The Salinas Brothers: Unimanageable Tragedy

Victor is a neighbor of mine in his early fifties and we have a mutually beneficial relationship: I provide him with newspapers every once in a while and he gives me extra food that he produces. Three of his five children regularly spend time with me in my hut -hanging out, getting help with their english homework, and hoping to score some food.

At this point in my Peace Corps service most days are simultaneously incredible and rote. They pass noticed and noted in my journal yet they are unable to illuminate life as a volunteer in a tangible way for people in the back home in the United States. That being said, every so often I stumble upon a day, an hour, or single moment overflowing with poignant details that depict my PC experience precisely. It is times such as these that inspire and guide us through the formidable hardtimes. These experiences of clarity also excite a nascent blogger such as yours truly as it makes my life easy.

Quoting from my journal:

April 22, 2012

I ran barefoot for the third day in a row and my feet are sore so I stopped early then [visited] with Victor on my way home. He gave me two cocoanuts and a cup of coffee, then showed me around his land -he´s planted one thousand pineapples, five hundred yucca trees, and a bunch of sugarcane. He said he prefers to live here in the Comarca - "free" - and not in Cerro Punta (where he worked many years) even though he makes no money in the Comarca. He said this is because nobody can tell him what to do. As usual he asked me a lot of questions about the US. When I told him American´s get excited about the changing of the seasons just like Ngäbe´s do, he summed up that fact in one of these effortlessly elegant statements that I´ve grown accustomed to hearing from Ngäbe´s, especially him. He said, "well, we all have five fingers and we´re all human. Some of us just have a different race or speak differently, but we´re all human."

After showing me around he took me to his small cemetary which holds five people. I´ve never seen it before - I didn´t even know of its existence! There, his grandparents are buried beside one of his sons who died before his fifth birthday. Two of Samuel´s [Victor´s brother] children are buried there as well. A chilling moment to realize they have outlived some of their children, and that this seems to be semi-common.

The next day I asked Samuel about his two children in the cemetary. One, he said, was a stillbirth roughly two years ago. But the other child Samuel loved very much. He kept repeating that he adored the child and shared a special bond with him. When the child developed a respitory ailment Samuel gave him a concoction of natural medicine that he learned to prepare from his grandmother. Confident the child would recover Samuel got ready to attend an agriculture seminar in a latino town many miles away. He would be there one week. When he grabbed his backpack he turned and stubbed his toe on a rock. Later, just before leaving he walked to say goodbye to the sick child and stubbed the same toe on the same rock. In a hurry and thinking nothing of the coincidence, he limped away to attend the seminar.

A week later while buying food on his return home, a concerned friend approached Samuel in the store and said, "Samuel, people are saying there was a problem at your house. A child died, but I don´t know which." Samuel left the food, hiked the two hours to his home, and found his wife grieving over their recently-buried child. She told Samuel that the child´s breathing slowed and slowed, and eventually stopped.

Eight years later, Samuel still harbors guilt. He says to me, "I should have known, I should have seen the signs when I stubbed my toe twice before I left. I wasn´t suppossed to leave."

Balsería: Ngäbe Glory

On site announcement day - the day Peace Corps Volunteers learn where they will live for their two years of service - we group up and learn about our region from a volunteer currently serving there. I´ve forgotten most of Ben´s advice about living in the Comarca Ngäbe-Bugle, but one thing stuck. He told us that Ngäbe´s are traditionally a fierce fighting people and that this is precisely the reason they continue to exist today. He said the Spanish conquistadors suffered such large losses against the Ngäbe that they eventually stopped trying to fight them.

Aside from a few drunken fistfights and one murder that have taken place during my time here, the Ngäbe seem to me a gentle and warm people. I began to think this so-called "fighting culture" had vanished as oustide influences slowly seeped into the Comarca. But then I witnessed balsería and boy was I wrong!

At its roots balsería is an avenue for communities to interact and create bonds through competition. The schedule of events are as follows. Once a community decides to host a balsería they are charged with the task of choosing, and then inviting, another community to be their opponent. As the date for the competition nears the inviting community prepares food and an amount of fermented corn alcohol called "chicha" that would scare well, a bunch of recent college graduates.

Balsería is a three day event. The first two days are about comraderie -that is meeting and eating, but mostly drinking and fighting. When our group of gringos arrived the balsería field the night of the second day we first noticed that each family had their own area where they ate and drank. It also became immediately clear that everyone was staring at us. I imagined they were thinking "what are THEY doing HERE?" Seeking to feel welcome and to quash their worry we did what PCV´s excell at: visiting with people. We spoke in Ngäbere which proved to be a sure way to make Ngäbe´s comfortable. Soon the chicha began pouring down our throats as people vied for our attention. I remember having a friendly conversation with a guy when suddenly he stopped smiling and asked me, "do you want to fight?"

Two quick things: one, nobody has ever asked me that question in my life and two, I was scared. My friends heard the question and as they walked up behind me I responded, "no, no thanks. I am only here to watch and learn about your culture. I don´t want to fight." To my great relief his face melted and he dejectly said, "darn, I really wanted to fight a gringo." Then, turning to my friend Dave, said, "Hey, do you want to fight?"

Moments later a teenager approached us and asked if we wanted to see some fights. He then guided us to a group of fifty or so people with a few flashlights following the fistfights taking place. We soon learned the four rules of Ngäbe fighting:

1. One-on-one fighting only 
2. No fighting on the ground
3. No kicking or headbutting
4. No body shots -only hitting in the face

After watching a few fights we soon came up with a rule of our own: never fight a Ngäbe. 

Fast forward to the following morning. An hour before dawn Jack, Dave, and I walked back to the field we visited the night before. It was covered in uncovered sleeping people strewn about on the grass. Soon, these bodies began to stir, rustle, and zombie their way toward the unfinished chicha vats. Afterall, they had to be ready for the upcoming main event - balsería.

At first light a small parade of people from the invited town of Soloy whistled and blew cow horns as they strutted their way toward the central area where the ceremony would soon take place. Once in position the inviting town of Chichica performed an identical parade complete with animal skins across their backs - spirits they would channel during the competition - and eventually met the Soloy competitors in the center square. As the remaining community surrounded these two groups large six foot long sticks began being passed into the waiting hands of whistling men who immediately began taunting each other by shaking their rear ends and animal skins at their opponents.  Suddenly without any whistle, countdown, or signal sticks began flying.

Sticks were flying everywhere in what to me seemed like an incredibly random way and dangerously close to nearby spectators. But soon I realized that Balsería is actually organized quite simply: if you throw a stick at someone, someone gets to throw a stick at you (but not the person you attacked). My counterpart, Samuel, explained to me, "Choy, there is only one rule in balsería: you can only hit below the knee." This inspired my question, "If there are no referees how is this rule enforced?"

A man wearing a Nagua prepares to throw his balsa stick at an opponent (Picture by Dave Johnson)

As an ultimate frisbee player accustomed to competing without referees I naïvely expected Samuel to mention some sort of diplomatic discussion in response to my question. But instead, he thought a moment as if the question stumped him, then finally with conviction replied, "well, you fight" in a way that implied "duh."

The winner of balsería is obviously the person or group that is hit fewer times, but this is not officially recognized or recorded. I suppose when the loser is unable to walk without limping the winner doesn´t need official recognition.

A half an hour after the start of the opening ceremony the spectators began falling away into their own balsería competitions all over the grounds. Intermixed between the competitions were numerous fistfights. Either way, a person was always invited into competition - no one ever punched or threw a stick at someone who wasn´t expecting it.

Jack, a fellow PCV, gets nailed by a balsa stick. Yes, it left a mark (Photo by Dave Johnson)

Jack is a quick learner (Photo by Dave Johnson)

Dave ready for the attact (Photo by Dave Johnson)

In addition to being drunk, blowing whistles and cowhorns, and being clad in animal skins, nearly all the men were wearing naguas, the colorful female dress that was implemented a century ago by missionaries. Balsería is the only occasion where men are permitted to wear them.

All around the grounds, just like the previous night, numerous groups of people huddled around vats of chicha like college students around a keg. This would go on until nightfall of the third day, when balsería officially ends. The morning of the fourth day everyone would return home. 

We left around noon of the third day, though, unable to ingest more chicha and to be honest,  somewhat concerned for our safety as events escalated. After leaving we began trying to figure out what in the hell just happened. I still don´t know. Seeing balsería was so incredible and foreign that if anything in my life proves to be as shocking and spectacular, well, I´m living a pretty cool life.

Unanji and Tobä in Panama: Part 2

This is the second installation of a two part blog series my mom wrote following her trip with Corey to visit me in Panama this past March.


"The name Scott is the name I have grown accustomed to calling my son, Scott. But the community in which he lives issued him the Ngäbe-Bugle name of Choy. I don’t have a clear understanding of this re-naming, but it was mentioned that when a community member dies, their name is eventually re-issued. Who decides this and how it is implemented is a mystery.


The most profound aspect of the trip centered around our visit to Choy’s site. Once in Tolé we had a short hike to the grocery store which was clearly the hub of this small town. We were under a bit of time crunch as we didn’t want to be hiking into Choy’s site after the sun set. Once the sun sets it is pitch black here. To lessen the hike time, we opted to catch the local pick up truck (taxi of sorts) that the Ngäbe-Bugle use for transportation from their communities into nearby towns. The truck was packed with Ngäbe-Bugle men, women, and children. We were given the nod to hop on board. This is the point where it was clear to me that I was the foreigner. As I squeezed my way through the folks on board the truck, their beautiful eyes met mine in utter silence. I did what I knew best and smiled, trying to relay to them that yes, I know I am the odd person out here, but thank you for letting us ride with you. I was definitely the big elephant in the room. I looked back at Choy who found a place to ride standing on the bumper and he gave that “atta mom” nod with a grin.


We were dropped off after a twenty minute ride and started the hour and half hike down a dusty road that eventually led to a trail to his site. Along this dusty road were many make-shift houses. Choy decided it was time for us to learn a couple Ngäbe-Bugle phrases, one being the common greeting, Ñandori (pronounded "Nyan-tow-ry"). As we walked along, I practiced my greeting with those we passed. At one house a man came to the side of the road to greet Choy, and Choy in-turn introduced us. Eventually this man’s whole family came over, including the grandma. She spoke in their language, Ngäbere, which Choy translated for us. She told us she is old and only comes outside after the sun has set. Surprisingly, she then proceeded to announce my new name – Unangi ("oo-nan-ji"). She gave Corey the name Tobä ("tow-bah"). This created lots of discussion and laughter among us all. Priceless to say the least. Choy told us later that it was a very unique and a cool experience for the grandma to make an appearance to gave us Ngäbe names.

We continued on our journey as the sun was setting. Before long we needed flashlights to find our path leading down through the thick rainforest to his site. As we approached the site, a very young boy and little dog appeared. The boy said “Hi Choy” and they chatted for a bit in spanish as we walked along. The first thing that came to my mind was how dark it was outside and that this little barefoot boy, no older than six years old was able to navigate without lights and that his toes were exposed to God-knows-what that crawls in the night. Once we got to Choy´s hut, the family that lives near him were outside waiting for us. We met Lela ("Layla") the mom and three of her eight children, Jonathon, Pepo, and Luiz. It was a great moment to finally meet the family he had been living and working with these past 18 months.

Corey, me, Choy, and his cat in front of his hut

Inside Choy’s thatch-roofed hut, we lit candles and started unpacking our gear. Pepo, with Luiz in tow, presented us with tray with three cups of coffee. To me, this represented an expression of Choy being welcomed home. After Pepo left, Choy said you probably don’t want to drink the coffee as it is made with boiled water but will normally have regular water added to it. Their regular water is not filtered and after hearing the unique stories from all the PCV’s about the journeys their gastrointestinal tracts have been through (and continue to go through), I took his advice. Choy proceeded to drink all three cups and tossed the dregs out the door.

Choy’s dog, Osito (meaning "little bear") and his cat were very excited for his return, as was another puppy named Peter. The animals were all quite small in comparison to what we are accustomed to in the US. This aspect of the visit really tugged on my heart. The dogs and cat were so cheerful and civilized, yet rail thin. I kept trying to find morsels of food scraps to feed them. My focus during our stay here was on the dogs, cat, and pig named Wilbur. These animals survive by rooting around for anything consumable. This was tough to witness and not something I could get used to.

Osito

Mornings, as they unfolded, were delightful. From just before sunrise, while still in the sac, you can hear the animals starting to rustle and the roosters crowing. Eventually you hear the voices of young boys waking up and chatting in the distance. Bear in mind the children in these communities have no TV or computers. Evenings were also special to witness. Lela hangs out with the boys in the hammock near a fire pit each evening before bed. Again, it was remarkable to me as to how much there was to talk about that didn’t include any arguing or fighting or negative overtones. More than once I thought to myself what a good mother Lela is. And Samuel, her husband, must be a good father to those boys as well. He is Choy’s counterpart for his Peace Corps project. Samuel was working outside the site during our stay there, so we didn’t get to meet him. I was impressed with how industrious he was with his land and how wise he was to have a PCV live with him and his family. There are still some indigenous children who have not seen a white person. By having a Choy live with them, Samuel is exposing his children in a non-threatening fashion to a world outside their community. It was precious watching the interaction between Choy and the boys. Choy is meditatively thoughtful and patient towards them and they are obviously reverent towards him (although I am sure Choy would dispute that adjective). Choy is also keen on what the boys are up to and if they have an agenda or ulterior motive.

Lela and Luiz

We spent the day hanging out in the hut and hiking up the mountain side, followed by a dip in the stream. Scott has just enough room in his hut for a bunk, two hammocks (one of which is attached to the posts under his bunk), two stools, and a counter for his kitchen. Needless to say, Corey and I slept on the floor on top a leaky blow up mattress (so on the ground), but with a mosquito net over us. Once Corey sat in the hammock he didn’t move from it for hours. And once I discovered the other hammock, I drifted off to napland. The boys would visit throughout the day chatting with Choy about this and that (in Spanish). For breakfast, Choy made oatmeal with all sorts of condiments added. And for dinner we made a rice dish with sautéed vegetables.

Choy showing Pepo and Luiz the bubbles we brought them

Our hike out the following day started early and at the same time the children in the community were hiking to school, each dressed in their clean, crisp white and blue school uniform. It was impressive how they were able to walk through the dusty red dirt flawlessly, without getting their slacks or shoes filthy. Most of the children have a cloth that winds around their hand and palm that is used to dab the sweat from their brow as they hike to school. Keep in mind the temperatures are in the upper nineties during this time of year (the dry season).

Three things impressed me most about my experience with the Ngäbe-Bugle people. First, hygiene must be important because everyone’s hair was combed and shiny clean, and there were no noticeable odors, which is remarkable for living in such warm temperatures. Second, loving and caring for their children was obviously important, and there were lots of children. And third, the Ngäbe-Bugle are a proud indigenous people that have a lot to pass on to future generations."

Susie and Corey in Panama: Part 1

In March my mom and Corey visited me in Panama and my mom was kind enough to write two blog posts about their experiences. We had an absolutely wonderful time. She told me it was her second favorite trip of all time. (I encourage anyone who has not visited me to visit!) Presented below is the first blog she wrote. Look for blog two in a couple days.

Scott and I in Panama City

We started the trip in Panama City where we dined with Scott and a handful of other Peace Corps Volunteers: Coy, Omar, Moiz, Adam, and Natalie. They were in town for medical reasons or for PCV meetings. Entering the trip we had only decided the destinations we wanted to visit. We left the transportation details for later, after arriving in Panama. Looking at all the pros and cons of renting an auto, flying, and taking public transportation, we decided the best way to travel across Panama would be to incorporate some of each mode. We rented an auto in Panama City and drove west to five hours to Tolé, the jumping off point to Scott´s site. The vehicle was stored there at a friend’s house for a couple days while we hiked into Scott’s site, his home for the past 18 months. (More on this experience in blogpost two).

A large ship passing through the Panama Canal

A truck we passed on our way to Tolé. How the pineapple stay in place is a mystery

From Tolé we drove to Soloy to visit Jack, a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer, in his site. Jack set us up for a half day experience there. His role is to help facilitate economic growth in his community, primarily working to increase tourism. The day started with a traditional meal prepared for lunch. This included a tasty bowl of chicken broth with local root vegetables, a chicken leg, and rice. Later we watched a fascinating demonstration of how chacras (crocheted bags from plant leaves) were constructed by a mother/daughter team. This is a craft that is slowly dying as the younger generation is failing to learn it. They will have to make an effort to retain this art, just as they do to preserve the Ngäbe-Bugle language.

Demonstration of chakra making in Soloy

In the afternoon we drove to Las Lajas – THE BEACH! This beach is the best kept secret I have come across while traveling anywhere. It was here that Scott managed to drag a few other PCV’s from their exhaustive work to join us for a little R&R: Jack, Laura, Jess, Carolyn, and Kayla. They were elated to have a room with a bed and shower, which all of six of them shared. After hearing the “bed bug” stories from the huts they stayed at during a previous trip to this beach we were extremely happy to provide them a room with delicious food.

Our friendly chocolate tour guides in Adam´s site

From Las Lajas we drove  West to David, where we dropped off the rental car and took the public bus four hours  North to Bocas del Toro. The bus stops at the end of the road on the Carribbean coast in a town called Almirante. From there we took a water taxi to Bocas del Toro´s main island. While there we visited Adam’s site (another PCV) and had an amazing cacao plantation/enterprise. Like Jack (in Soloy), Adam’s role is to also facilitate community economic growth. The cacao plantation was very sophisticated and quite different from what we experienced in Scott’s site. When I asked Scott how long it would be before his community could fathom such an enterprise, Scott responded that it’s at least twenty years away from being any sort of marketable tourist destination. The people in Scott’s community are doing what they can just to survive with the resources they have on their land.

Corey enjoying the boatride to Bocas Island

After our stay in Bocas, we flew to Panama City for one night before departing home to the US. We met and dined with more Peace Corps Volunteers: Charles, Andrea and her visiting friend, John.

The Peace Corps Volunteers were a wonderful cosmos of people. They are still learning so much about each other and at the same time refer fondly to fellow PCV’s as if they’d known them for years. Their bond obviously stems from the common thread they all identify with. I would venture to say that because they share this extreme existence, they are equally less apt to be critical of others.

Dave does Panama, ¡cuidado!

My dad visited me in March and although the trip led him to want to help people it simultaneously prevented him from doing so (he will explain below). Although Panama has its many unfovorable characteristics it brought out the best in my dad two times. The first was at Estero beach in Santa Catalina, an adorable and quaint surf town. After a couple hours of laughing at my epic crashes, he took off to wait for the big waves with the good surfers. A while later he swam up and said "Scott did you see me catch that wave?!" "No, I missed it. Was it sweet?" "Ohhhh mannnn, it was perrrrfect! I was in the swell, oh man, wahooo. It´s rides like that that keep me interested after seven years off the board."

The second classic Dave moment came on our way to visit another volunteer´s site. The boat we were in was full of young missionaries as it made its way up a very dry river. When we ran aground and the driver said nothing, who do you think was the first person out of the boat to push? Yep, my old man, saying "come´n guys lets push." The second time we ran aground, same thing. My worry that this was a little too "rugged" for my dad who came here to surf and soak up the sun was immediately quashed when, after the tenth or so stop to push, he looked at me with a big grin and said "now this is my kind of vacation!" His blog is below. 

Dave in Panama City

As I typically do every few months, I went to give blood.  After the requisite question and answer period (which I usually breeze through), the technician said “Since you were in Panama recently you may not give blood for a full year.”)  Say what?  I picked up my dignity, since for whatever reason I felt something was now “wrong” with me, and gloomily headed for the door.  I would not feel that familiar prick of the skin, nor feel the wonderful feeling of possibly helping another anonymous soul.

What does this have to do with anything you might ask?  Well, I’m pissed!  Yes, I don’t think it’s fair to me since I am healthy, I don’t do drugs, get tattoos, or play with other peoples blood among the myriad of other “don’ts” on the blood campaign list.  I eat and sleep well, have a comfortable home, nice truck, lots of vacation time, it’s…just…not…fair! 

Wow, what a baby I’m being.  Didn’t I just return from Panama where the median income is somewhere between what I spend at restaurants in a year and gas for my truck?  Where the typical home is more like a “hut”, or maybe a one bedroom concrete apartment with significantly more than one occupant?    Traveling is a nightmare of loud music, crowded conditions, blaring horns and death defying bus drivers who think they are Mario Andretti. The heat of the day compared to my Alaskan “heat” feels like an iron being held about 1 inch away from your skin, your entire skin, far beyond what’s humanely endurable.  The cool porcelain of my toilet seemed like a distant memory just after a few challenging bathroom breaks.  Life expectancy of dogs (and jaywalkers) is counted in minutes I think, and the tight-quarter hustle and bustle of Panama City is a far cry from the vast expanse of Alaska and the acres separating you from another human being.

Father-son temporary Emberá tattoos

Despite the drastic changes from 10F degrees to 95F degrees during the 20 hours of flight time and the complete alien feel which accompanied me as I stepped off the plane, I fell in love with the place!   Spending time with groovy (yes, I’m in my fifties) Peace Corp Volunteers and trying to decipher all the acronyms which accompany their conversations, I started to feel more at ease.   Surfing and Cerveza’s,   dinner at outdoor eateries with Expats and locals, Panama cowboys and their herd of cows blocking traffic in the middle of nowhere, the thrill (well, maybe the “thrill” is a strong term) of watching a container ship go through the locks, and the wonderful experience of slicing up a mud colored river in a 30” wide x 24’ long dugout canoe with guides at either end never giving directions even when we bottomed out in the shallows, threatening to leave us twelve stranded tourists until the rainy season.  Visiting a PCV (Peace Corp Volunteer, I’ll decipher that one for you) site with the local welcoming band, singing and dancing, lunch and woven goods to ogle over and purchase topped off a wonderful trip.  I even learned which plant is the equivalent of the Panamanian Viagra, who would’ve known.

I may not be able to give blood for a year, but it’s a small price compared to the lessons learned and the wonderful memories.  Thank you Panama!