Send in the Clowns
by
Eve Marko
"Payasos!" a young boy yells down the valley. The hills,
so dense with madrone and manzanita they seem canopied in green, echo back. Payasos!-Clowns!
Q
The white pickup truck sways and rolls dangerously down the narrow, muddy
embankment to the valley below. The mud is deep and slippery, the road little
more than a ledge along the precipitous slope. Moshe Cohen, head clown, is driving
as slowly as he can. In back, Bernie the Boobysattva puts on his red nose and
looks over the edge at the chasm below, then at the children congregating excitedly
on the other side of the road, waving and yelling down to the others that the
clowns are here.
We're in Yibelho, our second to last stop on the payasos'
trip sponsored by the international organization Payasos Sin Fronteras, or Clowns
Without Borders. We landed in San Cristóbal de las Casas, two hours south
of Yibelho, six days ago. Yibelho is the payasos' fifth show, with another one
scheduled that the afternoon in the town of Acteal, just above Yibelho. Three
years ago a right-wing paramilitary unit entered Acteal, home to a displaced community
of Abejas, pacifist Mexican Indians who refuse to take sides in the conflict between
the Mexican government and the EZLN (Zapatista Army of National Liberation). They
entered the church and killed 45 Abejas praying inside. The massacre took several
hours. The army, based just outside Acteal, did nothing.
Now we pass that army
base and wave to the soldiers. They don't smile or wave back. Not so the young
boys of Yibelho, who gaily pick up the payasos' heavy valises when the truck finally
stops midway down the hill (it can't go down any further!) and haul them down
to the town, two boys to a valise. Wearing mud-stained pants and little else this
cold morning, they look no older than 7 or 8 as they run barefoot in the mud.
Yibelho
too is a displaced community of Mexican Indians who arrived in this valley just
five months ago, exiled from the land they've owned for centuries by paramilitary
groups who killed some and terrorized all. So far all the Indians have managed
to put up are huts made of boards crisscrossed haphazardly under corrugated roofs,
with lots of space for cooking smoke to go out and for the wind and rain to come
in. In other more prosperous communities, families have one hut for cooking and
another for sleeping, but not here. In fact most of the shelters are actually
tents made of plastic sheets under corrugated roofs. Unlike other communities,
too, there's no basketball court to serve as a kind of village plaza, just an
expanse of dry mud at the bottom of the hill enclosing a gigantic puddle.
Bernie
looks down and says to the others, "I guess this is where we do the show,
right?"
"Right," says Moshe.
They have no place to change.
Bryan Welch, aka Smedley-O, a San Francisco clown, is dressing right in front
of eight gawking young boys: long black pants and jacket, a red bow tie, and a
grey fedora under a black top hat. Moshe Cohen, or Mr. YooWho, is already dressed
and is coming carefully down the slope trying not to slip in the mud, but you
know he will from the unlucky look on his face. He's wearing a madras hat, plaid
women's slacks that go down only as far as his shins, and a plaid jacket with
two drooping flowers in his lapel. He's the epitome of someone dressed to kill
but getting the colors and size all wrong. He has the best schlemiel expression
on his face that I've ever seen and a matching laugh: heh heh. He's also the coordinator
of all activities of Clowns Without Borders in the United States and has appeared
in Chiapas at least a dozen times.
And then there's Bernie, aka Roshi Bernie
Glassman, a well-known American Zen teacher. He's wearing a Hawaiian shirt and
jeans held up by black suspenders with red hearts, and a white cone-shaped hat
that Moshe brought him from Kosovo.
Bernie started his clown apprenticeship
under Moshe Cohen several years ago after an introduction by his friend, Wavy
Gravy, but didn't really take up the practice of clowning till 1999, when he hit
upon his persona, Bernie the Boobysattva. He took several trainings with Moshe
and the two began to co-lead workshops in America and Europe entitled Clowning
Your Zen.
Chiapas is a different kind of apprenticeship for the Boobysattva.
Here he's the schlepper, carrying the valises and sets for his teacher and Bryan,
the two professional clowns, in return for performing during parts of their show
and receiving their critical feedback. Right now he's busy blowing bubbles which
the young boys are batting with tall sticks up in the air.
"Como està?"
I'm asked. I look down at a boy about seven, barefoot. He tells me that his name
is José Luis. His baggy yellow shorts, splattered with mud stains, come
down over his knees under a dirty red and white shirt emblazoned with the initials
NBA, as big as a tunic. He wears a colorful striped rebozo holding his younger
sister and will carry her for as long as I see him at Yibelho. That doesn't stop
him from happily carrying boards up the slope to create makeshift seating with
the rest of the boys. As usual, the girls, wearing white blouses with pink and
green stripes, sit apart from the boys. The older women wear white and red embroidered
shawls. One dark brown man wearing a large sombrero is perched on a small wooden
chair smack in the middle of where the payasos will perform, and he moves only
reluctantly.
Out they come, first Bryan daintily carrying one small red-lacquered
box, followed by Moshe struggling with two big old valises and the phonograph,
instantly walking into a tree. Everyone laughs. Moshe stumbles around for about
ten minutes, getting more and more lost before he finally finds Smedley-O, and
then the two take turns pushing each other off the erect suitcase on which they're
attempting to both sit. The Indians nod laughingly at this familiar script. There's
the boss and there's the worker. The boss carries one small red box and wonders
why the worker, struggling with everything else, doesn't arrive sooner. The boss
has a newspaper to read, the worker doesn't and tries to read over his shoulder.
At some point Smedley-O even puts a kerchief on YooWho's head and on its surface
pours himself a leisurely glass of champagne.
YooWho finally rebels and the
two push each other around. Smedley-O falls over, his feet wiggling up in the
air, and Moshe covers his crotch with the folded newspaper. Everyone laughs. But
Bryan gets the bigger laugh when he knocks off Moshe's hat, revealing his balding
pate. The place explodes. The Indians, with their long black hair, find baldness
very funny. The kids whoop out loud, the girls and women giggling behind their
hands.
The two continue to play tricks on one another--stealing hats, hitting
each other with the rolled newspaper, taking turns falling on the ground-all to
old jazz music from the 1920's and '30's, mostly Duke Ellington. Their routine
is about people and emotions: power, authority, trickery, befuddlement, anger
and revenge. Best of all, there's a chase. The audience loves it.
Bryan begins
his pantomime, and that's Bernie's cue. Sitting anonymously in the crowd, he gets
up, takes out a red balloon, blows it up, then lets the air out in sporadic farting
sounds. The audience laughs, forgetting about the two payasos in the center. Moshe
glares angrily, Bryan makes a fist, the two stomp angrily over to Bernie and Moshe
grabs his balloon away from him. Bernie sits down, chastened, but not for long.
As soon as they resume their performance he gets up once again, this time creating
an even greater disturbance with the aid of noisemakers and balloons. Once again
the two payasos take away his balloon, and once again Bernie tells them he'll
be a good boy and sits down, only to jump up again as soon as they're not watching.
The
two payasos finally give up and pull the Boobysattva by his suspenders into the
center of the circle, where all three get out their balloons. Bernie starts blowing
his red one and the other two blow theirs. But as hard as they try, they can't
get any air into theirs. Their balloons remain wimpy and small while Bernie's
red balloon gets bigger and bigger as he blows harder and harder. The two payasos
glare angrily at Boobysattva, who is immensely proud of himself. He blows harder
and harder, everybody laughs in anticipation, and the balloon busts with a big
bang right in his face. He screams in fright and throws up his arms, and the two
payasos start chasing him up and down the muddy slope. The children are doubling
up with laughter, pointing at each other gleefully as the clowns knock their noisemakers
on their little heads as they run past.
Finally they capture the Boobysattva
and haul him back to the center of the circle by his black and red heart suspenders.
He's reluctant, pulling back, his mouth a big O, and Moshe gets him all entangled
in his suspenders. Finally, with a big show of courtesy, they invite him to sit
down in a special chair. He sits and the chair collapses on the ground, causing
him to fall with his buttocks up in the air. The audience roars. The Boobysattva
walks sadly away, and for the moment at least, the show goes on without him.
The
first time Bernie fell with the collapsing chair he fell hard, hurting himself.
He's had to learn how to fall (on the other cheek, so to speak), not just to avoid
getting badly bruised but also to get his buttocks high up, thus getting more
laughs.
For the six days of the payasos tour, he's practiced falling. The white
pick-up truck has delivered the payasos to one community after another, sometimes
at the end of remote, unpaved, bumpy country roads, often in the company of a
dozen Indians seeking a lift to the village. They sit on the rim of the back of
the truck, laughing and joking in their native tongue of Tzotzil while holding
on for dear life. Their dusky brown faces are deeply lined and tired, but I'm
struck by their high spirits, their humor and dignity. "Who are you?"
someone asks us in Spanish. "Payasos sin fronteras," Moshe explains.
"What does sin fronteras mean?" the first man asks. "Todo el mundo,"
a fellow Indian replies. Everyone.
On our earlier trips we're joined by Zapatista
coordinatores who have arranged for the payasos show as part of their own program,
where they visit and educate Indian communities about the effects of the immense
Puebla-Panama free-trade zone that has already been signed and agreed to, stretching
from Mexico down to Panama.
"The indigenéos live in collectives,"
one of the coordinatores, a woman in her mid-twenties, tells me during the long
bumpy ride to a remote village called Huixtan. "All the land is owned by
the collective-it's been this way for years-and then divided up by families and
given to each family to plant. Mexico's constitution has always protected the
rights of collectives, but it's now being changed because they say that it does
not comply with NAFTA."
NAFTA, the North America Free Trade Agreement,
took effect in Mexico in 1994. It helped trigger the Zapatista revolution, though
the uprising had been planned and organized for 10 years beforehand. The coordinatore
talks about the displacement of entire communities that have been terrorized by
paramilitary groups into leaving the land they have owned collectively for centuries.
At
Huixtan we are invited after the show for a lunch of freshly-baked tortillas,
beans, cactus and avocado, accompanied by sweetened corn syrup and water. In Chaolin
we spend the night in bunk beds in a school dormitory where the children sleep
two to a bed to make room for us. At 4:30 in the morning I go out and see the
open door of the cooking house with the fire going in the hearth and the women
beginning to make tortillas. I go back to bed and wake up to see a dozen children
around my bed, waiting patiently for me to get up. Everything fascinates them:
how we fold away our sleeping bags, how we comb our hair, how I write my notes,
our clothes, my pocketbook. At some point one girl stares fixedly at my arm, then
stretches out her own reddish-brown arm next to my white one. The others exclaim.
Chiapas
is being watched all over the world to see how the rights of indigenous people
will be protected in the middle of the new Puebla-Panama free-trade zone. Will
the Mayan Indians abandon their self-sustaining native crops in favor of export
crops whose prices will be determined by the erratic ups and downs of a world
market? Will they choose to work for 30 pesos a day in factories that take the
place of hillside farms and remote collectives? The clown teacher and the dharma
teacher talk this over in the white pick-up truck as they drive to yet another
community.
"About 70% of the population of the highlands of Chiapas are
Indians who still live in communities where people hold on to traditional customs
and relationships, a mixture of Catholic and Indian festivities and certain healing
traditions," Moshe says. "They may be poor by our standards. Many don't
have electricity or even running water, but they've been mostly self-sufficient
for generations. The challenge is how they can hold on to these values and way
of life in the face of all the pressures caused by globalization."
"For
me it always comes back to the One Body," Bernie says. "We think of
the One Body as One, but it's also a million different things, each of which is
the One Body. It's important to realize Oneness. It's also important to honor
each individual part of the One Body as the One Body. When we say that we're global,
when we say that we're all One, do we also recognize the differences? Do we also
allow for needs of different cultures, traditions, countries? Some people don't
see the One Body and just honor one part, the part they're comfortable with. Other
people want to honor the One Body at the expense of its parts. The challenge is
to honor each part as the One Body and not to exclude anything."
Moshe
YooWho Cohen squints pragmatically at the road ahead. He has been coming to Chiapas
for a long time and has friendships all over the place: with villagers, human
rights activists, Zapatistas. For him clowning is not just a profession, it's
a practice. He'll tell you that discovering one's own clown world causes a shift
in perspective. You may be a business person, a housewife, a teacher or a farmer,
but when you enter your clown world you see things differently. And when you clown
with other people, you help them see things differently. He's the head clown teacher
at Wavy Gravy's Camp Winnarainbow north of San Francisco and has performed before
refugees not just in Chiapas but also in Kosovo and Nepal. He travels all the
time, and he worries that so many of us in the West have no idea where our food,
our clothes, our cars, or our computers come from, how they're made, and at what
price.
He comes to Chiapas to make children laugh, to cause women to giggle
behind their hands, and to bring smiles to young-old weatherbeaten, wrinkled faces.
In short, to awaken everyone around him. And he's bringing more clowns to join
him in this work, like Smedley-O and the Boobysattva.
Yibelho is by far the
poorest of the communities we visit, for the people have only been there for five
months and the despair of displacement is still etched powerfully on their tired
faces. To make matters worse, it's raining, creating mud and mud-stained clothing.
In most of the other communities the payasos visited the ground was swept, clothes
were clean, hair neat, and the Indians wore colorful sandals rather than walking
barefoot. There is more wretchedness at Yibelho, but this seems to cause the payasos
to work even harder, to coax more laughter out of José Luis and his young
friends. So they do sleight of hand with red foam balls that disappear and reappear,
that replicate into smaller balls or else increase in size inside the tightly-gripped
palm of a young, nervous volunteer. Moshe picks up his ukelele and croons a Linda
Ronstadt song to the nearest old Indian woman, whose face disappears in wrinkles
of smiles.
But the finale is the best. YooWho and Smedley-O are juggling white
pins, throwing several back and forth at the same time, when Bernie the Boobysattva
shows up out of nowhere, a big Churchill cigar in his mouth, and starts walking
between them nonchalantly. The white pins are thrown all around him. I recall
Moshe's words to Bernie from the morning: "You need not just more expressions
on your face but also more gradations in the expression. So when you walk between
us as we juggle you start off being arrogant and completely sure of yourself,
and then in the middle I want you to get scared. But not immediately; play with
it. First you start getting nervous, then really nervous, then you're actually
scared. That contrast between how you start off all sure of yourself and the final
panic when you find yourself in the middle of all this-that's what's funny!"
So
now Boobysattva saunters between the pins like it's a sunny day in Santa Barbara,
not a care in the world, the big cigar perched complacently in his mouth. He crosses
between the two payasos again and again, and then, suddenly, he's in trouble.
His eyes veer from side to side, then stare fixedly ahead. He's afraid to move.
The cigar trembles in his mouth, he turns white, and now he begins to quake with
fright. The children and the adults are laughing louder, some slapping their sides.
He shakes even worse, the cigar going up and down convulsively, and now he's truly
frightened. The payasos throw the pins in the air all around him, catching and
throwing, trying to get one closer and closer to his cigar. They're trying to
strike the cigar from his mouth but they can't get close enough, only it doesn't
matter because the audience is laughing harder and harder. And just when Boobysattva
is so convulsed with fear and panic that we're sure he'll make a run for it and
get hit by the white juggling pins, one pin hits the cigar cleanly and it jumps
out of his mouth. The place collapses in laughter. No applause, just laughter
that rolls on and on at arrogance brought low. José Luis jumps up and down
with his baby sister in his rebozo while his friends rush down the slope to get
closer to the payasos.
"Payasos sin fronteres!" Moshe bellows out
from their muddy stage in the gray drizzle: "Smedley-O!" Bryan in his
undertaker's suit takes a bow. "Boobysattva!" Bernie has recovered his
Churchill cigar and pantomimes flicking off the ashes while he waves broadly.
And "Yoooo-Whoooo!"
We walk up the hill to the truck. Ahead of us
is still Acteal this afternoon, the final performance of the trip. But we sense
that it'll be hard to beat the show at Yibelho. The boys are once again carrying
the payasos' heavy luggage. We pull off in the white pick-up and some start running
after us, barefoot in the deep, oozing mud, yelling: "Payasos! Payasos!"
The truck at first climbs slowly and they can easily keep pace. But then it reaches
level ground and starts speeding off and the boys stop with a final wave, except
for one who runs and runs. He's 12 or 13, and his black hair blows in the wind
as his eyes focus hard on the axle of the white truck, trying to stay with it.
We're so startled at how fast he's running that we forget to wave or shout goodbye.
Moshe hits the accelerator and after a few minutes we leave him behind, but the
young racer won't give up. Even when we reach the highway and turn right towards
Acteal, a last glimpse reveals he's still running.
Eve Marko is a founding
teacher of the Zen Peacemaker Order and Executive Director of the Peacemaker Community
Foundation.