all three of us were pulled out of the central courtyard and into classrooms to be in pictures of graduates we didn’t even know, surrounded by crying and hugging kids capturing the last moments they’d spend in high school together. Lots of students apparently wanted to record that a group of gringos had come to their high school graduation. Throughout the ceremonies we’d seen numerous video-cameras focus in our direction, no doubt recording our presence for family members in the US who couldn’t be at the graduation. It’s such a funny and weird phenomena, to be this alien star. We were warned about this at staging in D.C. before we even came to Guatemala, and our trainer then said, “You’re going to find it really weird when you come back to the states and you walk into a room where no one stands up for you, no one applauds, no one offers you a seat at the table of honor.” We’ll see about that… The anonymity might be a really nice change. It’s amazing how emotionaly tiring it is to be stared at and videotaped and photographed all night long. But we were there to support our host family, who we love and respect immensely. They were all very happy. And though all the little kids were asleep by the time the marimba started playing, Reyna and Lucia went out to dance and made us come with them, just for one dance, before we loaded in the van to head home. I saw Aurelio, our counterpart, snapping photos of us in the crowd, cameras were going off left and right. And when the marimba set finished people were excitedly trying to get our attention in broken English, “That’s you! Look a photo of you!” They’d caught the gringos dancing marimba in traje. Pretty exciting.

In just one week the traje has served me well. Though my volunteer friend Katy voted me most likely to wear the traje on a regular basis, (or was it wear the traje when we go home?) it’s a fun novelty, but not something I’m into as an every day thing. Between two nights of graduation parties and marimba dancing (Tuesday and Thursday), Anne visiting our site, the trip to Todos Santos over the weekend, and this week’s packed schedule of meetings and health talks, I’ve been totally exhausted. But I’m sleeping well–we’re working hard and making people smile.