I will try and make the following entry more of a
chronological story and less of a cyclical time puzzle, like most of the last
entries have been. Also, this is a long one – so brace yo-self!
The Beginning is Finally In-Site
The story of my site visit begins with meeting my community
guide. Us EH aspirants were picked up
at 5:00 am from Santa Rita. We slept through the traffic that is constant
outside of Panama City and around 7:00 we arrived at the dorms in Ciudad del
Saber. The Peace Corps requires each community to send a guide to the Peace Corps
office to help with the integration process, as well as simply finding the
community. The guides had arrived at Ciudad del Saber the day before and waited in a cluster outside of the cafeteria, anticipating our arrival. We
walked over to the group, mixed together as we looked for the guide with a nametag
matching our site name, and then like couples leaving a bar at the end of a
night, we broke off with our community guides to eat breakfast.
My community guide’s name is Ricardo. He wore a
well-loved button up shirt and shamelessly rocked a black backpack covered in
pink roses and hearts and the word love in different sizes. We spent the day in
Ciudad del Saber, the Peace Corps staff going over the differing expectations
of volunteers and community members, reiterating security, and reminding the
guides of the potential frustrations for a volunteer of an unpunctual
community. After the sessions he headed off to see the Panama Canal.
The next morning we boarded a bus towards San Felix. In-between
short conversation, I would space-out on the bus, watching the jarring and violent
films that the buses consistently play. Ricardo would spend the whole ride
looking out the window. We arrived in San Felix, I cut all my hair off at a
little barberia, and we boarded a busito that dropped us off at a bridge
that went over the Rio San Felix. From there we hiked uphill for two hours to
Cerro Pita.
Cerro Pita
“Hemos llegado” Ricardo said as we climbed the hill. A set of
buildings emerged from behind the green trees on the side of the wide camino. A group of women in bright naguas de-husked rice in front of the
three buildings by rhythmically pounding fleshly harvested rice in a large wooden
bowl with a mallet. An old shirtless man emerged from the center hut, ducking
under the pinca leaves that made the
roof. He smiled a nearly toothless smile, and said something along the lines
“your going to live here” in hard to understand Spanish, and gestured for me to
sit down on a low bench. They brought me chicheme - a mix of corn, water and sugar and Ricardo sat down next to me. Children emerged from the
houses, and the adults came over and shook my hand, speaking to each other in
quick Ngäbere. I knew they were talking about me, as
I caught a few of the Spanish words they would use when there was not a word
for it in their indigenous language, such as Gringo. The brought me a heaping bowl of rice, which I ate while I
listened to the guttural sounds that composed their conversation. At one point,
Ricardo looked at me and in Spanish said, “we are going to give you your name
now”. I agreed, and Tikün was officially birthed into the community where he will live
for the next two years.
The rest of that first day passed
quickly. I don’t quite remember how it went. Tikün probably set his little room
up, bathed in the creek, hung out with the kids and went to bed early after an
exhausting day of travel. Most of the following week would consist of pasearing and getting to know the
community one house at a time. At the beginning of each day Tikün
would walk to the creek and wash his clothes from the previous day. At night Tikün
would return to the creek to bathe. Kids would accompany him to the creek, talk
with him while they washed their respective clothes, and stand guard on the
trail while the other bathed. He would help haul water from a nearby spring
source in 5-gallon containers and would eat lots of corn, rice, and a variety
of different parts of the chicken. Outside of this routine, there were days and
events that hold significant weight in my memory.
Meeting and Walk in the Woods
My second full day began early. I
awoke, ate a breakfast of bollo
(ground corn, wrapped in banana leaf) and prepared for the small presentation I
was going to give to the community later that morning. Folks walked past the
house as they headed to the meeting and I joined them for the walk. About 50 people
showed up to the meeting: women in bright colored naguas, old men with short-wave radios hung from their shoulder, and
kids that were too young for school or had dropped out. Everyone sat in a
circle under a zinc roof. “Coffee” was made for all, and Ricardo started the
meeting with a moment of silence. Myself, being the owner of a watch, kept
time. The meeting continued in Ngäbere. I assume they talked about water, me,
and how Ricardo’s experience in Ciudad del Saber had been. Ricardo then
presented me their water committee. The committee stood in a U around me,
Ricardo naming them one by one and their position. After, I was then given an
opportunity to speak, where I did my best to explain my position, my goals, my
expectations, my dreams, and the reality that I was going to live with them for
two years. I asked if there were
questions and one young lady spoke, not in question form but rather expressing
gratitude and reiterating the many years they had waited for a volunteer. The
meeting ended and Ricardo motioned for me to sit in the hammock in the middle
of the circle, to which I foolishly agreed. I proceeded to awkwardly swing in
the middle of the circle as they spoke in ngäbere and stared at me. I looked
around and fidgeted in the hammock, until I couldn’t bare it anymore, and got
up and stood in the circle. Ricardo took the hammock, and I relaxed trying to
take notes on peoples names. After
a while, Ricardo started singling people out and asking them “que vas a poner” – (what are you going
to put). I asked the fellow next to me what this was about, and he responded in
thick campo Spanish, which I did not
understand, and I left it at that. After about an hour I left with Ricardo and
headed home. I had a bowl of rice, noticed some of my host brothers and sisters
and mom leaving the house, and I asked them what they were doing. They said
they were going to the fields, and I asked if I could join. They agreed and we headed
towards the green mountainside.
With dogs by our side and walking
at a fast pace, we navigated the trail through the tall monte. I was on the heals of barefoot Jessica, her blue nagua vibrant against the green walls. We
ducked under barbwire fences, and danced down steep hillside. We arrived at a small
creek, where they picked an unknown fruit off the ground, washed it in the
creek and gave it to me to eat. The mother left with her older daughter to harvest
rice and Onodio (10 years old) and Jessica (7 years old) mentioned for me to
follow them. Our pace picked up, and I was jogging to keep up with the barefoot
kids cruising though the woods. My rubber boots made me feel clumsy, but I kept
up, taking a bite of the strange fruit whenever I had a chance. The forest
broke and we were now flying through tall rice stalks, which parted for the
nimble kids and clumsy gringo. The dogs would emerge from the rice, brush past
my leg, and then disappear as fast as they had emerged. Soon we were back in
the woods, balancing down another steep hill. We found ourselves at a beautiful
flowing creek, which we passed through, climbed a steep hill and ended up at
the doorsteps of a house, overlooking the verdant valley. They informed me no
one was home, so we left, retracing our steps to the creek. At this point my
boots were filled with sweat and the river looked cool and refreshing. The kids
asked me if I would wait for them while they bathed. I agreed, and Jessica
jumped in the water in her nagua while
Onodio took the more patient route and bathed in his underwear. I decided to
join them and took a moment to appreciate the beautiful valley, swimming around
in the creek, and being with my two younger host siblings.
We made our way back to the corn
and rice fields. I harvest rice and corn with the mom and kids for the rest of
the afternoon. We would share the small sweet corn heads, eating them on the
spot. We returned home, and I went to play soccer with the boys of the town.
The field was on the ridge of a hill, meaning that if the ball wasn’t perfectly
between the two goals, it was rolling down a hillside. Nevertheless, we played
for many hours. I returned home, bathed, ate dinner, drank a heaping cup of
sweet coffee, and went to sleep amazed by the happenings of the day.
To the Source
The following day Ricardo and I
had planned to go see the spring source for the towns desired aqueduct system.
He had explained to me that spring sources were hard to get the property rights
to, and the community had worked hard for this source, but it was far and thus
an intimidating project. I left the house with my chakara (traditional Ngäbe hand-woven satchel) with my notebook,
water bottle and machete ready for
the day. I was served two breakfasts that morning, at different houses, and while
I ate the second breakfast people form the community began to gather. I realized
it wasn’t going to be just Ricardo and me going to see the spring, but rather a
large group from the community would accompany us. So, with about 20 people:
women, children and men we hacked our way through an overgrow trail into the hills.
I was second in line, and I tried to make my machete stokes seem well practiced
and effective, which was occasionally foiled by my lack of success in cutting
the intended vine or weed. The women and children brought up the rear, and
eventually we arrived at a home in the hills. The women pulled bags of rice, seasoning
and coffee out of their chakaras, and
left it at the house (I understood the ”Que
vas a poner” question now). We continued up another hill, arrived at
another house, and as the Ngäbe resident spoke with the community
members I noted her filed teeth, matching the pattern of triangles on her nagua. The spring source was in a small
valley next to this house, which we quickly removed the overgrowth from,
revealing a very prolific spring source. I took a quick measure of the flow
rate and then members of the community filled up their cups which they had
brought and drank the fresh water. We followed the creek down the hillside, and
then veered off and carved a new trail through the monte to the house we had dropped the food off at. It rained
lightly, and old women squatted next to a huge cauldron of rice, their strong
large bare-feet planted firmly against the ground. They started a fire, which
engulfed the cauldron in smoke, and made the scene look mystic in front of a
beautiful valley vista. They laughed and drank coffee, and I chatted with whomever
I was sitting next to. We descended from the mountain, and Ricardo pointed out
other aspects of the aqueduct, such as where they thought the storage tank
would go and what houses had to be connected. We arrived back in Cerro Pita and
the group dispersed. That evening I made my way to over to Ricardo’s house.
I descended upon his house, which
is down in the valley, Ricardo’s cousin Filipe guiding me along the trails. Eventually
the forest parted and gave way to a clearing. It was the simplest house I had
seen in this sea of simple houses. It is a wall-less structure, its skeleton
covered in all of his possessions, and a small cooking area sat in the back.
His wife stood by a fire boiling some bananas and his daughter stood by his
side as he relaxed a hammock. I pull up a chair next to them, meeting his
daughter for the first time. We chatted about the day and plans to come. He
asked me about a time frame, funds, and how I felt about the community. I
explained the necessity of patience, the difficulty of acquiring funds, and my
general feeling of novelty and amazement, which was keeping other emotions at
bay. A few other men from the community came walking down the path and sat with
us in a small circle. We talked more about the project and the day, and then
they talked a bit in Ngäbere. It was dusk, and as I ate boiled bananas out of a large
banana leaf, I admired the carved faces of the men who have requested my
assistance: their age, strength, and general life experience made me feel
honored and humbled.
The rest of the week passed quickly.
I slowly discovered more about the community, had a scare the community was
composed of the Ngäbere religion Mama Tata,
which rejects all things outside of Ngäbere culture. I witnessed a Biblia, which consisted of members from
Cerro Pita and surrounding communities converging at my host family’s house and
singing bible songs in Ngäbere all night while they drank cacao. I heard a lot about the
lack of rain, and had many instances where I thought that if I could capture
the image that my eyes were soaking in, it would be publishable in National Geographic.
I left Cerro Pita in the morning on the same day I had arrived a week prior. My
host family was gathered outside of the house as they had when I arrived, but
now acquainted with the unusual gringo, they were waving good-bye.
I have months of integration ahead
of me, learning to live in a community made of old men, distant women and lots
of children but also them learning to live with me. It looks like my role in
the community will principally be the engineer of their aqueduct system, but
hopefully my place will be a friend and unusually tall and white part of their
family.
I think of Onodio, my host
brother, saying to me “Usted en un avion”
and making the sounds of an airplane while one hand takes off from the other. It
is true that the week was the beginning of a relationship that realistically
will end in the exact way that Onodio described. Tikün will be transient in their
lives but ideally he will be remembered as the bringer of water and a reminder that
Cerro Pita is not a forgotten community in this globalized world; as for me
they are a reminder of what has been forgotten.
