TheExpatJournals.com

I didn’t grow up with the Waltons, so Christmas was usually…well, depressing in a word. Still, while my son was young, I made such a production out of it in order to give him what I never had, that by the time he was getting computers and knew where they came from, I decided it was time to stop. So I quit Christmas.

From that point on, my son Aaron, and I decided to use the time to focus on an anti-Christmas adventure. Up until this year, the apex was perhaps going to casinos in Atlantic City on Christmas Day. But this year, we went to San Blas, KunaYala and we went as guests, not tourists. I do believe there’s a huge difference in how you’re treated and what you see when you’re a guest. And the short trip was so chocked full, that even attempting to put it on paper is a daunting task.

First, it’s an adventure to even get to where we were going. I arranged a taxi to pick us up for 4:45AM as there’s only one flight a day that departs Panama at 6:00AM. And I was told it was VERY important to get to Albrook Airport one hour ahead of the flight given the shortage of seats. Well, this taxi driver called me at 2:29AM for some reason I couldn’t figure out except for the apology just before he hung up. I then called him at 4:00AM to make sure he was coming as taxis in Casco Viejo are non-existent at that hour except on weekends. All good.

He didn’t show up by 5:00AM. As I’m trying to get a drunk neighbor to rouse the owner of a taxi parked in front of the building, another neighbor is getting into his car. It turned out to be a neighbor’s musician boyfriend just getting back from a gig and boy were we lucky. He was more than happy to get us to the airport. So we got there by 5:10AM and they couldn’t possibly know when we arrived because all we did at first was stand in line. The place was packed with mostly Kunas, a handful of backpacker types and a group who told me they were visiting their son in the Peace Corps for the holidays. A woman informed me it was 0 degrees in Houston! I didn’t know it ever got that cold in Houston. Meanwhile, in my bag, all I’m carrying are shorts, tanks, flip-flops and one long sleeve light weight cotton shirt to wear while snorkeling to prevent the otherwise inevitable, horribly painful tropical summer sunburn, all of which might have added up to about 10 pounds of personal items between the two of us.

I’ll back up for a moment. Going to San Blas for Christmas required quite a bit of organization. I had no idea of what I really should take and we were limited to 25 pounds each on the plane, though reading had provided me with an educated guess and talking with my hosts had added insight. Basically, bring what you want to eat or drink. And if you want to snorkel, bring gear. Bring towels, bring toilet paper and a flashlight. Shampoo, soap, and any other toiletries you might prefer. If you smoke, cigarettes are in order. And now I know that I should bring even more food because of what a communal obligation staying with a Kuna family presents. And I also now know that whatever I’m wearing will get wet just getting there. So they ended up letting us on the plane with two loaded backpacks and one 43 pound suitcase, no doubt well over our 50 pound limit for two people.

So we get on the plane and it’s small and full and turbulence is prevalent as we begin to cross the mountains that are the spine of Panama, the Continental Divide. Visions of Patsy Cline danced in my head. I remember all I’ve ever heard about how domestic flights in Panama don’t adhere to the safety features and guidelines that we’re accustomed to in the US. And that the airline’s nickname isn’t Aero Perilous for nothing, a piece of information I’ve neglected to share with my son because ignorance can be a balm you didn’t even know you needed. I felt, for the first time, like I was at the edge of the roof of a skyscraper, which has always made my palms perspire at the very least. For some reason, I normally don’t feel like that on a plane, even 4 seaters, but today, the plane was carrying far more precious cargo than me—my only son. And that made it a completely different story and fueled a fear that might not exist otherwise. I chose to believe we would be safe and tried to enjoy what little I could see of the country at that hour of the day.

While we bumped over the mountains, I noticed that the Kunas on board slept and one of the pilots was reading a newspaper, so assumed all was copasetic and relaxed. Quickly enough, we were landing on an airstrip that made it almost seem as though we were simply getting very close to the ocean…kind of like a very, mini version of landing at Laguardia…then voila! With sound effect worthy ‘urks’ of the plane’s brakes, we landed at Porvenir, the main airstrip in San Blas.

While I was so busy figuring out what all to bring and where to find it (snorkeling fins in a Men’s size 12 in Panama are a rarity), I completely spaced on bringing the ‘other names’ of our hosts and the full name of the island they live on. While that didn’t concern me too much, my son was alarmed. Growing up in a small town left me armed with experience in the grapevine means of communication. I couldn’t imagine it would be a problem. And besides, I at least remembered the first name of the island and our host’s first name and knew his mother, father, brother and sister’s first names. Indeed, once the first person to approach us realized we weren’t shopping for somewhere to stay, he pointed me to the person I needed to speak with. Alexis was a cousin of our host. We settled on a price and headed for the pier where his cayuco was tied up.

Even the locals were laughing at our ride. Alexis’ cayuco had a motor, but was one of the small Cayucos which meant the sides were level with the water, which meant I spent a lot of time bailing water out of it. With each swell, I wondered if we were in trouble and vowed then and there that our return trip would be in a larger cayuco. Before heading out to open sea, we stopped for gas. Gas is about $3.00 a gallon in San Blas. I asked the ‘gas station attendent’ if our chico cayuco was dangerous. He laughed and said yes. They might be used to it, but I’m not and in retrospect, I think they were simply amused by how uncomfortable and wet we would be rather than any true threat of being capsized. Tourism is the basis of the economy in San Blas and threats to their economy I can’t imagine being allowed. The death of two gringos would certainly fall into that category.

To digress a moment, I think the Kunas play their own style of pranks on foreigners. I had a friend who bought a mola shirt from the Kunas. Months later, some other Kunas were looking at the photograph of him in the shirt and cracked up laughing when they saw it. Seems the shirt he bought had a pattern that was used exclusively for women, yet he was obviously not female. And I could just imagine the Kunas who sold him the shirt for $20 or $30 laughing because they knew what he would look like in that pattern to anyone who knew.

So, about an hour and fifteen minutes after we arrive at Porvenir, we finally arrive at our destination, Yantupu, a small island with about 200 inhabitants and clean, well planned pathways throughout. Most seemed to have substantial sized yards, though I still wondered how inner island homes managed to get enough ocean breeze to stay cool. Fortunately, our hosts lived on the water, because we nearly passed the island. Our cayuco captain happened to point out to me that we were passing the home of one of the people who’s name I had mentioned…first name only, but again, added up to a family he knew. As I looked over at where Archimedes’ family lived, I noticed our host, Aaron…yes, same name as my son which made it easy over the next couple of days…was waving as though trying to flag us down. Actually, I wasn’t even sure of who it was, but it turned out to be Aaron which turned out to be where we needed to dock.

The details get a little fuzzy in retrospect at this point. I don’t remember my first impressions probably because I had only 40 minutes of sleep the night before. I do remember that as we arrived at their crude dock, Edith was walking through the yard in her skirt and only a bra, but had a blouse on by the time we stepped into the yard. Later, I would realize how common it was for both genders to walk around in minimal states of attire, often seeing women in nothing but fabric that would be the equivalent to us wrapping a bath towel around our bodies and tucking it in. I also remember being shown our ‘room’ which was essentially a workshop. They put together a table and covered it with a vinyl cloth so we could put our food somewhere safe. They also pulled up wooden stumps to place our backpacks on. This room was primarily used for kitchen storage and as Jimmy’s, the grandfather, workshop. It was the Kuna equivalent to a man’s office or library or whatever private space a man might have for himself in a traditional house. But Kuna ‘houses’ are more like compounds with each ‘room’ being a separate bamboo hut.

There’s the sleeping quarters, the kitchen, and like Jimmy’s room, whatever other space is required. In our hosts’ compound, there were two houses that were sleeping quarters, one kitchen and the other house where we were now ensconced though sleeping would be communally in hammocks in the larger of the two sleeping quarters. Each of these houses had cross beams in the structure that doubled as storage. Belongings or kitchen tools were stored in crevices or hung from nails on the beams. The houses all had thatched roofs and dirt floors. A fire seemed to be going perpetually in the kitchen.

I was especially intriqued with the kitchen tools. I was struck by how similar their kitchen tools were to many African cultures. They have wooden mortar and pestals for separating the rice from it’s stem. They have woven fans used to keep the flames of the fires active. They have pieces of wood that in our culture would appear to be chopping boards that are used for any number of things from serving food to cooking food to cracking crabs. Colanders are made by putting holes in a coconut shell. Coconut shells are turned into bowls and ladles. I’m still not sure of how they created the very functional tongs of wood. Ladders used to pick breadfruit from the tall trees in the yard are carved from a single log and resemble closely ladders of the Dogon tribe of Mali. Young saplings become storage for cups and other items as they hang on branches appropriately trimmed, like a coat rack for cups.

The walls of the houses are cane though bamboo was used in some places, such as the ‘bathroom’. Our hosts’ bathroom was built at the end of a short pier over the water. The toilet was not unlike the homemade stools so commonly used by street vendors in Panama City, except that the top seat is not solid, but rather four corners forming a border large enough to seat you comfortably and open space to the ocean below. The shower seemed to be treacherous with no way to actually stand over the open space safely. It was essentially support for the pier open to the water below. Both stalls of the outhouse, one for the toilet and one for the shower, were hidden from public view behind a bamboo wall and had hanging blankets between and on the outside as doorways. From inside looking out, I felt certain I was in plain view as I could see anyone outside clearly. But from the outside looking in, it did indeed provide total privacy. Both the toilet and the shower contained hanging shower racks for toiletry storage.

I suppose this is as good a time as any to address what is appalling to the gringo sensibility and that is the pollution that exists on San Blas. Without any graphic detail necessary, how their toilets work is pretty obvious. Additionally, they throw all their garbage, be it biodegradable or otherwise, at water’s edge. When we first arrived, we got into the water to see if any edibles were nearby…lobster, fish, crab, etc. Garbage floating in the water was an all too common sight and needless to say, that particular snorkeling jaunt was before I had used the bathroom. Okay, so working on 40 minutes of sleep didn’t provide me with enough clarity to think about it, but once was all I needed to become all too aware. I would only snorkel near uninhabited islands. This gringa cannot tolerate clearing away plastic bags, empty cans, and other refuse as I snorkel, let alone tolerate the idea of what else I might be swimming through.

I don’t mind the lack of potable water, fruit, vegetables, electricity, etc. To me, that is part of experiencing the culture and the culture is a huge draw to me. There aren’t many accessible places I’m aware of where you can indeed live as people did centuries ago, let alone have Indians guiding you who have always lived that way. The water they use comes in large plastic gasoline jugs by cayuco from the mainland. They call it aqua dulce…sweet water. They stack up jugs of water they way you might stack up firewood in New England. Outside Jimmy’s ‘library’, in addition to the closed jugs of water are open containers, similar to large white plastic bins that drywall mud comes in or industrial paint. These are filled with aqua dulce along with a 12-16 ounce plastic container for dipping out the water. It is here you dip water to wash your hands or fill a kettle for boiling water. You fill a bucket about the size of something I’d keep under my sink to take with you to the shower. I felt obligated to use aqua dulce very sparingly though our guests were gracious enough to share so generously.

I had brought along a portable Bodum for coffee, one modern convenience I don’t want to live without unless absolutely necessary. I like my coffee in the morning. The idea of a French Press on San Blas might seem comical, but it worked like a charm. With no refridgeration, I had opted to bring only a couple of the individual sized boxes of milk that line the grocery stores in Panama City at room temperature. I still don’t understand it, but the milk didn’t go bad. I also had evaporated milk in the event it did.

Without much luck in finding lunch ourselves, someone seemed to just appear out of nowhere in a cayuco with two large crabs and three lobsters, all still alive. Though I can’t remember his name, he was a rail-thin Kuna man who lived on the very populated neighboring island of Sugtupu. As I would later witness, he is a very skilled free diving fisherman. I paid him $4 for all of it. The crabs were put in a basket and lowered into the ocean and I put the lobsters in a dive collection bag, tied them to a rock and put them in some shallows under water. Later, Jimmy cooked it all up for us and lunch was, quite literally, served to us. Jimmy explained to me in Spanish that there used to be lots of fish and lobster around here, but now fisherman come and it’s all in Panama City with none left for them. I wondered, but did not ask, why it was allowed as everything I’ve ever heard about the Kuna’s would indicate that they are very territorial about their Comarca and very savvy about exploiting their natural resources as well as their crafts.

After lunch, Aaron (my son, not our host) and I retired to the sleeping house for a nap. In the middle of the hot afternoon sun of the dry season, I was very pleasantly surprised at how cool it was inside the house. I rested well, though not nearly as long as Aaron. While he slept, Jimmy showed me his coconut and wood carving craft and Edith, his daughter-in-law… wife of Archimedes and mother of Aaron, etc…showed me all the kitchen tools and how they are used. Jimmy boiled water and I made coffee for us both. He also showed me gifts he had received over the years: baseball caps, postcards, other souvenir type chachkas. It occurred to me that more than the practical gifts I brought, they seem to prefer the impractical but foreign items even more. I had come with good fabric of six different colors along with matching thread for the women to use for molas, a pair of reading glasses, a snorkeling mask and fin and knew I would leave things they could use like coffee, milk, toilet paper, paper towels, a large storage/shopping bag that zips closed, etc. I also learned that these ladies prefer the large reading glasses to the small size I’m accustomed to. Next time I go, I’ll find some useless trinket for Jimmy and also take him cigarettes. It’s probably good to steer clear of any present that has the possibility in any way of rusting. Or being eaten by insects.

Insects are a way of life there. Everything had armies of ants and pollilos, termites and no one seemed to mind. Aaron and I took turns thoroughly covering each other with sunblock and bugspray. As elsewhere in this country, the locals will tell you…when you’re new to an area, the mosquitoes bite you because, unlike the locals, they…the mosquitoes…don’t ‘know’ you. As Aaron had come down from Boston, he was even whiter than I am. I have experienced the misery of a tropical sunburn. It’s bad enough with balms and air conditioning. But in hammocks and heat, I could only imagine and didn’t want him to learn the hard way. So, in addition to number 50 sunblock, when we snorkeled, I had him wear my nylon dive skin so every inch exposed to the sun was covered. I have been here a few months, so I wore a hanky weight white, long sleeved cotton blouse to snorkel. And lots of sunblock especially behind the knees and upper thighs. It can feel deceptively comfortable outside, especially in an ocean breeze, but I NEVER underestimate the intensity of the tropical sun.

On a sidenote that has nothing whatsoever to do with San Blas, the ‘ruling class’ of whites here in Panama are commonly known as ‘Rabiblancos’, which literally translated means ‘white tail.’ No matter how much they’re in the sun and no matter how tan they get, when they remove their swimsuit, they expose the telltale ‘white tail.’

So, Christmas Eve, we went over to the island of Sugtupu which has 2,000 inhabitants, a school, a health center, an electric generator therefore lights, ice, some cold beverages and Christmas lights. It also has a Catholic Mission, a Mormon Church and a Baptist Church. Now, while Christmas isn’t much of anything to the locals, those converted to Christianity do celebrate Christmas and the kids, like anywhere in America, love the non-religious perks. There are all sorts of special events and fiestas. Much attention is paid to the children including special edible treats and candy. Children sing songs and Santa marches through the streets to hand out candy to the children, though on Christmas Eve, Santa had no candy to hand out. Nevertheless, the children loved the excitement and swarmed and the local in complete Santa costume roamed the streets.

A visiting Italian provided excitement in the ‘town square’ by tumbling three fire sticks as well as one very long fire stick lit on both ends. The Kunas were totally appreciative. My son was given a guitar to play, but after about 15 minutes of trying to tune it to no avail, he ended up passing.

Now, for some very odd reason, when I left NYC, I parted with all but things I decided I absolutely could not let go of. In short, I brought zero furniture to Panama and what I did bring, would have all fit into the smallest of my rooms in my small (as in only in New York City small) apartment – art, rugs, cast iron skillet, books, odds and ends of mostly the useful sort, but there were two things I brought that even I realized made no sense whatsoever in the lifeboat with my possessions process: a baton and a fire baton. I had been a majorette oh so many years ago and still had these two items. So, the way I see it, I might as well assume I had to bring them to entertain the Kunas with…well, the fire baton anyway. The other I’ll use to practice with in order to actually entertain them as opposed to simply make a fool of myself.

After our fill of festivities in ‘town’, we headed to the dock to depart for the island where we were staying. Upon arrival, it turned out we had no canoe. We had come over with a friend of our host’s named Eric and apparently, Eric’s mother decided to leave earlier and simply took the canoe. So there we are on the dock, in the light of the full moon without a cayuco to return us to a meal that had been cooked and waiting for two hours at this point. While one of the Kunas goes back into the village to drum up a ride for us, these other Kunas had offered to become a taxi for $1. And their cayuco had a motor! After about 15 minutes, no alternative had appeared, I was starving and way more than happy to cough up the dollar, so off we went. They had tried to talk me out of it earlier, but at this point, after 40 minutes of sleep the night before and already up for 17 hours that day, offending them was less of a priority that food and sleep. Because dinner had been living until it was cooked, I knew it would keep for awhile, but without refrigeration, I had no way of gauging what pushing the envelope would entail in terms of time.

But, dinner was great! Once again, fresh crab, lobster, some delicious fried fish, pineapple, and coconut. Immediately afterwards, my son and I both hit the hammocks and I was out pretty quickly. Apparently, during a cayuco ride back, another friend named Eric had given the Italian transportation and in his drunken state…I mean, cold beer is .30 on the island as opposed to .80 for a warm bottle of water….and during the crossing, somehow managed to drop his fire stick in the ocean. Needless to say, that isn’t possible to replace, probably in Panama, certainly not in San Blas. Which was the drama going on when I awoke. But stress and San Blas are opposite, so I elected for sympathy rather than participation in the search.

Christmas Day:

While in the village on Christmas Eve, I had arranged for transportation both to uninhabited islands for snorkeling on Christmas Day as well as back to Porvenir the next morning. One price and yes, a large, deep canoe, both arranged through Jose Davies, called simply Davis. Davis has a nice Kuna Museum on Carti Sugtupu and even speaks decent English. I had also arranged for the free diver to join us to catch our Christmas dinner while we took in the sites. And bless his heart, Jimmy had water ready for me when I woke, so coffee was the first order of the day.

Everyone was abuzz about the cruise ship arriving in the islands that day. All of the women hoped to sell molas. At an island inhabited by only two houses, nearest to where the cruise ship, the Radisson Diamond, would anchor, all of the women were transporting their molas and setting them up for the tourists. In the end, it looked like a crafts fair on this nearly deserted island.

In the meantime, all of the women of Yantupu were arriving with their molas and arranging them on a clothesline of sorts between 2 trees on our hosts’ property, presumably to show me what was available. I’m afraid I’m not much of a prospect, though Christmas morning, I did choose a number of Jimmy’s carved coconut shells, the reliquary figure he was currently working on as much for the incredible aroma of the cedar as appreciation of his craft and let them know that I would be interested in purchasing some of their kitchen tools. So two ladles were cleaned and sold to me on the spot. Also, I asked about some older molas and Edith brought out two molas, one apparently made by the mother of the 95 year old grandmother confined to the hammock. The colors had faded, but the design and the work was magnificent. One of the pieces had the remains of the blouse it was once attached to. As Edith explained to me, older molas have small sleeves, unlike the full, puffy versions now produced. Also, the rick-rack across the top border of the mola used to be hand-stitched as opposed to the store-bought type applied in modern day mola blouses. Once they realized I was much more interested in those molas ‘guarded by grandmothers’, neighbors brought a couple more for me to see. One of traditional design still had both the front and back, which essentially mirrored each other, but was stored so poorly, much of one of the molas was missing and the other was practically covered in mildew on the back side. The lady offered to clean it for me, so I bought it. Before I did, she sat and carefully copied the pattern on the beginnings of a mola, so the design remained alive in her family. This is what the grandmothers guard the molas against, anyone other than their own family copying their precious designs. And no one dares to steal from an elderly grandmother. Respect for elders is not a relic of the past in San Blas. It’s a way of life.