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.

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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.