Goodbye Panama

Twenty-six months ago I stepped off an airplane anxious and pensive. I knew I was in for an adventure but knew no details. I was up for it, but quietly asking myself if I made the right choice. A feeling most volunteers share. A feeling most humans share when we make a major change in our lives, and Peace Corps is certainly that.

A Panamanian noise maker.

Now, just days from stepping back onto a plane and closing this chapter of my life, I find myself, ironically, anxious and pensive. Anxious for what awaits me Stateside. Pensive of my service, what it meant to me, and what it meant to my community. A conversation I will likely be having with myself for the rest of my life.

Just hanging out.

To Laguna: thank you. You graciously opened your homes and your hearts to me. Over the last two years we have sweat together, laughed together, and even shed a tear or two together (at the innocent loss of life). We have taught each other much about a world we were previously unfamiliar with. However, I think it goes without saying that I will walk away from this having learned the most.

Trying to figure out what the gringo's doing with that thing in his hands.

You taught me patience. Time, in your culture, is little more than a suggestion. It infuriated me at first, but I've come to understand what it means to you. Never do I expect a finger to be lifted until we've all shared proper greetings, updates on each others families, and a weak cup of coffee.

Mixing concrete for a latrine base.

Once it was time to work, however, you taught me what it meant to sweat. To really, really sweat. Your body-weight to cargo-load ratio is amazing. And the speed at which you get it to it's destination, incredible. One volunteer has termed it "gross domestic toughness." Whatever you call it, you have forever humbled me.

Lunch!

You showed me what it's like to grow up without an education and to have little exposure to the outside world. Milisciado, you often showed up at my house to discuss your view on life, on local events, or whatever happened to fill your mind for the day. I will never forget our conversations. One particular day you told me how you think the frogs fall from the sky, like rain. How else would so many of them end up at the same time and place, year after year? My efforts to explain things were fruitless. I was far more sane in your eyes to simply agree and progress the discussion. Yes, it is incredible! Especially how they only fall at night so we can't see them.

Children in my village.

The strongest lesson I will walk away with is not doubt the simplest (and somehow a reoccurring one in my life): work hard. Always. No matter what the conditions are. I found that the people I was most eager to help were those who are motivated to improve their lives, who don't just hold out a hand and say, "what are you going to do for me." Those who make the most of what they have inspire those around them. In the case of my community they inspired me to go far out of my way to help them when they likely needed it less than others in the community. If only I knew how to teach motivation. Possibly that's the real key to success.

My community.

Growing up, when I would complain about something not being fair, my father would tell me, "If life were fair you would be living in a hut in India." Well, I haven't been to India, but I know some people who live in huts. The fact that many of them are motivated to make the most of what they are given, many of them happier than people I know in the States, inspires me. Winston Churchill is commonly quoted as saying "Never, never, never give up." In fact, what he said was "Never give in. Never give in. Never, never, never, never--in nothing, great or small, large or petty--never give in, except to convictions of honor and good sense." We may not be able to choose our destinies, but I do think we can shape them with hard work.

Who knew a bottle could be so much fun.

These two years have left me surprised at how slowly things are accomplished through development work. Culture is so heavily ingrained in our lives. Combine it with a lack of education and it can take generations to implement change. Not that I don't think it's worth it. I do. Patience and dedication is what it takes.

My village.

Looking back on the last two years, I believe I will walk away having learned more than I was able to contribute. I'm not sure I would have expected that when I started. I'm not sure I thought about it. I am starting to think that this is the most valuable aspect of Peace Corps. Not what we leave behind, but how our service will shape our lives and decisions when we return home. I wonder if more is done for the impoverished through our choices (financial support, economic values, policy decisions, etc.) and those with whom we share our experiences (family, friends, coworkers, etc.) than from the buildings, or the crops, or the education we are able to leave behind.

A girl in my village.

Another outcome of my Peace Corps service that I hadn't anticipated is my community's perspective of America. When I showed up and said I was from Los Estados Unidos most people mentioned a war they had heard of on the radio, or "the country where our money comes from." One man used the verb "harvest" with respect to printing money. (Note: The U.S. had a presence in Panama at the time of independence from Columbia in the early 1900s. Consequently, Panama immediately started using the U.S. dollar and has never had their own currency.) Now, if you were to ask them what Los Estados Unidos means to them I think you would hear stories of the "tall man" that lived with them. In fact, I bet they would ask you if you know him. It pleases me to see opinions of America based on relationships and not news.

My village.

Still, I'm sure many of you (and even I, myself) wonder if it's really worth the time and money. It is no doubt an experience I will cherish for the rest of my life. But, I am not the only one who made a sacrifice over the last two years. If you pay taxes you contributed to my experience. Just how much? This year's Peace Corps budget is $331 million, funding the structure that supports approximately 9080 volunteers in 74 countries. That means each volunteer costs roughly $73,000 over the two-year period. I will let you, the reader, decide if you think it's worth it. I know that I wrote much more about my life on this blog than about the work I did. However, I think there is enough here for you all to decide.

The view from my village.

Whatever you decide, I want to thank you for giving Peace Corps and me a chance to help the world. Thank you all for reading and sharing your thoughts with me. Dozens of you - some I've known for years, some I've never met - have emailed me to tell me you're inspired, intrigued, or just fascinated by the stories. I have to say that your support has been priceless. This is an experience I will never forget. Thank you for sharing it with me.

Ciao.

Rob/Roberto/Choi

The sunset from Laguna.


Panama rain.

A three day walk to the Atlantic.

Still walking.

Still walking.

Made it.

An Embera tribe near Panama City.

Playing the flute.

All together now. (One guy is playing a turtle shell.)

Traditional dress.

Ink tattoos.

We found a snake!

Male traditional dress.

Top Ten Things I've Learned in Panama

There have been several occasions during the past two years when I have been struck by the drastic difference between life here and what we are accustomed to in the States. The following is my attempt at capturing some of those differences with photos. In no particular order:

The Top 10 Things I've Learned in Panama

1. Coffee, for a baby, is an appropriate substitute for milk.

My host dad and his daughter. Yes, that is coffee in her bottle.

2. Power lines, for ease of maintenance, should be strung at waist height. It is not important if pedestrians can walk into them.

Panama City. This power line has been strung at that height for the last six months.

3. Kool-Aid doubles as lipstick.

These two girls in my community rub the inside of the Kool-Aid packages on their lips to change the color of their lips.

4. Just because you don't have electricity doesn't mean you can't iron.

Just use a fire with a peice of metal between the flame and iron to heat it up.

5. Filing your teeth makes it easier to remove corn from the cob.

They use the same metal files for sharpening their machetes to file their teeth to points.

6. Out of sugar for your coffee? No sweat, just use the juice from sugar cane, instead of water, to make your coffee.

A boy in my community sucking on a freshly peeled stock of sugar cane.

The tool, carved from wood, that they use to squeeze the juice from the sugar cane.

7. Once you're old enough to walk, you're old enough to use a machete.

That machete is longer than he is tall.

Machetes in action.

8. If you don't have a crib, just tie your child to the bed.




9. Cows, the crazy animals they are, need to be muzzled at times and what better to do it with than a hand-knit bag.


10. Stuff a dead animal and wear it on your back for good luck.





A few times over my service I was with an indigenous family in the fields when we came upon a praying mantis. The natives put the insect in their hair and let it roam around on their head. They say that the praying mantis will clean the insects and lice out of your hair. Unfortunately, I never had my camera with me when I witnessed this, or else it would be on this list as well.

Just six weeks left in my service. I will post one more entry in October, as I am on my way out of the country.

Jatwaita.

Choi

The End is Near

It’s been almost two years. Two years since I've set foot on American soil. Two years since I said goodbye to friends and loved ones. Two years since I’ve indulged in a plate of sushi or savored the taste of a microbrew. As I begin to prepare for life after Peace Corps I spend a lot of time reflecting on the last two years and trying to anticipate what it will be like to be dropped back into American culture.

San Juan del Sur, a surf beach in Nicaragua.

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The thought of leaving is bittersweet. Everyday now someone mentions that I don’t have much time left. They ask when I’ll be back. I don’t know. Maybe in a year, maybe in twenty. “But Choi, if you wait twenty years to come back, we may not recognize you.” All I can do is chuckle. “Something tells me you’ll be able to pick me out from all the other 6’5” white guys that roll in here speaking Ngäbere. We all laugh. (Note: The name of the tribe, Ngäbe, is pronounced know-bay. The name of their language, Ngäbere is pronounced know-bear-ay.)

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It's worth two pics in my opinion.

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They ask why I don’t stay. I instantly feel guilty for having the opportunity to move on to something else. Realistically, it’s an opportunity these people don’t have and probably never will. I talk about seeing family and friends again, something I feel as though they can relate to. I would like to be able to talk to them about career aspirations and hopes for more education, but it would just confuse them. I feel as though no amount of explanation can help them understand a culture and lifestyle so removed from their own. It just makes me crazy, in their eyes, when I try. They would have to experience it to believe it.

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Concepcion, a volcano on Isla Ometepe, Nicaragua.

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“Will you work?” They ask. “How much will you make?” I cringe at questions that make me hesitant to reveal the truth about where I come from. I try to get away with a simple “I don’t know,” but they won’t have that. I think about how to respond. From experience I know that the quantity of 1000 or more doesn’t make sense to them. (Large numbers, like the number of trees in the valley, are expressed simply as “a lot”.) “Maybe two to three hundred dollars a day.” There is lots of swearing. Confusion. One man says to another, “He must mean per month.” “Choi, you mean per month, right?” I debate about having the discussion with them about how people in the states make more money, but things there cost more. I’ve done that enough to know that it doesn’t work. “No, per day.” There is more swearing. Several men ask me to take one of their children with me. I tell them to come visit.

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The volcano, up close and personal.

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As hard as it will be to say goodbye to my family and friends here, to put on my backpack and walk out of the valley not knowing if or when I will return, I am anxious for what lays ahead. I constantly hear about volunteers I entered Panama with who are applying to stay a third year. Honestly, I wonder how many of them are staying for the work and how many just aren’t ready to give up the relaxed, slow pace of life. Either way, I commend them for their service. I will miss it. I know I will. But I’m ready for a change. I’m ready to work with others who I can relate to culturally. I’m ready to be mentally challenged. I’m ready for a high-paced, active life in a big city.

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Not sure if we want to eat him or if he wants to eat us.

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In an email a few months ago from the states, someone wrote that I must feel like I’ve changed a lot. I can’t say that I do, or at least that I would word it that way. I feel as though I have grown up a bit. My views of the world and how people think and live are different from two years ago. I feel like I have tasted poverty and hunger, and have been enlightened by the importance of relationships and how simple life can be, if you let it. However, I think I am the same goofy, fun-loving, motivated kid I was when I left. I hope that part of me never changes.

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In his book Adrift, Steven Callahan writes,

“I know that to be well fed, painless, and in the company of friends and loved ones are privileges too few enjoy in this often brutal world.”

With that I could not agree more.

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Howler monkeys.

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If I may, I would like to segue for a minute to tell a story. In my travels safety is something I take seriously, but have had few problems with. There have been a few stolen items, but the responsibility was always mine. I forgot about things, only to return to find them missing. There was a night in Bogotá, Columbia, which made me uneasy. A large group of us (travelers) were walking back to the hostel from a bar early in the morning. The streets were empty. A motorcycle with two cops flashing machine guns stopped us. “What are you doing? You guys are going to get robbed.” We all looked around at the size of our group, at least 12 people. One girl chimed in, “You can see our hostel right down the street.” The cops didn’t seem to think it mattered so they escorted us back, appearing more concerned than we were. We thanked them for their help, but all talked about how unnecessary it seemed. A more recent close call on a trip with two buddies left me a bit more shook up.

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Boys play in a park in Granada, Nicaragua.

My journal reads…

It’s our last night in Nicaragua. We’re in a surf town, at a popular local bar with dozens of backpackers. It’s getting late and the bar is closing. A group of 8 to 10 of us walk out the door and start back to the hostel five blocks away.

A man from my community with a tiger skin.

I’ve met a girl, a fellow traveler, and about halfway to the hostel we peel off the back of the group to be alone. We’re standing on the boardwalk, leaning over the railing, listening to the Pacific waves crash into the sand. A street runs parallel to the walk, with another street running off perpendicularly behind us. A streetlight floods the intersection with bright yellow light, which fades away at our heels. There are a few people farther up the beach but for the most part we’re alone.

This one is a jaguar, he says.

A few minutes pass. We’ve lost track of our surroundings. Then it happens: there is a knife in my ribs.

I turn quickly to face a Nicaraguan man who waves a knife easily seven inches long.

“Monis!” He yells, letting us know in English that he wants our cash.

The top of Panama.

My heart skips a beat. The girl, I think, I’m responsible for the girl. My right hand goes up, palm out, as if he were pointing a gun at me. My left hand grabs the girl, guiding her behind me and hopefully out of danger of the knife.

“Monis!” He yells, this time more forcefully as he waves the knife in the air.

Move slowly. Move into the light. People might be able to see. We step slowly in an arc around knife-guy off the curb, into the light of the street.

It comes again, “Monis!”

The pond, in my community, dried up for the summer.

I think about what I’ve got on me. A digital camera in my front left pocket. About $40 in mixed Nicaraguan, Costa Rican, and American currencies in my front right pocket. About $200 U.S. and credit cards in my back right pocket. My passport, worth about $3K on the black market, in my back left pocket. I can feel the girl’s body pressed against my back, her purse wedged between us.

“MONIS!” He yells, getting frustrated. Another Nicaraguan man comes walking down the street. Knife-guy calls to him to help, but he walks by as if the three of us weren’t even there.

A grass hut under construction.

I debate about giving him the money in my front pocket to see if he’ll go away. But something strikes me as odd about his behavior. His eyes dart back and forth. He keeps a foot or two between me and the knife. I think he’s nervous. I think he’s scared.

“MONIS!” He keeps waving the knife.

The finished product, with a few years of wear.

He’s scared. Don't make eye contact. Don’t push your luck but don’t give in easily. Move back. I take a few slow steps back, pushing the girl with me. Knife-guy gives up, turns and runs. We breathe a sigh of relief and book it back to the hostel, checking over our shoulders every few steps.

Back at the hostel we sit on a bench. Everyone wants to know what happened. She fills them in. I sit and steam. My heart pounds. The adrenalin races. I’m angry. I’m scared. I shake. I want to fight.

I get up to go to bed. She gives me a kiss. She says thanks. I lay on my bunk and stare into darkness. I can’t sleep. All I can do is play out 1000 what-ifs in my head. I blame the rum. I blame Scandinavia for producing beautiful women. I blame the difference in economies. I blame the difference in education. I blame the difference in upbringing. I blame myself. It’s my fault. I stopped thinking about my surroundings, late at night, after drinking, in a poor, unstable country. I blame no one but myself.

Pretty pic.

We were lucky. We walked away without a scratch and with all of our stuff. I can only hope that the experience helps me avoid future run-ins with trouble. Either way, my travel lust is undamaged, at least for now.

Thanks for reading.

Jatwaita.

Choi

Another Day in My Life in Panama

June of last year I posted an article entitled "A Day in My Life in Panama." That article has generated more comments and feedback than any posting I've done since and even earned compliments in a December issue of the Panamanian newspaper La Prensa. While my life with the Ngäbe has been exciting and different, few days compare in bizarreness and hilarity to that day last spring. However, not long ago such a day came around again and with it I present to you what in my opinion is a deserving sequel to "A Day in My Life in Panama." Enjoy.

A night at a baseball game.

"UMIDI KA MABIDI MA SMUMIDI. KOIN MARAGA NAKA LAKA RAKA SMIMBTA. DERE AUNE JUMABEN." (Note: while this is not actually Ngäbere, the native dialect, it might as well be to the untrained ear.)

What the hell is that? I roll over in bed and try to make sense of what I'm hearing. I briefly consider that I may have taken one too many malaria pills the night before, but settle on the fact that it is indeed the middle of the night and someone is outside my house, no underneath my house rather, talking to himself.

Sunset on the Pacific.

I climb out of my mosquito net and go lay down on my porch above the man talking. I don't know who he is. After listening for a minute or two I can tell that he is praying. He has come a long way and is blessing every man, woman, child, animal, house, and farm he has passed on his journey. It's clear that this prayer won't be ending anytime soon, so I climb into my hammock and stare out at the night's sky.

Peña Blanca from a distance.

With the nearest electrical source 15 miles away, and the nearest city of any reasonable size over 50 miles away, light pollution is not a problem. I can see the milky way dipping into the horizon and the southern cross peaking out over the hills. A satellite streaks across the sky and I remind myself that according to the Ngäbes I live with there are no satellites. This fast moving star is the "Star of David" sent to watch over us. Ya, I think, it's watching over us in a way.

Finally I hear the man bless the house under which he will sleep and finish his prayer. I fall back asleep in my hammock.

The pinnacle of a 20 hour hike to summit Peña Blanca.
We termed this pose "The Perched Eagle".
The drop in front would make hang gliders envious.

"Choi, Choi, WAKE UP! Choi, what time is it?"

I moan as I'm woken with the most commonly asked question of my Peace Corps service. For some reason the indigenous people have decided I am the keeper of time.

"Seven," I shout back and wonder if he is going to reset his watch to my guess at the time.

A young girl in my community.

I'm up and ready to work. I grab by stuff and walk through the community shouting along the way for the men to come help. Every other house I pass hands me a sugared cup of warm coffee which I chug and keep walking. The kids all run out to greet me and yell in perfect English, "What's up chillin chillin!?"

Finished playing in the mud.

It's a daily reminder and one of the only remains of English classes I gave once upon a time. The kids melded the question and answer into one phrase and yell it every time they see me. Even those barely able to walk have been taught by their siblings to yell "CHILLIN CHLLIN!" when I pass.

Kuna Yala.

This morning we will be building walls on a multipurpose building in the community. One man points to my bucket of tools and asks,

"What's that?"

I look at the bucket and look back at him.

"It's a bucket of tools," I say.

"A bucket of tools?" the men mumble as they pull items out one by one and inspect them like they're foreign objects. Before I know it I've got my own indigenous version of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on my hands. One guy has the hand drill propped like a machine gun and is pretending to mow down a line of trees. Another is looking down the hand level like it's a scope. A third is swinging a mallet like it's a baseball bat.

Granito de Oro.

After much explaining and laughing we're able to get a few hours of work done and are handed coconut shells filled with rice and a small piece of mystery meat by a woman in the community. "Mrore!" she shouts in my ear as she gives me the bowl, letting me know it's food. We all find our spots in the dirt and sit to eat. I get the only spoon, everyone else eats with their fingers. I stopped arguing long ago but still feel bad.

I probe the cube of meat with hesitancy, as I don't recognize it. My mind runs through some possibilities: armadillo, turtle, a large rodent? It tastes fine, whatever it is, and I decide not to ask. "Rabbit," someone says, reading the question on my face.

An Embera man in Playa del Muerto.

Lunch is over and a friend of mine drives a machete into the ground in front of me. He points to it asks me, "Do you know what that is?"

"A machete," I respond.

"No, that's my bucket of tools," he says as everyone chuckles and I sit humbled.

An Embera family in Playa del Muerto.

A group of us are off, on a hike into the hills to cut bamboo for walls on a house. On the hike out the men want to hear stories about my recent trip to a Balsaria, a festival that provides a fascinating yet violent insight into the Ngäbe culture (for more stories about Balsaria see the March 2007 article "Punch, Kick, Throw Sticks!") The challenge for me is that they only want to hear about it in their native dialect, not Spanish.

I fumble with their language, but am able to put together simple sentences like, "Man hit man win woman."

They laugh and smile at me, the white man, trying to speak their language and participating in their lives.

The ink is a dye from the jungle that lasts several weeks on the skin.

An hour later and we've arrived. The men are experts with their machetes and begin to cut and strip bamboo far more quickly than I can. I bow out to stack and sort the cut bamboo, a position usually reserved for the children, because I'm just getting in their way.

After several hours of cutting it's time to divvy up the loads and head back.

"Choi, how many kintales do you want?" Milisciado asks me.

"Kintales?" I ask, stressing the fact that he made the world plural (one kintal is 100 pounds).

"Tell you what," I direct at the group, "I'll take zero kintales and keep up with you all on the walk back. One kintal and I'll take twice as long as you. Or, two kintalkes and I'll be staying the night here."

"Oh, Choi," one guy laughs, "you've got shoes on, you're fine! Give him a kintal and a half."

They each take 2 kintales themselves. I must outweigh each of them by 75 pounds but lack their incredible skill of carrying enormous loads. They are the Sherpas of Latin America.

More Emberas.

We all load up and start walking. The rest of the group is quickly out of site as I pace myself for the journey back.

Shortly I pass two gentlemen walking the other way on the trail. They stop me to ask a question and I'm more than happy to take a break. I pull out my watch in anticipation of what they are about to ask but surprisingly they don't want to know what time it is.

"Are the soldiers where you come from the same size as you?" One of the two inquires.

I fight to hold back laughter. "Every last one of them."

One of the guys turns to his friend, "May God have mercy on our souls if we ever go to war with his country."

"And may God have mercy on our souls if the only allowable weapons are balsa sticks and machetes," I respond.

Embera women dancing.

I'm back on the trial and fighting to keep my mind off the heavy load on my shoulders. My thoughts drift for a while but land on memories of a girl I said goodbye to when I left home, now almost two years ago. A girl I still think of often. I start singing to myself a line from a song by Maná:

"¿Amor, donde estarás? Manda un mensaje, una señal. Y no, no pararé, no viviré sin ti amor."

Don't worry grandma, it's not permanent.

Why you gotta be so depressing? I switch to a popular Kanye song.

"Work it, make it, do it, makes us harder, better, faster, stronger. N-n-now that that don't kill me can only make me stronger. I need you to hurry up now `cause I can't wait much longer."

¡SHIT! That is an enormous snake. It's either a coral snake or a king snake. The difference between the two, this far from medical help, can be life or death to a human who draws a bite.

Not such a bad place to have a house. Kuna Yala.

I freeze in my tracks and watch it stare at me from the trail a few feet away. I try to remember how that stupid rhyme goes matching the colors to the outcome of the bite. Red, orange, blue, sucks to be you. No, that can't be right, there is no blue on the king or the coral.

While I stand and make up silly rhymes about colors and misfortunes the snake continues on his way and before long so do I.

Back to walking. Back to thinking. My thoughts land on Nicolas Cage in The Rock. If the snake were to have bitten me I'd of dropped to my knees, slammed the epipen into my thigh, and lit the flares, CALL OFF THE FIGHTERS!

Enough of the childish thoughts, I think.

The Kuna, dancing.

I'm back in the community. I drop the bamboo and collapse on the ground drenched in sweat.

Children rush out and scream, "What's up chillin chillin!" One child asks in Spanish, "What took you so long?"

I respond with a line from the same Kanye song in English:

"Bow in the presence of greatness. You should be honored by my lateness."

An old fort in Portobelo.

I sit up as I'm handed two bowls. One full of coffee, the second is overflowing with taro, a root vegetable. I take off my signature headband and wipe my hands on my shorts before I dive into my dinner.

One man asks how I get my hair the color it is. Another points to signs of my developing widow's peak and is clearly puzzled.

I tell them that my hair is the color it is because I've spent my life praying to the hair Gods. The early notches in my hairline are a sign of extreme wisdom.

Cruising the Panama Canal.

They're clearly impressed but want to know who the hair God is. It's now well into dusk and I point to a serendipitously timed passing of their Star of David.

"That is our hair God."

Jatwaita (until next time)

Choi

The canal.

Sunset from my community.

Balsaria.

Throw sticks!

Throw more sticks!

That's a dead tiger strapped to his back for good luck.

Another long hike in the sun.

Fishing in the community pond.

Confused children.

Happy children.

The only tool or piece of hardware used in constructing this house was a machete.

Two Months in Honduras

Hello from Honduras! These past two months I have been working in the Northern region of this country constructing foot bridges with two small villages. Yes, I am still a Peace Corps Volunteer in Panama, and will be returning to my home in Laguna before the end of the month.

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Pondering the site of a new bridge in Honduras.

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There is a river near my village in Panama with an old, dilapidated bridge across it in need of replacement. Around Thanksgiving of last year a wonderful opportunity fell in my lap to come to Honduras for two months and work with a nonprofit from the States, Bridges to Prosperity (http://www.bridgestoprosperity.org/). The idea being that they would teach me to design and construct suspended footbridges with the hope of returning to Panama to replace the bridge in my community. However, before any construction begins in Panama I have various hurdles to jump over with respect to timing, manpower, availability of materials, and financing. I am excited to work on such a unique and important project for the indigenous reservation where I live.

The streets of Copan, Honduras at night.

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My time here in Honduras has been similar in nature to Panama, with subtle and pleasant changes. Much like Panama 90% (if not more) of my working hours are spent moving heavy objects. With the absence of heavy machinery and the rough terrain across which material (rocks, sand, cement, wood, etc.) has to be moved, my existence is often minimized to match that of a pack animal. The other 10% is where I feel as though I have something unique to offer, helping with the conceptual work. For example, with this bridge, the decision for what size cable to use, how tense it must be pulled, and how to secure it so that even those loaded down pack animals can cross safely. Often I feel out of place explaining to people twice my age how we're going to build something but feel an incredible sense of accomplishment knowing I contributed in a meaningful way.

A cathedral in Tegulcigalpa, Honduras.

The subtle changes have come in the form of electricity, food, and the language. Although I've enjoyed the light bulb and electrical outlet in the room I've rented here in Honduras (for a dollar a day) I'm ready to go back to my cabin in the woods complete with candles and flashlights in Panama. While I've enjoyed the break from rice and beans in Panama, I've eaten enough corn tortillas, salty white cheese, and refried beans here to satisfy all future cravings. And just at a point when I felt confident in my Spanish I up and moved to a place where they have different names for everyday vocabulary, use some verbs conversely to what I am accustomed, and have a harmonic up and down tone in their sentences like they're singing with every phrase. Time to go home to Panama.

View from the top of Isla del Tigre, Honduras.

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With all the time I've spent carrying sand and cement I've found myself thinking a lot about motivation and the sharp turns in my life that have lead me to this narrow creek bed in Honduras. I can think of half a dozen big decisions I've made in just as many years (from entering and then leaving a military academy to passing up competitive job offers to live in a grass hut in Panama) that have shaped so much of who I am. Throughout those years I've had my supporters and those who've told me I'm crazy, that I'm making the wrong decision. As much as I think about what my life would be like if I stayed on the paved road, I'm proud of not just the decisions I've made but the reasons I've made them.

The sun setting off Isla del Tigre.

There was one morning in particular here when our job was to move about 2000 pounds of cement and 8000 pounds of sand from the road to the job site 10 minutes away. About two hours in I realized something. I thought I had been setting the pace for the morning but had been matched step for step, pound for pound, by a young man in his late teens. Here I sat, leaning on a pile of cement bags that still had to be moved, sweat dripping off my face, staring at my Honduran reflection who was waiting for me to start up again so he could too. He opened his mouth for the first time all morning:

"I want to be an engineer too."

More sunsets.

I thought for a minute as I stared into his eyes. How hard would it be to become motivated if all you knew was your cramped house, empty stomach, and exhausting days spent in the fields? When I finish here I get on a plane and fly away to something new. These people go back to picking corn. Is it fair to hold it against thm for not making more of their potential when they don't know anything outside this very frame of reference? Here was a boy who saw something different and wanted to do it too. I didn't know what to say.

"Never ever give up." Is all that came out as we both picked up another bag of cement and marched on.

Mayan ruins at Copan, Honduras.

Along with constructing bridges I've had a chance to get out and travel a bit, as you can see from the pictures. From beautiful mountains in Guatemala, to pristine beaches in El Salvador, to ancient Mayan ruins in Honduras, I met plenty of travelers along the way. In fact I met tons. I can't believe how many Americas, Europeans, and Australians are bumming around the Central America with a few thousand dollars just seeing where the wind will take them.

More ruins.

One of the first questions asked when getting to know other travelers is "How long have you been traveling?" That's always a tough question for me. What should I say, "a year and a half"? That's how long I've been gone, but I consider myself a Peace Corps Volunteer, not a traveler. I'm usually just on a weekend trip.

Macaws in Honduras.

_

Lately, I've just been responding simply with "a while". At the same time, who am I to kid? As I ponder the question everything about me screams traveler. I carry two valid US passports. I hide money in half a dozen places on my body and in my bags. I no longer consider a bus full until there are at least 15 people on with their center of gravity over asphalt and at least three species of animals on board (one of which must be a live chicken hung upside down with its legs tied together). I come out of the woodwork after a few weeks and struggle getting my mind and mouth to use just English. And I can think of at least half a dozen times in the last six months where I've laid down on the ground and gone to sleep either because that was the accommodation available for the evening or because of some lack of foresight on my part. I guess I am, in a way, just another traveler looking for his next great adventure.

Packing corn back to the house, Honduras.

That quickly reminds me of a bus ride I took in El Salvador a few weeks back. I was sitting behind the bus driver when he turned to me and said in English, "Where are you from?" It turned out he spent several two year periods in California doing construction. When I asked him how he got to the States he held back no details as he described the long bus rides across Mexico, the resting near the border, and the hot days hiding and long nights walking as he snuck into the States and was preparing to do so again. At first I was angry at him but quickly lightened up as I realized I would likely do the same think if in his shoes. It certainly doesn't make it okay for him to do, but in my opinion my frustration should be directed at the US government and not at the bus driver. Which got me thinking. When all this "traveling" is over it would be interesting to "sneak" back into the US via the Mexico border. If I get caught I just show my passport and fill out a customs form, right? It would make a good book I bet. I'll have to consider it.

Until next time,

Pequeño

Midday snack: sugar cane.

The Pacific Ocean.

Preparing onions for a market in San Pedro, Guatemala.

Indigenous dress, Guatemala.

Off to the market to sell her bread, Guatemala.

The shores of Lake Atitlan, Guatemala.

Same lake.

Construction on the towers begin for our bridge.

The women carried stones on their head from the riverbank.

The new tower goes up behind the old one.

The towers are complete!

Time to set the cables.

I break with a local boy.

On goes the walkway.

More walkway.

Six weeks of labor, and it's finished!

All in all it's just over 30 meters long, about 20 meters shorter than the one I will try to build in Panama.

Soccer on the beach in El Salvador.

Fishing time in Playa Cuco, El Salvador.

The sunset on the same beach.

A dugout canoe in Bahia Azul, Panama.

A freshly hatched turtle in Panama.

There were 80 born in this group.

And they're off!

First one to the ocean wins.

An ocelot in captivity, Panama.

My buddy, Jacob, feeding spider monkeys.

A white faced monkey, Panama.

He goes for the bananas.

Feeding the monkeys.

Tree jumping.

The beach, Mono Feliz, Panama.

Spider monkeys.

More monkeys.

Monkey...monkey...monkey.

There were lots of monkeys.

The beach, Playa Zancudo, Costa Rica.

New Address

For those who would like to send letters or packages (always welcome!), I have a new mailing address:

Roberto Pequeño
Cuerpo de Paz-Panama
Edificio 104, 1er Piso
Avenida Vicente Bonilla
Ciudad del Saber, Clayton
Panama, Rep. de Panama

Also, if any of you have ever encountered a longer mailing address, I would like to know. I think this one is absolutely ridiculous.

Happy New Year!

So you want to be a Peace Corps Volunteer?

I am amazed at the number of emails I receive from friends of family, friends of friends, retired Peace Corps Volunteers, Americans living in Panama, and even some various internet browsers who have discovered my blog and have comments or questions for me. Never would I have thought that people outside of my close friends and family might be interested in reading about my experiences living here in the Comarca Ngäbe-Buglé. Thank you all for reading and keep the emails coming. I am happy to answer any questions you may have.

Children wait in line for Christmas presents in Laguna.

A number of emails have recently come from people interested in applying to Peace Corps and have questions about what to expect. That’s a difficult question for me to answer as Peace Corps Volunteers serve in dozens of countries around the world and all experiences are different. I am surprised even at how much experiences differ for volunteers between Latin American countries, or here within Panama between those who live with the indigenous population versus Latinos. Nevertheless, having the question posed to me makes me think about my expectations and how things were different, which has led me to write this article.

A rainbow over Laguna.

One comment I hear often from interested applicants is, “I don’t have anything to offer.” Peace Corps Volunteers laugh when we hear someone say that. Everyone in the States has something to offer. First off, no experience (outside of a college education) is required for Peace Corps service. That’s not to say that if you have some experience it won’t be useful. It will be, but usually on a very basic level.

Ngäbe woman toasting coffee.

Second, the first two to three months in your country of service is spent learning what you will need to know to work in your “sector” or area of focus for two years. Also, a big portion of your experience (for me, more than half of my time) is spent outside your sector work: doing secondary projects of your own choosing, or just passing time in your community with the villagers.

Girls playing on a rice drum in Laguna.

Growing up in the States has given me a completely different perspective of the world from the people I live with and provide for some very interesting conversations, as the Ngäbes are very inquisitive about what the world is like outside their 200-acre field of view. I’ve made note of some of the questions I’ve heard just in the past month, and if you’re worried about being “qualified” to be a Peace Corps Volunteer, consider the following: I’ve found it important to know that no, you cannot drink water from the ocean (no matter how much of it there may be); SPAM is not an animal; water flows uphill, not down; revenue minus expenses equals profit, and a negative profit is bad; fabric starts out as cotton, it does not grow from a tree; and the amount of money in use is controlled by the government, not by some foreigner who doesn’t want to share. A reoccurring difficulty for me is trying to express the size of the world to someone who has never ventured more than a day’s walk from their village. It’s like trying to explain to an ant the contents of a grocery store when it hasn’t left the jellybean section.

Five of my 14 host siblings.

There are certainly days when I learn far more from the people I live with than I could ever teach them. For example, in the States we are taught that dogs can’t eat chicken bones. That’s a lie. Dogs are chicken-bone-eating machines! Dogs get just as excited as the natives when a chicken is killed because they know they’re going to eat well too (and I’m just talking about the bones here). And school? Completely overrated. The medicine man in my village hasn’t attended a day of school in his life. According to him, you learn from trial and error. He has learned that when you slice your hand open with a machete you flood the wound with the sap from a banana tree, which serves as a coagulant. Someone needs to pass the word to the doctors in the States. Clearly we’ve got it all wrong.

A truck ride out of my site.

Also, did you know that when you’ve got a mad cow you trap it in a corral so small it can’t move? Leave it there for three days without food or water and every couple of hours you cut off some of the hair from its tail, burn it, and force the smoke up the cow’s nose. It clears things right up.

Sunrise from my porch.

For prospective Peace Corps Volunteers the idea of learning a new language can be both scary and exciting. I thought coming to Panama would mean I would leave fluent in Spanish. While my Spanish has certainly improved a lot, I have given up thinking I will leave as a master of Spanish, speaking fluid, grammatically correct Spanish. Much of my Spanish is a reflection of the Spanish spoken in my village. It would make my Spanish teachers in the States cringe!

Sunset from my porch.

The people in my community speak Spanish as a second language. Many don’t speak Spanish. The Spanish they do speak is crude at best. They use two of the fourteen tenses in Spanish to express all fourteen of them. Picturing them talk to me is, at times, is like imagining how I might speak to a very, very, old person in a convalescent home who forgot to put in their hearing aids: slowly and LOUDLY!

My host aunt peeling leaves to use to make bags.

Coming to the Comarca to learn Spanish would be like sending someone to the backwoods in Louisiana to learn English. They could live with someone named Burris Ewell in a small shack, listen to them speak Creole among themselves, and whenever someone in the family wanted to say something to their visitor they could turn and scream in their ear something like “DA BABY NO LIKE BISCUTS” all said about three times slower than normal.

Girls in Laguna playing.

Picture that person in London traveling after their two years in the bayou saying something like “ME GOES BATHROOM WHERE?” Sometimes I feel like that person. I remember saying something in Spanish in Bogotá and the person I was talking to had this expression on their face like they had just bit into a lemon, “Where did you learn to speak Spanish?” was their response. Rewarding. It’s all incredibly rewarding.

A banana tree.

I heard a friend of mine here in Peace Corps who lives on the beach say she doesn’t know the Spanish word for sidewalk but knows four different words for sand. That comment describes our situation quite well. Words like “elevator” and “carpet” aren’t in our vocabulary. Thinking about all of the words I use on a daily basis (snake, machete, rice, etc) the word for slippery has become by far the most used and most important word to my personal health.

Independence day parade.

Let me sidetrack on a tangent for a minute if I may. While getting to know other volunteers, stories about our college experiences often come up. One question I have gotten sever times is “Were you in a fraternity?” My response is simply that I did my freshman year at the U.S. Air Force Academy. For me, military academies are the quintessential embodiment of a fraternity. Take 4000 of America’s brightest, most athletic, testosterone driven high school graduates, put them in a single building large enough to have its own zip code, and tell them to study. Never have I seen so many creative uses for water balloon launchers (http://www.frattoys.com/index.php?cPath=34 or check out this site, you can actually “support your troops with ‘fun’ water balloon slingshots”: http://www.slingking.com/).

Kids preparing to dance for spectators.

One of the many ridiculous ways cadets at the Air Force Academy kill their free time is with a pastime known as Carrier Landings. Take a 200 foot long narrow hallway made of fake tile and stop up all door thresholds with towels, as well as a clear starting line about 50 feet down the hallway. Spread a thin layer of warm, sudsy water throughout the 150 foot “runway” and you are ready to begin. Cadets lineup and sprint down the 50 foot strip of hallway, launch themselves superman style over the start line and land on all fours, sliding full speed down the runway. As quickly as possibly you want your only points of contact with the ground to be your elbows and knees, to minimize friction, and increase the velocity with which you ram into the wall at the end of the hallway. If there were a winner to this game it would be whichever person could hit the wall at the end of the hall with enough force to draw out the most painful groans from the onlookers. It’s a GREAT time!

Still preparing to dance.

Now, back to Peace Corps. The Comarca is one giant Carrier Landing! Something about the wet clay here makes walking anywhere like trying to walk on a slip and slide. My ear has been perfectly tuned to listen for the slightest mention of the word “resbaloso” (slippery). Nine times out of ten when I hear this word from someone in front of me I end up on my back, usually with lots of firewood spread all over me, and the breath knocked out of me. I just stare at the clouds and swear under my breath in English while the natives (who never fall), time and again, stand over me and scream:

“¿Tare mäbtä?”

Now they're dancing.

The first time I heard this I was so confused. My mind began to translate…..Are you in love? What, that can’t be right.

“Why are you asking me if I’m in love?”

The conversation switches from native dialect to Spanish.

“No, Choi, are you in pain?”

“Agh. No. Yes. That’s not what you said. You said ‘tare’ that means love.”

“It also means pain.”

Let that sink in for a moment. The word in their native dialect for “love” is the same word that they use for “pain”. So appropriate, yet so inappropriate at the same time.

Here's the video.

Food. I was curious what I would be eating for my two years in Panama before coming here. I didn’t know what to expect. I am often asked by friends at home what type of food is Panamanian. Rice and chicken. That’s it. Nothing fancy. Where I live, however, you eat what you grow. That means root vegetables and rice, plain rice, three times a day, for several months at a time. Now, of all the things you could eat three times a day to live, rice would certainly not be at the bottom of the list. In fact, in the realm of volunteers in the Comarca I’m lucky. Many volunteers live in communities where they don’t grow rice. Instead, they eat bananas three times a day. Not yellow, ripe, sweet bananas. But hard, green bananas boiled in water until they have the consistency of a potato with absolutely no flavor. Ironically, the word for banana in Näbere (mröre) is also the word for food.

Adults preparing to dance for spectators.

Most volunteers, however, are able to live and cook on their own after a few months in site which is a wonderful change for those of us used to eating more than just rice or bananas for every meal. However, living a day’s travel to the nearest grocery store can create some interesting predicaments on the occasions that I don’t carry in enough food for my stay in site. Each of the following situations may or may not have happened to me on multiple occasions:

I open up my food box and…
1) SWEET!!!! Chocolate chip cookie mix! This is going to be the best dinner ever!
2) Rice. Mayo. Nutella. Huh. Tomorrow’s going to be painful.
3) Mancakes: typical pancake mix, replace water with rum.

More dancers.

The transition into Peace Corps is not natural, for anyone. You will give up every modern convenience you know and live out of your backpack in an obscure corner of the world. You will answer questions about how long it would take to walk to China and listen to people talk about what they would do if they had $100 dollars. You won’t understand most of what is said to you, although you will pretend you do, and you will be dirty, very dirty, for two years. But everyday something will happen, something will make you laugh or smile, and all of the nervousness or unfamiliarity will leave you and you will feel content with where you are, contributing to the life of someone who has far less than anyone you’ve ever met, and it will all be worth it. If it appeals to you, apply. You will never regret it.

Jatwaita.

Choi.

More dancing.

Ngäbe men prepare to work on the road to their village.

Pretty view in the Comarca.

A child looks on while her mom cleans rice.

Mixing cement for a latrine floor.

Typical Comarca house.

And it's typically filled with kids.

Celebrating Independence Day in Laguna.

Just hanging out.

Rain, Snow, Some Vacation, and Lots to Think About

The past two months have brought a variety of changes and experiences for me here in Panama. The most visible has been the change in climate as Panama is currently in the heart of "winter". Located fewer than 10 degrees off the equator, the temperature rarely deviates from the year-round 80 degrees F. Consequently, seasons are not defined by a changing of temperature or colors but by the amount of rain that falls.

Taking materials into my site in January.

September and October are the two wettest months of the year for most of the country. Right now it's not unusual for my village to get five hours or more of rain everyday. A considerable amount considering that by January we will go almost four months with no measurable rainfall.

Diablo Rojos (Red Devils)....old american school buses that end up in Panama

For the people in my village this season is a period of rest and conversation. With the crops in the ground but not yet ready to harvest there is little work to do in the fields. The afternoons are defined by pounding tropical rain which leaves the ground too wet and muddy to do many construction projects with the morning sun. Even looking for firewood is something that needed to be done last month as now everything exposed is too wet to burn.

Black Christ Statue, Portobelo, Panamá

One evening not long ago the temperature dropped down to a staggering 66 degrees after the rains had finished and the breeze picked up. Everyone in the village was wearing their warmest clothes (some with old ski jackets on), drinking hot coffee, and talking about how cold it was. One man made a comment to me about it being cold enough to snow. I have a picture in my house of my grandfather shoveling snow off of his roof in Alaska. This picture, along with one of elephants and another of the San Diego skyline, prompt many questions and raise much confusion.

Black Christ Festival

To these people snow is a myth. The concept of ice falling from the sky is just not comprehensible. Much like buildings taller than two stories and the ability to leave a message for someone if they don't answer their phone. It seems that nothing I say can convince them otherwise. Writing this is a reminder to me of a boy living deep in the Arctic Circle of Alaska who heard about ice cubes for the first time as a teenager and struggled with the concept of making ice to keep things cold. (A fabulous read: Seth Kantner's Ordinary Wolves) A stark contrast, yet not really, to the Ngäbes' perspective of the world.

Health fair in Laguna.

The incessant rain has put my primary project of latrine building on hold due to the difficulty of putting holes in the muddy ground and the river overflowing the sandbar: our source of rock and sand for concrete mix. As a result I have been afforded the opportunity to visit neighboring villages to design and troubleshoot water systems.

Kids will be kids, all over the world.

As much as I enjoy working with water systems and visiting some incredible remote places, I find it increasingly difficult to explain to people that they simply chose a bad place to live (never put quite so bluntly). Read: to the people of Ngäbeland, you are correct. I am an engineer. I was educated in a prosperous nation. However, that does not make me omnipotent. I can neither make water flow uphill (without the use of an outside medium - not economical in your cases) nor can I create water. I apologize, I wish I could. I can say that living on a ridgeline only complicates your water situation and should be avoided no matter how sweet the view.

Fresh rice drying in the sun.

In addition to exploring other villages around the comarca, I took some vacation to celebrate my mom's 55th birthday with her on the Dutch Antilles in the Caribbean. If I may say, there's nothing like a vacation while in the Peace Corps to drop your stress level in life from a zero to something far lower (if that's possible).

Children waiting for food.

We had a wonderful time exploring the islands of Aruba, Bonaire, and Curaçao. Many of the pictures here are from our trip. Happy birthday Mom! Additionally, there are some pictures here from Bogotá, Columbia, on a stop I made back to Panama. A fascinating city, vibrant with culture and history, it made me even more excited to travel after my two years here in Panama are over.

A truck ride down from my site to the city.

I'll leave you with two stories that have left me pensive about the delicacy of life and differing philosophical approaches to development work.

Ngäbe Twins

First, I was working in my house not long ago when a community leader, Eladio, came by to ask me to take a picture of a "phenomenon" that had just taken place. A premature baby had just been born in the village.

Health Fair in Laguna

Without thinking twice I went with him to see the baby. As we approached the hut I saw several men sitting outside showing no emotion and was reminded of the cultural taboo here for men to be involved in or even discuss a woman's pregnancy.

My great-hostmother. Depending on who you ask, she's anywhere from 45 to 186.

Eladio and I entered the hut and I quickly realized what I was about to witness. While having second thoughts about entering I knew it was too late to turn back. The hut was full of elderly women who had helped deliver the baby on the mother's bed. Heavy smoke from the stove lingered to the point that I had to cover my mouth and squat to keep from coughing. It was too dark to see anything without a flashlight. I was show the newly born child, which I later found out was born several months prematurely. The baby, underdeveloped and disfigured, was a heartbreaking sight. After inquiring about the mother's physical health I took Eladio outside and stressed the urgency for proper medical attention for the mother and particularly the child.

Hiking into Laguna with some friends.

I don't think I've ever felt such a strong appreciation for life as I did in that moment, seeing something so new to this world struggling so much to live. I thought about the conditions under which the child was born and how lucky we are in the developed world to have the infrastructure and education to address many of these issues. I imagine that there are far more babies born in huts like these around the world everyday than the clean hospitals we are accustomed to.

A snake my hostdad killed outside my house.

Two days passed with no effort by the community to get either the mother or the child to a doctor. Eladio came to tell me that the "creature", in his words, had died and once again said that it was a phenomenon. I stared and the ground and replied, "No, if that baby had lived it would have been a phenomenon. That baby died. That's a tragedy."

The view from my porch...notice the grass roof hanging down at the top.

The second, less somber story is about a health fair that recently took place in Laguna, my village. A Canadian owed company that manages much of the country's electricity came in to hand out food and presents as well as give basic medical attention to anyone who would come from around the valley. I spent the day helping where needed and talking to the natives.

Please! I just want to hold it.

As the day came to a close I sat on the porch of the school, watching the last of the group climb into their trucks and drive off. I could see the garbage pit overflowing with medical waste and used syringes, children playing nearby. I thought about how the natives had benefited from the day. They had some new clothes and full bellies, and plenty of tylenol for the month's headaches. But in talking to them they learned very little. They learned that outsiders think they are poor, and if they wait long enough help will come. But to me this type of help is not sustainable. Tomorrow it will all be forgotten and little will have changed.

Aruba!

A little girl sat down next to me and said,

"Choi, are you going with them?"

"No." I replied.

"That's because you're one of us, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Choi, I hope you never leave."

I smiled.

The sunset on Curaçao.

Jatwaita.

Choi.

Happy Birthday Mom!

Willemstad, Curaçao

A newborn ostrich.

Bonaire

Sunset on Bonaire

That's a 23oz boneless Argentinian prime rib. AKA more protein than all P.C. Panama workers consume in a single day, combined.

House on Bonaire

More sunsets.

Bogotá, Columbia.

An old church.

Plaza Boliviar, Bogotá.

How old would you be if you didn't know how old you are?

I've been in Panama for a year now, living in an indigenous community for just over nine months. I've gotten to the point where common occurrences for the Ngäbe do not seem that unusual to me. For example, eating out of a banana leaf or chasing a snake through the rainforest to kill it has become a way of life. No longer do they make me think about how crazy this experience can be.

Nothing like some armadillo for dinner!

More and more I find myself thinking instead about what it will be like to step foot back in the US when this experience is over. I wonder what it will be like to walk amongst all the big buildings and busy people, to hear English in the streets and not Spanish or Ngäbere. I wonder what it will be like to walk in my backyard and see a swimming pool larger than the school in my community, to walk into a grocery store and see people spending more money on one basket full of food than my host family will make in an entire year. I wonder if my friends will have changed or if they'll think I've changed.

Host siblings.

I've heard many retired Peace Corps volunteers (RPCVs) say that the cultural shock moving to your service country is much easier to deal with than the move back to the States and the life left behind. For many, it is hard to readjust to the lifestyle they were once accustomed to and for some to find their purpose or calling, if you will. While my personal and career aspirations haven't changed since I've arrived in Panama, my perspective on life and the world, I believe, has.

A chicken coop we recently built in Laguna.

I would like to share a recent experience of mine, that along with many others has slowly changed the way I view our world and what I consider to be a common lifestyle.

My neighbor.

Mid-July my host father invited me to join him on a trip to visit the community where his father grew up. A town so small it doesn't have a name, just a few families, all related, living nearby one another. I gladly accepted and the following morning we were off on a two hour hike along the river. Upon arriving in the community we sat down outside the first house we came to where we were able to look out over the other houses and fields where the community was working.

A turtle laying eggs on the beach.

A woman came out of the house near where we were sitting, handed us some juice, exchanged a few words with Amado (my host dad) and immediately turned towards the community, shouting:

"¡Un gringo llegó para escoger una esposa!"
(A white man has come to select a wife!)

It's a race back to the ocean!

I immediately turned to my host father, "Amado, did she really just say that?"

Amado had trouble answering me he was laughing so hard.

"No," he said, "she's just kidding!"

That's Laguna down there.

I breathed a sigh of relief and went back to drinking my tapioca juice refreshment served to me in a hollowed out coconut shell. Before long people started to come up and meet the visitors. They all knew Amado, but were quick to tell me that they had never seen a white man in their own village. They were all incredible kind and accepting of my presence.

Coloring on my porch.

Based on their personal hygiene, quality of their clothing, and use of their language, it was apparent to me that these people would be considered hermits, even in their own culture: living in the shadows, avoiding much contact with anything outside their community. Whereas most Ngäbes are proficient in Spanish but prefer to use Ngäbere, their native dialect, these people were very reluctant to use what little Spanish they knew and favored Ngäbere, even when talking with me. It took me no more than a few simple questions to exhaust the Ngäbere I'm comfortable with and Amado quickly became a translator for me from Spanish to native tongue.

Sunrise on the Pacific.

Some of the men invited me on a tour of the village to see where everyone lived and worked. I gladly accepted. I noticed on our stroll that it was quite common for small children to run out of the homes, only to start crying, turn, and immediately run back inside. After it happened the third or fourth time I asked someone about it.

Definitely worth another look.

"They're scared of you," one man said, "They've never seen a white man before."

I could hear one particular child ask his dad if I was a bear. His father explained to me that they have only heard stories of the size of bears, and with me standing one to two feet taller than anyone in the community it was a natural question for the boy.

Man, too bad Panama doesn't have any sweet beaches.

After seeing the village we settled in a small grass hut for lunch. Being the honorable guest, I was given the stone to sit on while everyone else sat on the ground. A young woman served me a bowl of rice while a small child gripped the girl's leg, careful to always keep her mother between her and the "bear". Seeming too young to have her own child, I asked the woman how old she was.

"I don't know," she said.

"You don't know?"

"No. My mother died giving birth to me and no one remembers the day or year."

A tree viper I just about stepped on.

I found this hard to believe, and continued asking questions to try and gauge her age. All to no avail, this girl had absolutely no clue how old she was. A concept that bewildered me, but to them played no importance in their life.

Mark, Kevin, and I (photographer) crossing into Panama from Costa Rica.

"¿Choi," one man interrupted, "Tu estas soltero?"

"No, no I'm not a soldier." Wait, soltero, that's not soldier. What does that word mean...shoot!

"Sorry, yes I am single. Why?"

"We would like to offer you a woman from the community to take as a wife. We will give you your own plot of land to farm if you stay."

Yes Mark, you're huge.

Now, I am commonly asked when I'm going to take a wife here in Panama, but this was the first time I've flatly been offered a wife.

I understand from talking to volunteers from other countries that it is quite common amongst Peace Corps workers to receive this type of offer. In many places there is a dowry of say a small amount of money and/or livestock.

A walk to the beach.

Future inlaws please read: at a minimum I now expect a goat for marrying your daughter.

"Thank you, but I'm here for the experience, I'm not looking for a spouse."

"Well then, would you at least leave some children? They will grow up to be rich like people from your country."

Pretty pic.

I believe this was the point where I shifted from the stone to the ground and had trouble breathing for about ten seconds. How do you even begin to address a question like this? Given the cultural divide and the clear difference between what we consider to be appropriate behavior I opted for the easy way out:

"I'm sterile, sorry."

Ngäbe woman.

During the walk back and even still now, I think a lot about how little I knew about life outside of our own country and culture. I read books and heard stories about unusual lifestyles around the world. But, I don't think that anything I've read or heard prepared me for my visit to that village or even my life here in Panama.

If only they would wait until they're ripe to eat them.

I'll leave you all with a story I recently heard from my boss, an RPCV. There was a volunteer on an island in the south pacific who woke up one morning to discover that all the men in the community had been killed during a storm at sea the night before while fishing. The women in the community asked the volunteer to help ensure the future of their culture and repopulate the island. Needless to say, the focus of the volunteers service changed as did the ethnic makeup of the island.

Jatwaita.

Choi.

Lots of rice in this country.

Ngäbe man.

A 45 mile walk on the coast.

There were plenty of river crossings in dugout canoes.

Looking back on two day's of progress.

This particular section of beach went on for 15 miles, and there were about as many people.

A Day In My Life In Panama

The following is a journal entry of mine from early May. I hope you enjoy.

I sit up and look around. It's still dark out. I slept on a cowhide on the dirt floor of the grass hut amongst all of the children in my host family. I begin to wonder what woke me up so early. It must have been another chicken running over me. Oh, wait, nope...here it comes again...

The beautiful Caribbean!

"¡GENTE, DEJA SU MANTA, DEJA SU MUJER, VENGA A TRABAJAR!" (Men, leave your blankets, leave your women, come work!)

That's my host dad screaming at the top of his lungs for the men in the community to come help carry wood. I'm quickly up and ready to go. The grandma in the house hands me a 12oz cup of coffee. I pray that this one isn't too hot as I open my throat and begin to chug. One...two...three...finished. Maybe this time they won't make fun of me. In come the men. They all put back their coffee faster than I did mine and we're off to get wood for the house.

Random picture.

It's so dark I can barely see the trail, but after four months of this I should be able to do it in the dark. I can hear the men in front of me laughing and making fun of me in Ngabere (native dialect) for the the way I drink my coffee. I'll never learn.

My buddy Jack bird hunting in the jungle.

About thirty minutes later we get to the wood, after going over a mountain that wears us all out. Or, maybe that was just the pace these men choose to walk at. We all throw a hundred pounds of wood on our shoulders and start the trek back as the sky is slowly starting to brighten.

The house during construction.

Maximo, a fitting name for the strongest man in the community, blazes past me going up the backside of the mountain carrying at least 150 pounds of wood. I shout out "Maximo, why aren't you wearing any shoes?!" He's already too far ahead for me to hear his reply, but I'm sure it's something about how shoes are for wimps.

Construction.

A short while later there is a piercing pain in my arm. I look down to see a giant caterpillar that looks like a porcupine sticking out of my forearm. I drop my wood as I let out a cry of pain. One of the other men drops his wood as well and takes off running into the heavy growth, quickly reappearing with the leaf of a "medicinal tree" to rub on my arm. We're quickly back on the trail, but my arm still stings.

On goes the roof.

After an hour and a half gone I'm back at the house, but last again. I drop off my wood, find out there is no breakfast and take off to the fields where the community is already working. Today we're planting rice. The holes are already dug. My job: pull five grains of rice from a bag, put them in a hole, cover the hole, and repeat.

Lovely water tank, huh?

Three pounds of rice and four hours later I hear someone helling "MRORE!" and I know that lunch has arrived. Everyone gathers around the old woman who has just slung a giant bag of rice from her head, where it was carried, down to the ground. Oh great, I think, more rice. But it doesn't matter I'm hungry and ready to eat.

My host dad finishing with the grass.

I get the first plate, or banana leaf rather, full of rice. I didn't show up first, but to them it doesn't matter. I've asked them to treat me no differently than their own, but still no one eats until Choi (my indigenous name) has his food. They say I'm the guest, and guests eat first. I eat my rice with my dirty fingers as no one brought silverware and there is no place to wash my hands. It's ok by me, I've gotten used to being dirty. I eat quickly, trying to fill the hole in my stomach, stopping only to pull the occasional ant or beetle out of my food. Sometimes I don't even stop for that.

A trek through the jungle.

My rice is finished and I'm back again lost in the monotony of filling small holes with five grains of rice. For a few days the experience is sobering, allowing me to clear my head and think about all sorts of things. After a week, however, I'm thankful for my education and ready to be done with rice.

My community is down there, somewhere.

My rice planting is interrupted by two guys who call me over to solve a debate. As the Peace Corps volunteer I am the official keeper of time for the community and also the final word on any debate, whether or not I know the answer. Period.

The house, finished! And what a wonderful view.

Today the debate is about whether or not English and French are the same language. I explain that they're not and as I explain where the two are spoken I am interrupted by one of the men who wants to know if France is in the same world as us. I debate about how to handle this question and just say "yes".

The sunset from my porch.

"But Choi, if you can't walk there how can it be in the same world?"

I don't have time to answer this one as another man starts yelling and pointing to the sky. I look up and see two planes in view at the same time. I look back at the man yelling and the expression on his face as if to say "you mean there is more than one of those things!" I have to sit down as I am overwhelmed with all that is going on.

Looking for insects.

Fortunately the rain starts and we all pack up and make our way for cover, no more explaining today.

Back at the house I go to take a shower and my host mom notices a bump on my back. It turns out to be a worm under my skin and she pulls out a bottle of medicine. I ask to see the bottle because last time this happened the bottle of medicine very clearly stated "for use on cows only". This time the bottle says "ant poison" in English. She asks me what it says as I hand it back to her. "I don't know," I say, "It's in French."

My turn. Nope, nothing.

After using plenty of ant poison and lots of prodding with a sharp stick she gets the worm to leave and produces another bottle of "medicine". I look at this one and am startled to see a tub of Tropicana hair gel. "This is good medicine," she says, "It's from China." And then goes on to say "It even comes in different colors." Sure, I think, firm, extra firm, super firm.

The kids are always intrigued by the camera.

She finishes covering my wound with hair gel and I go to take my bucket shower. After cleaning up, I eat my bowl of beans and tapioca, and make my way to bed. As I lay down on my cow hide I can smell the grandma toasting the coffee beans for the morning. I chuckle to myself and think "what a day".

My host sister, patiently waiting and asking for candy.

In other news, the house/cabin is finished and I love how it turned out. I've got a spare bed and you are all welcome to come down and visit. I've started building latrines in the community but am taking a short break to go travel with some college buddies. I hope this finds you all doing well.

Jatwaita.

Choi.

Punch, Kick, Throw Sticks!

The weather these last few months here in Panama has been beautiful! Low 80s to high 90s everyday with no rain or clouds. As I sit here in my tent writing this the sun is slowly setting over the mountains turning the sky a mixture of orange and red, with the moon and night’s brightest stars slowly appearing. It’s a blissful reminder of what a majestic world we live in.

A night out in Panama City.

The lack of rain these past two months has given me lots of time to work on the house as well as get out and see a bit more of Panama. While I no longer have the pleasure of a spring break, I can’t complain with such a simplistic lifestyle, relative closeness to the beach, and the cheap price of beer!

Gotta love the sangría!

My time here in Laguna has been spent continuing to cut wood, hauling materials, and beginning construction on the house. Although the majority of my time is spent out gathering materials, the hardest part has been transporting the nine columns for the house. Some weighing over a quarter of a ton, I estimate, it took nine guys three days to get them all to the site of the house. I was surprised to see the guys still in good spirits at the end of it all.

The community fishing as the pond dries up.

All of the material needed to construct latrines for the community has been delivered to Laguna and families are beginning to prepare their sites. However, I have told the community that no latrines will be built until I have a roof over my head, as the rainy season is quickly approaching. I have, at their request, started to give English lessons in the evening about three times a week. I have about ten students who primarily speak Ngäbere, some Spanish too, and they all appear to be learning quickly.

More fishing.

In addition to working in Laguna I spent two weeks out traveling around visiting other volunteers. In one site I was able to design a water irrigation system for a plátano (like a banana) plantation. In another site I was able to design a spring box for an existing water system being improved. The real highlight, however, came at a festival I visited a few hours from Laguna called Krün in the native dialect, Balsaria in Spanish.

Coming back from the fields with a load of beans.

Balsaria is a competition of skill and bravery (although I think stupidity may be a factor as well) between two communities. The location and date is determined by the winner of a drinking competition and there are usually three or four in the Comarca (like an Indian reservation) a year.

Posts for the house in transit.

This particular Balsaria was located on a hillside with a flat field carved into it. Spectators, I would say 400 strong, lined the hillside watching members of their community below (some 100 to 200 of them) fighting for pride and in some cases each other’s wives!

My host dad and I on our way to a nearby community.

There is minimal organization to the event outside of making sure there is plenty of “chicha fuerte” (fermented corn juice) to go around for the two days. There were 55-gallon drums of it everywhere! I think I saw fewer than a dozen sober people in my afternoon there.

Drying beans.

There were two types of fighting that went on. The first was regular hand to hand boxing (Pads!? Please.) with the loser being the one to tap out first. The second type of fighting consisted of two teams, any size and a piece of balsa wood about five feet long and four to five inches in diameter.

A load of grass for the house.

The person with the balsa stick would choose someone from the opposite side to throw the stick at (has to be from the waist down, any hits above the waist turn into a boxing fight). The person with the stick proceeds to do a little dance and run towards the target while hurling the stick as hard as he can at the target’s legs. The target would do his own dance to try and avoid being hit by the stick, but would often end up on the ground in what looked to be gruesome pain (and some instances potential long term damage). The stick would then change hands and be thrown back the other way. This exchange would go on for hours in come cases until one person conceded or more commonly couldn’t get up off the ground for more.

Yeah machetes!

Something to make it even more interesting was that the partygoers got dressed up for the event. Many would paint their faces and wear fancy sombreros with feathers in them. The men would wear the woman’s dresses to make it harder to see their legs when throwing the stick. Also, many would strap stuffed dead animals (bobcats, mongooses, sloths, etc.) to their backs for good luck. It was very…different. Oh, and everyone had some sort of noise maker (horn, whistle, etc.), it was hard to think at times it was so loud.

Some waterfalls in Veraguas.

I hope this entry finds you all doing well. I enjoy the email responses you all send letting me know what’s going on back home. Please keep them coming but have patience with my reply.

Hasta luego.
Choi Chi

More waterfalls.

Krün.

More Krün.

Krün.

Krün.

Krün.

Krün.

Krün.

Krün.

The floor of the house under construction.

The floor.

The walls going up.

Silverware is Overrated

Definitely!

I appreciate all the emails I received in response to the last article. My apologies if it was a bit of downer, but I am going to try and share with you pieces of all I experience here in Panamá.

My last six weeks have been spent working nonstop on the house, and I haven't even started building yet! I'm in desperate need of a Lowe's Home and Garden in Laguna but blessed with the experience of building a house without one. I am amazed at the amount of time that goes into gathering materials but also wonder if I have inherited my parents affinity for building a house as slowly as possible!

The storage shed in action.

That's not to say that progress isn't being made. The process starts with a biweekly trip to the city (about a day's travel away) to buy gas and oil in for the chainsaw all to be carried in to Laguna on foot. Every morning in site I get up and fill my time helping the family with chores (usually shucking beans) wondering if Germo (the chain saw guy) will show to work. If he shows (50/50), and it's a good day of work, we can cut 200 linear feet (awkward measurement, I know, but that's how they do it here) of wood. I've asked for about 5000 linear feet for the house and projects around the community. Once the wood is cut it sits to dry for about a week and then has to be carried board by board (about 20 linear feet per load) about an hour round trip to the site where the house will be built.

My host siblings (yes all of them) in front of my tent.

So, after six weeks, about 3500 feet of wood has been cut and transported to the site of the house. Also, I've had 50 giant sacks of grass pulled for the roof...now we just have to transport them one at a time, two hours round trip, to the site of the house. If all goes as planned (which it usually doesn't) I'll be starting to build in a week and I think it will take me about a month to construct the house. The house will be 16' by 14' built off the ground on the side of a hill. I have become dually motivated to get my house up quickly, however, because the host family roof (house?) I was sleeping under recently blew away in the wind. Consequently, I've moved into my backpacking tent until my house is ready. I kinda like sleeping in the tent, it makes me feel like I'm on a two year camping trip.

My host brothers watching Germo cut wood.

On more of the "work" side of things, my dad (on a recent visit to Laguna), had a wonderful idea of building a storage shed for projects with some of the extra wood being cut. The shed has been built and everyone in the community has asked me if they can live in it. Some of them have made rather convincing arguments to move in, but I stuck with the original idea and have already brought in some cement and rebar to build latrines. Construction on the latrines will wait for now, at least until I get a roof over my head that isn't see-through. The community is plenty content with that for now, as much of their time is spent gossiping about the fact that "the place where I come from" is more than a week's walk away.

Enjoy the pictures, and keep the emails coming!

A hut in Laguna.

Ngäbe women in their traditional dress.

The shed during construction.

Silverware is overrated...especially when eating rice.

My host brother crossing a nearby river.

My host brother, Adiel.

A tricky setup...trying to prevent the log from falling in the water.

Food for Thought

Picture yourself in a hut. Not a small one, moderate in size. Maybe twenty feet square. The walls are made of branches and the roof of grass. The outside is lined with beds made of bamboo, enough for twenty people. In the center of the hut an elderly woman is boiling water over a fire. You're sitting on a log, trying to see across the room at whose talking to you, but you give up as your eyes tear from all the smoke. It's late, you're ready for bed, but you're hungry and still waiting to eat.

My host brother in his "car".

There is a lot of crying tonight. The children have all come down with chicken pox. The youngest, maybe a year old, has an awful cough. He's had diarrhea for days and can't hold down any food. You know he needs to see a doctor and so do the parents. But, there's no money to make the trip. As you drink your dinner, the question that pains you the most to hear finally comes: "Can we borrow some money?"

Germo cutting wood for the house.

You know very well that "borrow" means "have", but that doesn't even register in your mind. Just five dollars could feed twenty for two or three days. Five more and the mom could make the needed trip with her baby to the hospital.

What do you do?

Bring on the wood!

I imagine for all of us the answer would be the same. The opportunity to make such a difference in their life, for so little, would be answered without question.

But what if you're not just passing through? This isn't a summer trip to build houses or a spring break trekking through the hills of a third world country. This is two years with one village...excuse me, one small group of houses. And your job is to make a difference in their lives that will help both them and future generations. You are to teach them how to use what they have to live better, healthier lives.

That's 50 pounds of rice and 50 pounds of beans for Mother's Day!

By giving them money you are setting precedence for them to ask again. Every day.

There’s an adage that goes something like:

Give a man a fish, feed him for a day.

Teach a man to fish, feed him for a lifetime.

The kids in La Laguna on Mother's Day.

By giving them money, would you really be teaching them anything? Can you live with the pain of not helping them this time?

To take it one step further, what if you're beginning to realize that the change that needs to take place is fundamental. It needs more time than you've got. It would take a lifetime, or generations rather, to teach.

What, then, do you do?

Peña Blanca from a distance.

I believe that there is still plenty that both you and I can do for these people. But, this time, do you give them money? Also, it makes me wonder, what if the only way to fish were with a pole. And that pole took longer to make than your "man" has to live.

What then?

The sunset in La Laguna.

A full moon in Peña Blanca.

Hiking to Peña Blanca.

More views...

More pretty pics...

More sunsets...

Religious camp between La Laguna and Peña Blanca.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Happy Thanksgiving everyone! I hope this finds you all doing well and enjoying the start of the holiday season. I spent yesterday in Cerro Punta, a small town up in the mountains (about 6,000 ft) with the majority of Peace Corps Panama volunteers. We rented out a lodge and hotel and cooked a traditional Thanksgiving meal. It was a lot of fun, but not quite like being home in the states for the holiday.

This article has lots of pictures, so enjoy. Also, the article following this one has my mailing address. If you find yourself traveling within the states or especially internationally please send post cards if you can. The children in my site love to look at pictures, and it would be a great opportunity to teach them about other places around the world. I´ll post anything that´s sent up on my wall (once I have one) for everyone to see. Thanks!

Praying mantis fighting a leaf.

A lot has happened since my last post. I finished with training at the end of October and moved into my site permanently after a weekend of fun on the beach for Halloween. So far things have gone well and I´m enjoying the "real Peace Corps experience" a lot more than training. There are certainly good days and bad days but overall I really love it.

Celebrating the end of Santa Clara.

I´ve spent most of my time so far shadowing my host family around and getting to know the community (about 7 homes, maybe 100 people). I spend about two out of every three days working in the fields with my host dad. We have finished harvesting the season´s rice and have cleaned the fields for the next crop: beans. We´ve also been harvesting some coffee and yucca. Sorry, I´m not a coffee drinker, so I really don´t know if it´s good or not. However, they give me tea made from lemon grass and hot chocolate made from fresh cacao two to three times a day and both are amazing!

Now that´s face painting!

As for meals, all we really eat is rice. I get a bowl for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Occasionally there will be a piece of yucca or some other vegetable, but mainly rice. There was one dinner where I got half a pumpkin, which was pretty good (certainly the change was welcome). We killed an armadillo in the fields a few weeks back, which I was interested in trying, but another family got the meat...I´ll get my chance. Talking to friends at Thanksgiving, I´m pretty lucky to be getting rice. Most of them are eating boiled green bananas three times a day! Once I get my own house built I´ll be cooking for myself and able to carry in food from outside, so I should be eating a wider variety then.

New environmental health volunteers at swear in.

I did try buying 10 pounds of beans and giving them to my family to cook with the rice. They loved the gift, but instead of eating them we immediately went out to the fields to plant them. Hopefully in about three months those 10 pounds will be 30 pounds of beans. However, I imagine they will turn around and plant them again anyway!

Halloween at the beach.

Aside from the armadillo I´ve been surprised at how many snakes and tarantulas I´ve come across. Every few days we come across a snake in the field, and they even let me kill one of them, which they say was quite poisonous...but I´m getting the impression that all snakes, to them, are poisonous. Whenever a snake is spotted there is a lot of yelling and everyone around stops working to help sling rocks at it with hand made sling shots. Once the snake has been hit in the head several times and is no longer moving, someone ("the killer") approaches with a machete and removes the head before posting the body on a stick high in the air to rot and let the birds eat. When you spend six or eight hours at a time picking rice by hand you begin to look forward to the excitement that an occasional snake brings!

Nothing like a Coke to cool you down.

Besides working in the fields I´ve started to design my house. The people in my site live in huts with large sticks and branches for walls and steep grass roofs with mud/dirt floors. I´ve found a spot with a beautiful view of the valley and hills around but will be building on the side of a hill. Consequently I´ve decided to build out of wood (hand cut with a chain saw by someone from a nearby community) and a grass roof. Tomorrow we are supposed to cut the trees down and all the wood should be dry and ready to go by the end of December, if all goes as planned. I hope to be living in my own house by the end of January.

Do you think she knows she´s chewing on the Panamanian flag?

In terms of projects, not a lot happens the first six months of the volunteer's time in site as they become acclimated to the new culture. However, January to March is the dry season and the best time to put holes in the ground for latrines. That said, I´m planning to put 10 to 30 latrines in this dry season so they don´t have to wait another year to see some progress there. Also, I´ll be measuring the water´flow and monitoring 3 to 4 aqueduct systems in both my community and surrounding areas to design for improvements and additions over the coming two years. Currently drinking water is not a problem in Laguna, but there are several small communities scattered nearby that want their own systems set up.

My host dad harvesting rice.

That´s about it for today. I don´t think I´ll be able to access a computer again until Christmas time, but I´ll try to post some more pictures and information then.

I love hearing from all of you, please continue emailing me (roblittle@gmail.com) as you have time. For now, enjoy the rest of the pictures and Happy Holidays!

My host dad with a snake we killed.

Some of my host siblings.

View from La Laguna.

The rain moving in on La Laguna.

Fishing in the Lagoon.

That would be an avocado shell she´s eating with.

Contact Information

I have had some requests for my mailing address, here you go:

Roberto Pequeño
Cuerpo de Paz-Panama
Edificio 104, 1er Piso
Avenida Vicente Bonilla
Ciudad del Saber, Clayton
Panama, Rep. de Panama


Note: This address only works for mail and packages sent through the US Post Office. The courier address (DHL, Fedex, etc.) is different. If you would like that address please email me. Packages sent through private couriers are very expensive and (from volunteers experiences) not any more reliable.

Mail takes about 2 to 4 weeks to reach Panamá. Once it´s here I have to pick it up in the office or have someone get it for me, so it could be up to another month (total of two months) before the mail gets to my hands. I apologize in advance if my response is slow, but I love getting mail and will respond to all.

Also, for safety reasons Peace Corps has given me a cell phone for my two year service. I can receive texts and calls from the states for free and would love to hear from you all. Please let me know via email if you would like my number and I´ll gladly send it on.

I hope this finds everyone doing well. I´ll post another update soon.

Pequeño.

A Visit to La Laguna

This past week I was able to visit my site, La Laguna, for the first time and I've got an interesting and exciting two years ahead of me. A word about the pictures first. I haven't been too good about taking pictures in the past few weeks. I refrained from using my camera in La Laguna during my visit. I would like to avoid revealing technological gadgets until I have lived there for a little while. Consequently, the only picture below of La Laguna is from quite some distance. I promise there will be many more of my site in the future.

Hato Chami, where I start my hike to La Laguna.

Last weekend Peace Corps held a conference for all new volunteers to meet their counterparts from their future sites and then travel home with him/her after some informational sessions. My counterpart was one of a few who did not show up the first day for the conference. Word quickly traveled back that he had gotten cold feet and not left La Laguna. It turns out that he had never been on a bus before (he's 44 years old) and was scared to make the 10 hour trip to the conference center. A fellow Peace Corps volunteer made the trek up to La Laguna and traveled with him back to the conference center, teaching him how to use the bus system along the way.

I could tell from the moment I meet him that he was intimidated by all the activity around him in such a foreign location (not to mention that we Americans were towering above his five-foot, 110 pound frame). Once we started talking he quickly opened up about La Laguna and the details of my work for the next two years. Things quickly ended at the conference and we were off to La Laguna.

Hiking in to La Laguna (bad lighting, sorry).

The truck ride up to Hato Chami, where I start my hike, easily matches America's best offroading trails. There were countless occasions where we had to get out and push the truck through ruts several feet deep, or use picks and shovels to clear the road. After several hours of bouncing around the back of a truck we arrived in Chami and began the hour hike down in to La Laguna. I was quickly overwhelmed by the beautiful mountains and views around me and still can't believe that it will be my home for the next two years.

The sunrise over the interamerican highway.

I spent four days in site and counted just seven homes in La Laguna. The people that work there are subsistence farmers, living completely off the land and having no steady income of money to buy things that they can´t make themselves. I spent two days exploring parts of the valley with my counterpart, learning about the land, and harvesting rice, tomatoes, and lettuce (which we ate for every meal I was there). The community has a small aqueduct system which works well during the raining season (8 months of the year) but lacks water during the dry season. I expect to work with them to expand the system, but it appears that latrines will be the first order of business.

Currently there is just one latrine in Laguna. Most people go to the bathroom in the creek that flows through town. This is the same creek that they bathe in and is also their water source when the aqueduct is dry. I told the community that upon my return at the end of the month I'll visit every home and start the planning and soliciting of funds to bring latrines to the town. Word quickly spread of this and before I left I had people showing up to my cot who had walked for up to two hours to ask if they too could have a latrine. They are all willing to work to help build the latrines, but they don't have the resources to bring in the necessary materials from outside, which will be my job.

Gecko that fell on me during class in the rainforest.

The third day in site I woke up to my counterpart standing over me telling me to hurry up and get ready, we were going for a hike. I got dressed and we started hiking. About an hour later we arrived at the top of the highest point in the center of the valley. There were a dozen or so men who were all waiting, dressed in their nicest clothes. I was introduced to the men and asked to explain Peace Corps and my work for the next two years. I gladly obliged but first asked that they each tell me their names and where they were from. The men went around in a circle and would say their names and turn around and point far off into the distance and say in a thick Ngäbere accent, "Vivo alla." (I live there). At times I saw the top of a grass hut, other times I saw smoke billowing from the rainforest, and yet other times I saw nothing but the vast sea of green that is Panama. The men all walked from around the valley to explain their need for water and latrines. They asked if I could help them...I was overwhelmed with it all.

My last night in site as I was sitting on the dirt floor in the poorly lit hut, watching the women peal the rice, one of the children of the house finally had the courage to come close to me. As he approached me I watched with wonder about what he was thinking. After about a minute of standing next to me, looking at me, he touched my arm with his finger and then placed his arm next to mine. I looked up at the dad, on the other side of the room, who was already beginning to explain that I was the first white person the boy had ever seen. I tried as best I could to hide my astonishment but somehow I think that it was a bigger adjustment for them than it was for me. As the night went on I was served my usual rice, tomatoes, and lettuce out of a large shell that resembles a half of a coconut, eating with my hands, and listening as the ten or so people around me chatted in a tribal language I can't even begin to understand. It was there that it finally hit me, a huge smile came over me, and I felt like I was immersed in something so unbelievably foreign and new...as if I had been dropped into an advertisement for Peace Corps.

Two Weeks of Work and Play

It´s been three weeks since I posted last to this site. I spent the first two weeks outside of Santa Clara, our training site, going through what Peace Corps calls "Cultural Week" and "Training Week". Cultural week for me was spent in a Ngäbe site close to my future home of La Laguna. This was my first opportunity to spend time with Ngäbes, working with them, talking with them, and living with them. Culturally they are quite different from the Panamanian Latinos.

Traditional Nagua dresses.

The Ngäbes tend to be very quiet people, especially around outsiders. Additionally, they traditionally speak their own indigenous language, Ngäbere, (which I am slowly learning) among themselves, not Spanish. This made communication a little difficult, but I still learned a lot. I was intrigued with the number of questions that they had for me about the U.S., especially about the Indians that live in the U.S. Here in Panama, Indigenous groups are treated very poorly by the Latinos, primarily because of their poverty level. My family was very curious how their lifestyle compared to the lifestyle of Indians in the U.S.

The Battery!

Most Ngäbes have no more than a sixth grade education. Consequently, I was caught off guard a lot by questions they would ask and about how to answer them. Things like, where else in the world do people speak Spanish? What part of the pig is the fat? Is the United States bigger than Panama? It created some pretty interesting conversations.

Cleaning a pig for dinner.

The Ngäbe women wear dresses called Naguas (top picture). They are traditionally very bright in color and all hand made. There was one young girl the first week who didn´t wear a Nagua because she was always getting it dirty. She had so much energy the community called her "The Battery" (second picture). She was a cute little girl and quite entertaining.

For us the meals consisted of rice, beans, and bananas. At times we would get yucca, potatoes, or some other form of vegetable. For special occasions the families pull out cans of sardines or spam. Although, towards the end of the two weeks Peace Corps purchased a pig from the community to cook and eat (above). I can´t recall too many times in my life where I have feed an animal in the morning with my leftovers and eaten the same animal for dinner. The meat was amazing!

Ngäbe children dancing.

I spent the second week in a different Ngäbe site, called Junquito, near Costa Rica. I worked with other Peace Corps volunteers to construct a composting latrine and lived with a Ngäbe family for the week. The last day that we were in site, the community had a performance for us to demonstrate their traditional cultural dance. We decided that we could teach them a thing or two about American culture and shared the Hokie Pokie (sp?) in return!

My family´s composting latrine, without the walls.

The mother of the family I stayed with in Junquito is the same age as I am down to the day, she was born within a few hours of me (I´m 23). The three children in the picture above are all hers. Her fourth child, the oldest, isn´t in the picture....he´s 9! Do the math, it´s sad, but common for Ngäbes.

Another interesting thing about the Ngäbes is that they all have a Latino name and a Ngäbere name. So when a bunch of gringos walked into the village to construct some latrines, the first thing the community did was give us all Ngäbere names. I quickly received the name Kwra (Tiger) and was referred to as such throughout the week. When I returned to Santa Clara and told my family about the experience, they told me that Jaguars and Pumas are common in the area of Panama I will be working in and decided that Tarzan would be a fitting name for me...so I am now referred to as Tarzan around my house in Santa Clara.

Sunset on the Pacific Ocean.

We finished the two weeks up with a stop at the beach for a night, and treated ourselves to the ridiculously overpriced $0.70 beers. But, the sunset made it all worth it.

Sorry this entry is a bit scattered and not too personal. I feel like a lot goes on that I want to share, but my time in front of the computer is always limited. Consequently I just end up sharing the facts, and not the experiences that come with them. I´ll work on that over the next two years, and try to share both the good and the bad that comes with this experience.

Tomorrow I head out to La Laguna, for a week long visit of my site. I´ll be returning for two more weeks of training after the week long visit and then be officially sworn in as a Peace Corps volunteer and begin my two year service. I open the invitation to all of you to come and visit if you are interested, just give me a heads up!

Thanks for reading!

Rob

La Laguna, My Future Peace Corps Home...

I would like to preface this by mentioning that these pictures are not of my future site, just pictures that I have taken in the month that I have been here.

This past Wednesday all of us in training were presented with a packet of information on our future site for the next two years (starting at the end of October). I am very pleased with what the Peace Corps office here has picked out for me and eager to go visit.

Boy carrying yucca home from the farm.

I am going to a site called ¨La Laguna" high up in the mountains of Panama. Here are some of the details included in my packet:

"La Laguna is the quintessential Peace Corps site! La Laguna lays high in the mountains next to a small lake with 360 degrees of mountain views around it. The Ngäbe culture is strong, and they rarely see outsiders. The community is reached by one of the most interesting chiva (truck) rides in Panama, followed by an hour hike during which you will be able to see for views that extend for over a hundred miles. You will live and eat in the beginning with a host family in a traditional Nedrini house: bamboo walls and a grass roof. The temperature varies in the mountains - it can be hot and sunny all day, and quite chilly at night! The community will help you build your house and you will fit right in."

Traditional Nedrini homes in Bocas del Toro.

Looking at a map of Panama, start at Panama City and travel west (that sounds odd, but look at a map and you will see that Panama runs east-west, not north-south) along the interamerican highway. Before you get to the city of David (close to Costa Rica) you pass through a town called San Felix. From there I travel 2-4 hours (depending on the weather) by truck up into the mountains (North) and then hike for an hour (East) to La Laguna. The Peace Corps office can´t find a map of Panama that includes La Laguna. A year ago a Peace Corps volunteer stumbled upon it and went through the motions to solidify a future volunteer from my group to work with the community.

Two girls at a dance in Santa Clara.

La Laguna has between 100 and 150 people living in 12 homes. Currently there is a small water system that takes clean water to the school, but it only works part of the year. I have been asked to carry water through the town to all of the houses as well as build a storage tank for water for the community. Additionally, they would like more springs tapped into the system to ensure water year round and account for growth over the next 20 years. Sounds like I´ll be busy for the next two years!

Peace Corps volunteers working on a rain water collection system.

La Laguna is not a Latino site, it is a Ngäbe (Gnaw-bay) site. The Ngäbe people are believed to have descended from the Mayans but no one really knows. The women wear bright dresses and they typically have very large families. Also, Spanish is their second language. They speak Ngäbere among themselves. I have been told that my Spanish will likely be better than many of theirs. Consequently, I am now taking Ngäbere classes. The language is more similar to Spanish than English, but the pronunciation is completely different and going to be a difficult hurdle to get over. Additionally, the Ngäbere teachers don´t speak English, only Spanish. So, I am learning their language through Spanish.

I am running out of time for today. I´ll be out in the countryside for the next two weeks working with volunteers on their projects. I´ll post more information when I return.

Thanks for reading.

Rob

The start of Peace Corps Training...

Since leaving the States about four weeks ago I feel like I´ve witnessed a fair amount of Panamanian culture. But something tells me what I´ve seen won´t even compare to what´s ahead of me in the next two years.

Look in the bag!

I live in a small town (about 1,000 people) called Santa Clara, outside of Panama City. Santa Clara is the location of Peace Corps training, and where the 33 new Peace Corps volunteers are all living and studying until the end of October. Each of us lives with our own host family in this small, quiet community. I live with a retired military officer and a nurse, who have two children: 14 and 25. For Panama, they are a well educated and affluent family. However, there is still a drastic difference from the United States. We have running water to the house, most of the time, but no bathroom. There´s a pit toilet in the backyard, but you have to work your way through all the chickens to get to it. The house is small and made of concrete block, but we do have electricity. Arturo´s (my host father) very proud of the fact that he owns a car, as not many in the community do, and he spends much of his time helping those who can´t pay for transportation to/from the city (an hour away).

Out in the Campo (countryside).

As a Peace Corps volunteer, I am working in the Environmental Health sector. There are about 15 of us in this batch of volunteers. Our work revolves around aqueducts (providing clean water), latrines, and health education. As an engineer, I´ll be working more with aqueducts and latrines than with education. Aqueduct work can involve anything from trouble shooting existing water systems to installing new systems from the ground up. Most of the work with water is located in the indigenous areas of Panama, where small communities bath, wash, drink, and go to the restroom all in the same river. As a volunteer I will help look for springs and design/build a gravity flow system to get fresh water to the communities. In some instances volunteers have to go as far as 10 or 15 kilometers (about 6 to 9 miles) to get clean water. The pipe carrying the water needs to be buried 28 inches underground back to the community, often traversing thick rain forests and geographical obstacles.

Bocas del Toro.

As for the work with latrines, some of the indigenous people use pit latrines, others use the river. To help encourage sanitary living situations, Peace Corps promotes a compost latrine. To keep this simple, a compost latrine is a way of turning human waste into "dry earth" or material that is safe to spread on open ground and even crops (although that´s a little more difficult to convince people of with little, if any, education).

The walk to class.

So far training has been interesting, but I am eager to move on to my site where I will spend the next two years. Right now we spend half our days in language training and the other half in technical training. For technical training we learn about how to work with the resources available in this country to improve the water and restroom situation. We´ve built rain water collection systems off of tin roofs, learned how to poor concrete, worked with machetes and organic gardens, and gone out into the countryside to troubleshoot an existing water system. Also, Peace Corps brings in existing volunteers to talk with us about what to expect and how to adjust.

We have been able to do a fair amount of traveling so far, from the Darien (bordering Columbia) to Bocas del Toro (bordering Costa Rica). I´ll do my best to attach some photos to this article, but the computers here are very slow so be patient with me. For today, I´m out of time. I hope that this gives you an idea of what life is like down here in Panama. I´ll write again soon.

Rob

Welcome to my website!

Friends and Family -

I am not big on mass emails updating you all on my Peace Corps experience. However, computer access is not easy to find in the parts of Panama where I am living and working, and I want to be able to share my experience with you all equally well. Consequently, this blog seems like the best option to keep you all up to date, and to serve as an electronic journal for myself. I invite you all to share this site with whomever you like.

I am always excited to open up my email box and find updates from you all, so please email me when you can (roblittle@gmail.com).

With that, enjoy the site.

Rob