Every year Salango –
a small fishing town south of Puerto Lopez - hosts a festival
honouring the pre-hispanic people who lived on these Pacific shores.
The ancient people were expert mariners and developed a primitive
sailing vessel – essentially a single-masted, bamboo raft. It's not
exactly a Viking longboat but it did the job. Apparently their
nautical expertise caught the eye of the Incan empire, who were
always on the look out for useful “allies” to befriend.
The festival begins
with a meaty toot on a ritual conch shell. A man dressed as one of
the indigenous tribe of Salango creates a small fire on the beach and
recites an incantation. To encourage a bit of audience participation
he invites six local children to help... 600 local children stampede
towards him and he looks a bit like Simba's dad in the Lion King.
We can't get on with
the festival until the fire is extinguished and it takes an age to
burn. Finally it dies and the beauty contest can begin. Three girls
from different provinces are competing against la mas bella chica of
Manabi for the title of Mantena Bonita. Ever seen that episode of Father Ted with the Lovely Ladies competition? Basically, that.
First up is the local lass. She parades in front of the crowd burning with shame. Little wonder, she's dressed in a shell bikini and carrying some sort of urn with all the solemnity of a pall-bearer. She looks very young, I think, as she trudges past ignominiously. Next up is Quito's offering. She's older and walks more confidently but the expert eye (read – mine) can tell her heart's not really in it, probably a feminist. Then we have Miss Esmeraldas who's out of the blocks at full gallop. She swaggers, sashays and shakes her bum for an appreciative crowd. Finally it's Miss Valencia's turn but she's late so the judging begins without her. Then, at the eleventh hour, she arrives, adding the finishing touches to her make-up. She might as well have stayed back in Valencia because (SPOILER ALERT) she doesn't win – docked points for tardiness, I hope.
First up is the local lass. She parades in front of the crowd burning with shame. Little wonder, she's dressed in a shell bikini and carrying some sort of urn with all the solemnity of a pall-bearer. She looks very young, I think, as she trudges past ignominiously. Next up is Quito's offering. She's older and walks more confidently but the expert eye (read – mine) can tell her heart's not really in it, probably a feminist. Then we have Miss Esmeraldas who's out of the blocks at full gallop. She swaggers, sashays and shakes her bum for an appreciative crowd. Finally it's Miss Valencia's turn but she's late so the judging begins without her. Then, at the eleventh hour, she arrives, adding the finishing touches to her make-up. She might as well have stayed back in Valencia because (SPOILER ALERT) she doesn't win – docked points for tardiness, I hope.
The judges have no
choice but to award first prize to Miss Esmereldas, largely because
she was the only contestant who didn't undermine this illustrious
competition, treating it with the dignity and respect it well
deserves. However, as a final humiliating twist to the entire sexist
farce the chief takes the microphone and announces that they wanted
to award first prize to their local girl but because she was only 14
years-old (yes, 14!) they felt this overt sexualisation and her
skimpy costume would rob her of precious childhood innocence. Poor
girl, the waves of shame and embarrassment radiated from her like a
nuclear blast. Why the judges didn't think to say something before
asking her to parade around in front of 2,000 gawkers is beyond me.
Afterwards there was time for photos and every teenage boy in the
province rushed forward with their camera phones in hand (there is no
Zoo magazine in Ecuador so Mantena Bonita is perv's gold for
frustrated adolescents). The poor 14-year-old had to withstand this
final humiliation before she was allowed to leave, presumably in
tears.
The real highlight of
the festival was the dancing but before this could begin there was
the annual ritual of launching a reproduction of the sugar
cane/bamboo raft (Balsa Mantena). Then we found out before the
dancing could begin the bamboo raft had to sail all the way to the
Island of Salango and back. Then we found out the bamboo raft wasn't
a natural sea-farer and the wind was rather breathless that day. I
went off for some lunch, when I returned the raft was still bobbing
gently offshore, slowly taking on water. Some bright spark wondered
if it wouldn't be cheating if they gave the raft a bit of a tow with
their motorboat. Bless that bright spark. With the boat's mission
complete it was finally time to dance.
For those in peril on the sea |
First up were a black
dance group from Esmereldas. They put on a racy and sexually
provocative routine which they frequently interrupted for the female
members in the group to grab a microphone and tease their male
counterparts about the size of their manhood, their sexual
athleticism and even questioning their sexuality. Homophobic? You
bet. Then it was the men's turn for revenge. It was equally smutty...
a bit of blue for the dads, but the kids in the audience seemed to
love it the most. Shortly after this I was dragged on stage for some
ritual humiliation. I think it's called twerking and I'm not very
good at it.
Wash your mouth out |
Carry On Quito |
It was a festival run
with the ruthless Ecuadorian efficiency and keen sense of
organisation I've come to admire. We arrived at 10am (the advertised
start of the festival) only to find the organisers were still rigging
the stage and lassoing a wire over an electricity pylon to cadge a
bit of free leccy. The official festival announcer's first
announcement was to ask if any member of the public had a schedule
for the day's programme because he didn't have a clue what or when
was happening. To express punctuality and sharpness in Ecuador, they
say English time. As in: “I'll meet you at the airport at 11:30,
English time.” I'm a victim of my own stereotype.
Salango doesn't have
the bustle of its neighbour up the coast – there's no fish market,
instead there's a giant factory where fish are gutted, packaged,
sealed and sent far and wide. If you've ever eaten a can of tuna fish
there's a fair chance it passed through Salango.
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