Canadian Ballet

Living in Latin America, for what is now my twentieth month, has allowed me to grow quite a nice, thick layer of skin to ignore comments, and even at times unwelcomed gestures (a firm drive-by glut-groping was my initiation during the second week of training for, what I would later discover, would soon expand to other parts of my body).

It has frustrated and disgusted me the way men treat women- as mere objects that just happen to cook, clean, wash and bear and care for child after child (including the husbands themselves)- and God forbid they open their mouths and express some sort of formed opinion after putting up with ridiculous behavior or bad news bears! Oy vey.

Anywho... for quite some time now I have flirted with the thought of having the roles reversed- that is, what if it were the women who degraded men in both a verbally and physically derogatory manner?

And of all places, in Guatemala?

"Ha, impossible!" you laugh to yourself.

Oh, but I beg to differ.

This morning I left my site at 8:30am (with one hour notification!) to Antigua to attend the swear-in ceremony of the latest training group at Ambassador McFarland's house in Guatemala City (the brownies that are served after the ceremony are to die for which is the real reason I traveled seven hours in an uncomfortable bus).

After switching buses in Xela and getting as comfortable as a 5'10" woman can get in a school bus from 1983 (read: knees up to my chin), I popped in my earphones and start jamming to- what else? 80s classics.

Unfortunately that was under-toned by five rowdy 16-22 year-old girls, who were just plain obnoxious. I though I had escaped them after transferring buses, yet again, the Antigua-direct from Chimaltenango, but they had followed me up on the bus and sat directly in front of me, continuing with their wildly boisterous behavior, peeving off not only me, but the neighboring passengers as well.

And it was not until the ayudante, the dude who collects the fare, came around that my opinion on these girls changed. Completely.

After collecting the money from the back of the bus, where we were seated, he turns around to head back to the front of the bus and the ring leader, bleached blonde hair pulled back into a tight pony-tail, with layers upon layers of make-up caked onto what looked like her face and g-string hanging out of her pants, lifts up her hand and gives a good crackling slap onto his bum.

"Dale, papi, dale!" shouts her friend sitting next to me.

He slithered back up to the front of the bus, tail between his legs; horrified, humiliated, dumbstruck.

Uncomfortable.

The next time he came to the back to collect the fare of new people who came on the bus, he made sure to back up a few steps before turning around.

The humane part in me felt sorry for him- for a hot second.

I suppose it would be unfair in assuming that this guy should be categorized with the majority of men I have met in this country, but let's not kid ourselves either: he probably had it coming to him.

And it was so awesome to witness.

It's funny how people can dish it, but when it is handed right back at them- even in small portions- they run away like frightened 5-year-olds.

"Qué rico te ves!" - these girls kept at it like it was their job.

And it was when and where these girls got off that I quickly realized that it probably was their job- as Canadian ballet dancers. (For those of you who are unfamiliar with this term, please find the official definition here.)

Nevertheless, they made my day.