So I was a celebrity judge in a beauty pageant.

Not just any beauty pageant, but a Kyrgyz, high school pageant. Last year, this pageant had been overwhelmed with cheating, so I was told. In response this year the names of the judges were kept secret. So secret, in fact, apparently one of them didn’t show. With this fella missing, there was room for a celebrity judge, namely, yours truly, the humble Peace Corps volunteer. Two girls who were also judges, some friends of mine said they picked me because my Kyrgyz was the best, and I’d be able to understand what was going on. This ignored other volunteers, city volunteers, with clearly established, clearly superior skills to my own. I must assume then, the truth in their choosing lay somewhere between my (dubious) Kyrgyz language skills, and (more likely) a flair for showmanship.

The night started off with a performance of Michael Jackson’s Billy Jean by maybe 10 girls. They all wore black and white, were well choreographed, and even gave us a three person moon walk. Needless to say, I was impressed.

The show was to be presented in four parts. The first was a speech. The subject (to my chagrin) was how beauty will save the world. I sat back, waiting to stretch my Kyrgyz into a much more formal zone, only be to accosted by Russian.

It would be a recurring theme over the course of the evening. Almost all speaking that was done was conducted in Russian. At first glance, one might assume that Russian is simply the language of official business, so it would make sense that it find its way to this stage. But 6 of the seven schools in town are conducted in Kyrgyz, as is the university. There is nightly news presented nationwide in super fast, super complex Kyrgyz, as well as big comedy shows broadcast out of Bishkek. While we sat, surprised by the first speech in Russian, my friends assured me it would be the only one. In fact, Kyrgyz was only uttered in the first line of the fourth speech, and that was all. But in reality, the speeches were playing second fiddle to the real show: the girls. For this initial portion, the attire was simple: sexy little dresses.

Next was the performance number. Some girls sang and some girls lip-synched, each with varying degrees of success. The lip-synchers had photo montages playing in the background. One was a selection of pictures recognizable to any Naryn City inhabitant. Another appeared to be pictures from the contestant’s personal collection. Three pieces featured dance, with two sultry salsas. The overall fan-favorite, however, was a compilation of traditional and local dances in various costumes, from Kyrgyz to Persian to Chinese. It just warmed my heart to see kids embracing these traditions, and watching how much it electrified the audience.

The final dance number was something I’d seen before. Fascinated by rap music in a place where lip-synching is appropriate, this girl presented a Russian rap song. She stood on the stage, decked out in a matching sweat suit, took short steps back and forth, aggressively popped her arms up and down, and mouthed angry Russian.

The third portion was a pop quiz. The hosts prepared 21 questions, and presumably to prevent cheating, the girls asked for a question at random from the pool. This was all done in Russian. I gleaned or learned later some of the questions. “Name 5 European countries and their capitals.” The answer to this one, in contrast to perhaps a similar question in America, featured three post-Soviet countries. The volunteer favorite of the night was, “what is a kangaroo?” “The word ‘kangaroo’ primarily refers to the Australian mammal. After that, I cannot say. But it is definitely a mammal.” Only two answers were given incorrectly, and one curiously, needed to be translated. This was for the angry rapper, who appeared to speak only limited Kyrgyz. When asked “whats the difference between ‘smart’ and ‘witty,’ the audience shouted to the hosts, “in Russian! Ask her in Russian!”

The host couple was a delightful little pair. The girl was in high black go-go boots and a 80’s fashion black dress that was loose at the hips but tight around her knees. The man was in a silvery suit with a bright red shirt and handkerchief. They read little comedy pips between acts and displayed no stiff upper lip when the tech people failed at their duties (which held up the show, all told, for over an hour).

After the third period, much like the opening performance, a special act came out: a Kyrgyz comedy troupe. They were guys in their twenties, and performed about half in Russian and half in Kyrgyz. They prepped the audience for the final event.

The last of the four modules was a make-your-own dress segment. The girl who had done the traditional dance montage came out in a shiny golden dress with a Persian hat. One of the contestants who was also a volunteer’s counterpart came out looking like an anime figure from space made of candy. Another girl, who had started the competition in a sleek and sexy black dress, now showed up in a big white knee length gown with a cage inside the bottom, to ensure it puffed out like a tea cup. Once again, however, the Russian speaking girl surprised me. She came out in the smallest bikini I’d seen in country, the bottom (perhaps a thong) obscured by the plastic leaves and vines, an ensemble I had to work to keep from being offended by.

In fact, it was only in terms of this girl that I felt like the surly foreign judge that American Idol has made so popular. This girl was taking performance tips informed by a segment of American culture that offends me more often than not, and my scoring reflected this. And in this was a clear moment of culture clash between myself and the Kyrgyz youth around me. They were not nearly as bothered by this as I was. In the end, this girl would tie for last place with a girl I found anonymous rather than rude.

After this, the girls changed into another round of dresses and came out for the final scores, certificates and awards. There were three tiers of prizes: at the bottom were three girls and featured gigantic neon plush teddy bear. The next rung of three paid out rolled up rugs, and the top, for the overall winner, was a television (presented still in the box).

Then it was to us, the judges, to present the certificates. We were to say something positive and then hand over their paper. Here, in my moment to shine as a foreigner speaking this language, I balked. I had understood barely 20% off all that had been spoken. It was mostly in Russian, and the Kyrgyz was all either very formal, colloquial comedy, or pumped through a poor sound system. Standing there on stage, I couldn’t even understand what the other judges were saying. I didn’t know if I was to simply offer thanks, to tell my girl she had done well and why, or praise them all. Threatened with what I saw as high potential to get things wrong, I opted instead to just stand back and smile.

This, in retrospect, was entirely the wrong decision. There is little I could have said that would have gone over poorly. I could have gotten more coaching, I could have practiced with my fellow judges, my friends. I could have thrown caution to the wind, content to offer a host of well intentioned, though surely askew compliments, counting on the good nature of the crowd or the confident savvy of one of the other judges to complete what I had missed. Had it been a movie, I would have just grabbed the mic and talked, smiled, laughed, made little sense, and charmed the crowd. But I didn’t. I just chickened out.

But that wasn’t the end of the night. My friends and I capped off the evening at a restaurant. Over dinner and a round of beers, we talked about the show, danced, and even ran into one of the contestants, the Russian girl I had given such poor marks to. When I saw her there, dressed in a more standard, conservative and pretty Kyrgyz manner, I felt awful. Here was this wonderful, pretty young girl, and I had treated her harshly. She had surely seen my scores, and had little to say to me, or any of us. At the end of the day, all I could do was tell myself I had done what they had asked of me, and take solace there.