The Indigenous Perception

I wrote this for the Panama PCV written and edited triannual magazine. Some references made might be Panama specific, and you might need to translate some Spanish, but I thought it would be an interesting Panamanian perspective.

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The Indigenous Perception

I walk through the streets of Panama and often I don’t feel very Panamanian. It might be my blondish hair, light freckled skin, and blue eyes like a muñeca. That can’t be it, because when I don a nagua and hike the hills of the Comarca Ngobe-Bugle I feel like I could be painted into the environment. My close friends and neighbors don’t stare anymore.   I’ve morphed into not one of them, but this weird creature who they’ve all come to accept. Yet I must grip every culture of Panama, as part of my holistic experience here.

The indigenous and non-indigenous relationship is complex in every formerly colonized or inquired country. The relationship is apparent in the US. Struggling indigenously identifying groups of Americans are a norm. Barely culpable latter generations of Americans of European decent offer criticism but no solutions. How do we get along in the my great-great-great grandfather killed your great-great-great grandfather and took his land now poverty and genetic disposition have you jobless and addicted to alcohol but we’re all AM-ericans as I cheer at a Chiefs or Braves or Blackhawks sporting event? Somehow we sleep.

It’s different in Panama, but with the same undercurrent. What are camposinos in northern Coclé but indigenous who have forgotten their dialecto? The dark skin is the give-away that everyone in Panama is but a few generations removed from being indigenous. Yet Latino identifying Panamanians are much more progressed in civil development.

After being here for over a half I have encountered Latinos of every school of thought concerning the indigenous. First, there was the woman seated in the rear of a car that picked me up to drive down the road to the beach at Juan Hombrón to meet a friend. The two Panamanians in the front seats and I chatted graciously during the bumpy ride. Eventually I told them what I did, working with water and sanitation in the Comarca. That is when my seat partner set into a tirade about what lazy, disgusting people the indios were. The government just gives them land, while other Panamanians have to work for what is theirs. I wanted to give her a quick history lesson about land rights, but didn’t want to spoil the free ride. She ended with, “Soy racista, no me gustan los morenos ni indios”.

Not long ago I was in the bus terminal in Chitré with a friend visiting from the states. We bumped into another volunteer a week away from COSing. I went to use the restroom and when I walked up to my friend and the volunteer after, I overheard him telling her about the Guna Yala and pointing to a woman in a Nägua. At first I was confused, and then I realized he didn’t know the different in appearance between the two indigenous groups. Granted, this volunteer worked in the Azuero – but two years in Panama and he didn’t know the difference between a fierce looking little Guna woman and a humble Ngäbe?

Finally, during a trip on the Azuero I met a young man who owned a watermelon farm (Sandy the Sandia he told me) and employed many Ngäbes. He immediately commented on what hard working people they were and had many stories about how he treats them fairly and compassionately. I told him what a relief his perspective was for me to hear, and he reasoned that many Panamanians have forgotten their true heritage.

Everyone has an opinion about the protests concerning the mining and hydroelectric projects. Some are sympathetic and say that it is right for the indigenous to protect their environment. Others think that the indigenous should take advantage of their fortunate pot-of-goal and use it as leverage. Still others think they are wild and misbehaved and nothing else.

Of course I have a soft spot for the indigenous because I understand them. I see their struggles up close. I laugh with them, they are my friends. I shake my head at their backward behavior and pity the rut that is caused by lack of education. But I also see their lucha to feed their children, develop their society and yet preserve their culture. Development has forced so many indigenous groups around the world to leave their culture behind. Sustainable development that preserves culture and makes technological advances is being fleshed out in this moment with us. I hope as the indigenous here in Panama become increasingly developed they can cultivate their strong roots and grow respect from their paisanos and the world.

You Aren't What You Eat; Revenge

WARNING: shamelessly bloody and gory photos and descriptions are included in this edition of This Erica Life. If you are sensitive to blood be ware. Unless you hate chickens, then freely read on. Thanks. 

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In college, it took me nearly a year to work up the courage to donate blood. I was compelled by a sense of responsibility and finally had enough iron in my system after a few unsuccessful and disappointing (relieving?) attempts. It wasn't easy. I couldn't watch the needle go in and one glance at the pint sized bag of my own blood left me dizzy.

A few weeks ago when Chet Hopp kicked a pickaxe while working and split his foot open, I was useless in the emergency wound cleaning procedure. After a glance at the small but deep cut I swooned, was sat down by more reliable friends, and announced, "I think I saw inside his foot!". 

I'm not a vegetarian. I love properly raised, naturally healthy, vitamin and protein packed meat. However, the process between farm and table I am not particularly keen on being involved in. At some point, though, I feel responsible to learn and participate in killing and cleaning the food I eat. The problem lies in what is suggested by the first two paragraphs of this blog; I am unable to control my fear of blood. 

When something really motivates me I can be nearly unstoppable. Over the past two years I have lived together with chickens. Chicken run free-range in nearly every middle and lower class home in Panama. People proudly say ¡pollo de patio es mas sabroso que pollo de comprar! or "chicken that run around in my yard are much tastier than chicken from the store!" I have heard that urban farming has been all the rage in the US and many have adopted backyard chickens. Living so intimately with chickens has its dramatic downsides. Contrary to the popularized belief, roosters crow at whatever time of the day or night. Unpredictable chicken sex is the most unpleasant thing to happen to see. Us volunteers use annoying roosters for target practice from our hammocks. We make plans to buy and eat the most obnoxious ones at our farewell parties. 

So when I was poised, knife in hand, the thought of blood and life draining from a helpless chicken's body - I  channeled all the annoyance and rage that chickens have caused me in my time here and let 'er slice. 

Mine is the face of someone in agony. Her's is chuckling  like  she's watching Seinfeld. 
Photo Cred. E. King 

The key is to apply pressure and never hesitate.
Photo Cred. E. King 

I had the opportunity to kill a chicken that my friends and I would eat for the celebratory last day of a water committee seminar. I learned how to kill it, then it was dunked in boiling water, then plucked and gutted. By the next day it was tasty chicken guisado and I felt capable and vindicated.

I channeled my inner rage, and then cried. 

Yep, lemme check. Oh yea... she's dead. 

At least someone gets a hot water bath around here. 

There isn't anything I can't conquer. 

Oh My Gosh, Shoes

Most kids (and some adults!) that I run around with in the mountains don't wear shoes. Shoes are expensive, kids loose them. It's easier to kick a wet soccer ball in the rain with bare feet than sandals. Parents just can't keep shoes on their squirrely kids' little feet, if they try at all. 

Shoes are an important part of heath when you live in an area where there are no floors, only dirt and grass. Chickens run free and even if you try you can't totally avoid animal feces. Parasites like hookworm are evolved specifically to enter a host through bare feet. Hookworm is found in feces of cats, dogs, and humans and and travel up to five feet in any direction while looking for a host. Tiny, blood sucking hookworms can cause anemia and growth retardation in children and infants of infected mothers with no symptoms. 

This is not a blog post promoting Toms Shoes, but they do a pretty good thing. If you're not familiar, Toms Shoes is a company that makes stylish but basic shoes for people in America to purchase. The company charges a price that includes the cost of a second pair of shoes and has promised, for every pair bought, to use part of the profits to make and send a pair of shoes to a developing country. 

I've known plenty of people who proudly stride around in Toms Shoes, with an air of righteousness because they not only look good,  but save lives too. Skeptically I've wondered who gets the promised shoes, where, and what is their effective rate of use. 

Well, folks, I've finally seen Toms in the wild. I found this little girl and she shyly allowed me to photograph her. I pleasantly wonder who has the matching pair of shoes in the US, and I think they should be happy with themselves. 

Balsaria

I love indigenous festivals. Being there I can wonder at the people celebrating and the traditions that may be centuries old. People are proud and loud. They're having fun, doing their thing, welcoming me in to see. 

Seriously, time to fight.

Balsaria is a traditional festival for the Ngäbe indigenous people. The term Balsaria comes from the word for the balsa tree. Large sticks made from balsa wood are used to fight, turns taken throwing at the legs of another man. The two fighters will face each other, dancing around to gain the best shot at avoiding or throwing. Traditionally the fights occur between representatives from community groups and the prize... get this... is the other man's woman. That's right, they fight for wives. 

The battlefield

The scene for Balsaria looks like this: a large field filled with people standing around individual fights. The perimeter of the field is women serving soup and the beloved liquid courage, fermented corn beverage chicha. Spontaneous refereed fist fights break out among the most drunk men. Men wear naguas, the traditional dress for women, along with hats decorated with feathers and colorful fabric, and dead stuffed animals slung on their backs. There is a noise being constantly emitted that can be heard a mile away, like something from a World Cup soccer match. Cow horns, turtle shells, and shells from the beach are blows to make the ruckus. 

             

     I found this hipster with fake glasses

Just a jaguar, no big deal

Making some noise

Being thrown at

Throwing the balsa stick. Note man in dress with dead animal on back.

Life can be rough for Ngäbes here in the mountains. It's either scalding hot or pouring down rain. Sometimes you cow falls into a hole and your crops won't grow. Well, this is the once a year celebration to proudly be a Ngäbe - a true man - who can carry twice what you can, up hill, for twice as long. And he'll beat you up to prove it.

Look at more photos here.

Solar Pump Aqueduct Project

You know those TV commercials where they use a innocent, poor, adorable child to pull at your heart strings and donate to a cause? This blog post will be one of those... 

Sergio, fill my water buckets? 

My friend and fellow Peace Corps volunteer Serigo lives in a community named Guyabo far north in the province of Cocle. The people who live there are not indigenous (they don't wear traditional dresses or speak anything but Spanish) but are considered camposinos which means, literally, country people. To arrive in Guyabo, you must ride in the back of a truck from town for around an hour. When the truck lets you off, walk down the muddiest road you have ever seen for just over another hour. If live wasn't hard enough for the people of this community, every day everyone must collect water from one bored well in town. Collecting water mean tossing a bucket with a rope down a 50 foot shaft, letting it fill, then pulling it up by hand. Or... sending your cute-as-button daughter on a horse with buckets to the well and waiting until the she calls from atop the horse to coax the Peace Corps volunteer in town to fill them for you. But there must be a better way! 

Sergio, walking home in the mud.

Sergio and his community have a dream to build a water distribution system in the community. Using a pump powered by solar panels, the water would fill a tank located above the community. From there, a distribution system will deliver water to every house in the community. Imagine, running water in your house for the first time in your life. 

The existing well

Sergio designed the system, the solar panels and pump are in place, the community is poised to do the labor, but the funding for the materials for the tank and the distribution system are still needed. Would you consider partnering with Sergio and Guyabo to realize this project? You can click below to find out more and to donate. 

Solar Well Pump Aqueduct

Thanks!

Sergio and I have been kickin' it since the beginning!

Revolution

The Guna Yala is an indigenous comarca (reservation) on the north eastern coast of Panama. The Guna people have a fascinating history, including one of the only successful revolutions by indigenous people from invading colonizers. They are a fiercely proud people, though small in stature. Their societal organization is impressive and their location unmatched on scattered islands in the crystal blue water of the Caribbean. They keep their comarca fairly restricted to outsiders, the only Panamanian institutions are schools and hospitals. 

In February, a group of volunteers and I hiked and joined the celebration that marked the revolution of the Guna people. The trip started with a two-day hike though the dense jungle and across the mountain range that protects the Caribbean Ocean. 

It was a dirty, bloody battle of a hike but when we arrived at the Caribbean at dusk of the second day a glorious feeling swept over all of us.

We took a boat to the island capital and slept. The celebration included a dramatization of the revolution itself, a parade, and a chicha-drinking-dance party.  Everyone wore red. The Guna people use the swastika as their symbol (not just a Nazi emblem). 








My very brave friend Sarah (right) joined us from the US for a cannonball jump into not only Guna culture, but Peace Corps life as well. 

The tradition of drinking fermented coffee and cacao chicha commenced in one large hut. Men danced and yelled in rows of six before being handed bowls of chicha to drink. The women, in more free form style, danced and smoked cigarettes and took shots of chicha. It was impolite to refuse or share a beverage that was offered to you, so of course we were obliged to partake... 

This was one of my favorite and most memorable experiences here in Panama. For all of my photos from the trip, click here. 

Jumping Rope

Do you remember what it's like to jump rope for the first time? 

I gave some kids a jump rope and a little instruction and let them go for it. The results were hilarious and entertaining and super-duper cute. Good times were had by all. 

It was also Peace Corps Volunteer Chet's first time to jump rope...

And then I found a baby.