A Readers Paradise

One of my goals coming into Peace Corps was to read more. Specifically, I set the goal of reading one-hundred books over my two years here in Panama. As I have recently passed that number I thought it would be wise to present my favorite books here as a guide for others -the multitudes from the "real world" who don´t have the amount of down time that I do- to cut straight through the mounds of book mediocrity and focus solely on books worthy of anyone´s valuable time.

1) Best Development Book: 
"Pathologies of Power" -Paul Farmer 

It is extremely rare to find a book that changes the way one sees the world. "Guns, Germs, and Steel" by Jared Diamond did that when I was in college; "Earth in Mind" by David Orr did that fresh out of college; now "Pathologies of Power" has done it in the Peace Corps. If you are concerned about poverty -this should be everyone- you must read this book. This book is in my all-time top three.

• Runner up: "Poor Economics" -Esther Duflo, Abhijit Banerjee

2) Best Fiction:

"East of Eden" -John Steinbeck

 

My favorite novel by one of my favorite authors. Some say his more famous "Grapes of Wrath" is the great American novel. To that I say "bah". "East of Eden" lingered in my mind longer and was more interesting. I think it's Steinbeck's masterpiece.

• Runner up: "Atlas Shrugged" -Ayn Rand
• Runner up: "Blindness" -Jose Saramago
• Runner up: "Confederacy of Dunces" -John Kennedy Toole

3) Best Writing:

"All the Pretty Horses" -Cormac McCarthy

 

Probably the most beautifully written book I've ever read. McCarthy is another favorite author of mine -the master of simple sentences. The way he can bring a setting to life is incredible. 

4) Personal Experience:

"Animal, Vegetable, Miracle" -Barbara Kingsolver

 

By far my favorite book by Barbara Kingsolver. This is the story of her family's attempt to only eat food locally grown, much of it by them, for an entire year. It also features excerpts from her scientist husband and her daughter in college. Beautiful, educational, inspiring, and great recipes!

5) Best Non-Fiction:

"The Lost City of Z" -David Grann

The absolutely engrossing incredible true story of Pery Fawcett, a real-life Indiana Jones, only more badass. This reads like the most thrilling fiction.

• Runner up: "A People's History of the Unites States" -Howard Zinn

6) Best History:

"Cod" -Mark Kurklansky

 

This short history of cod is great. Cod, as much as I hate to admit it, is definitely America's fish. Cod was one of the reasons the American Revolutionary War broke out for gosh sakes. An infinitely more interesting history than I could have imagined. A must read for history nerds.

• Runner up: "Path Between the Seas" -David McCullough

7) Best Reporting:

"The Big Short" -Michael Lewis

 

Widely considered the best book about the recent US financial crisis, it explains complicated concepts a midst a surprisingly engrossing tale chock full of fantastic characters. Good luck putting this one down.

• Runner up: "Where Men Win Glory" -Jon Krakauer

8) Best Sports Book:

"The Book of Basketball" -Bill Simmons

The best book I've read on the history of my favorite sport. I've followed Mr. Simmons' columns for a long time. He is a true fan and this book is a hilarious delight. 

9) Best Peace Corps Chronicle:

"River Town" -Peter Hessler

 

A thoughtful and immensely reflective story. Hessler served in China in the 90's just after china re-opened it's country to the world. I learned a ton about China's history and culture. Most PC chronicles tend to be -unlike "River Town"- tragic and inspiring, full of painful and incredible stories. Most PCV's have an experience more like Hessler's. These other two great PC chronicles fall into the former category.

• Runner up: "The Ponds of Kalambayi" -Mike Tidwell
• Runner up: "Monique and the Mango Rains" -Kris Holloway

10) Best Collection of Short Stories:

"Interpreter of Maladies" -Jhumpa Lahiri

 

Lahiri's Pulitzer Prize-winning first book is also the best collection of short stories I've ever read -with the possible exception of "Unaccustomed Earth," her third book. Her understanding of the human condition -told through the experiences of Indian-Americans- is more real and honest than anything else I've read. I can't wait to read more from this perceptive author.

11) Best Collection of Poems;
"The Prophet" -Khalil Gibran

Gibran, the third best-selling poet of all time behind Shakespeare and Lao-Tzu, is most famous in the English-speaking world for, "The Prophet." First published in Lebanon in 1923, this collection of poems can be seen as Gibran´s guideline for living a good life, drawn from christian and sufism teachings and infused with Gibran´s values.  If you are looking for spiritual guidance, this book is an equally beautiful alternative or supplement to the Bible.

Wilbur's Big Day

As many readers of this blog know, I purchased a piglet from my neighbor back in February for the hefty price of $29.50 and carried him to my house in a large rice bag so he wouldn't remember the trail. Then I named him Wilbur.

Wilbur relaxing behind my house, three months old

Over the past seven months Wilbur consumed literally hundreds of pounds of pulverized corn feed and grew to be quite a large pig. Whenever we ran out of food he got us into trouble by wandering into my neighbors yard to dig up and eat his prized yucca, a nutrition-less yet omnipresent root vegetable. But overall, Wilbur was a good and entertaining pig.

Here's an example: Wilbur used to sleep beside my palm-thatch hut and snore all night, except, that is, for the few times each night he woke up to scratch his hind parts on my 12'x12' house. The first time he did this when a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer named Jake was sleeping over, the 2am shaking of the hut really spooked him. I had long ago learned to sleep through such noisy activities. So Jake was alone and afraid sleeping on my dirt floor without a mosquito net and exposed to all sorts of creepy-crawlies. I am surprised he didn't wake me up. In the morning he told me of his wretched night and I explained -between fits of laughter- that Wilbur is quite the passionate scratcher.

Some people thought it insensitive to raise a pig for slaughter. "You're going to kill it?!?" they asked incredulously. You can't get the meat without the slaughter, I told them. And as I'm not yet prepared to give up meat I figured I might as well embrace the whole carnivorous process that comes with being an omnivore.

Sadly, though, I did grow fond of Wilbur (it doesn't help he has a name). He used to oink at me as if he knew I was his owner. I rewarded him with soothing ear scratches, for which I received more oinking.  A fair trade I would say. Friends also grew fond of my second favorite pet (after my dog, Osito, who loved to chase Wilbur around our yard to everyone's amusement). When my friend, Andrea, a PCV from Texas, found out I was raising him for slaughter she told me that I was worse then the witch from Hansel and Gretel -"she only fattened them up!"- and that if she were Wilbur she would definitely mess up my yucca.

I responded, politely of coarse, that a livestock-loving-tree-hugger-Texan is a contradiction in terms. To which she quipped, "I know. As much as I feel for Wilbur's plight, I'm too much a sucker for bacon to really have his back. Unless that back comes in the form of juicy ribs." My first convert!

The months passed. One day we pinned down Wilbur and my host-dad, Samuel, castrated the poor guy then poured alcohol on the wound. I was temporarily deaf for two days after that. Luckily we operated on a full moon because, as Samuel explained to me, if the moon is not full the pig will likely bleed to death. He was proven right: Wilbur lived!

For a few more months, that is. On September 4th -the day before my birthday- I killed Wilbur. Fellow PCV's Andrea, Jess, Jake, and Kelsi (my follow-up PCV, from Hawaii) all came to join me and my host family for the celebration. In her eagerness Andrea asked, just after Wilbur died and we were removing the hair from his skin, "Is it wrong that he looks delicious already?"

Yeah, a little bit. But she was right, just a little early. Nearly six hours after the slaughter all eighteen of us sat down to enjoy some much-deserved pulled-pork sandwiches. We decided it was a great opportunity to share some of our favorite American food with my host family. They loved it.

The following day my host-mom, Lela, made some of my favorite Panamanian food, arroz con puerco, for my birthday. The rest of the meat we ate throughout that week and shared with our neighbors. The intestines and bones we left for the dogs and vultures.

Wilbur was the first -and hopefully last- animal whose death came about as a direct result of celebrating my birth. It's not fair, I know. Especially because he gave me so many memories and laughs. So aside from immense amounts of food and the occasional scratch, the last gift I have for him is a public expression of gratitude: Thanks for making my 26th birthday oinkingly unique and unforgettably special, Wilbur. You are missed.

Omar guided me through the slaughter

Wilbur's last minutes

Shaving begins (using boiled water seen right)

Jess helped me move Wilbur to his shaving station

                  

Wilbur shaved, Samuel started cutting

Samuel the artist. Lassie watches, excited 

Jake, Kelsi, and of course, Luiz, preparing the sandwiches

Sunshine in the Comarca!

From April to July of this year the communities of Quebrada Plata, Quebrada Carrizo, and Quebrada Frijoles have accomplished a backbreaking amount of work. The measurable accomplishments are as follows:

• 46 completed latrines (at approximately $100 each)
• Improved sanitation for over 300 people (not including the school latrine we build which serves roughly 200 children).
• Improved health awareness and increased knowledge of healthy personal hygiene practices to over 40 community leaders and promoters.

These results sound good but knowing actually how good is hard if you don't live in poverty. This is because it relies on the more human -and as a result, less measurable- aspects of improved sanitation. I've lived here -in the poorest district of the poorest province of Panama- for two years and yet I can only partially empathize with the struggles my neighbors face. 

When I think about the immeasurable effects a latrine project might have here three memories are triggered. First, I think of the moms who, sick of their children being sick (and looking like miniature men with shoulders held back to accommodate their "beer bellies", which are instead filled with worms) not only paid $5 to join the project but broke traditional gender roles at numerous meetings by speaking out (normally the women listen patiently to the men). In an impressive display of solidarity, once one woman did this it set of a firestorm of competing female voices that all but drowned out the male ones. It was the males turn to listen, and they did. Project plans were changed -for the better I might add- on multiple occasions because of this.

I also think of the Ministry of Health worker who I witnessed tactlessly and shamelessly berate a group of Ngabe's for defecating in rivers and the jungle, completely oblivious to the social and historical realities of living in extreme poverty and being exposed to modern industrial society just a half century ago.

Lastly, I think of my two closest neighboring families which, between the two of them, have buried three children before they turned four years young. My hope is that this latrine project will help alleviate some of their unjust suffering.

Although I have suffered though debilitating bacterial infections and intestinal amoebas much like they have, I have access to sanitary, clean hospitals; most of my neighbors don't. They visit underfunded, under supplied, and understaffed health clinics; and these only under grave circumstances (they tend to use natural medicine first, although this trend is changing with the younger generation). And because intestinal "issues" tend to not fall under the "grave" category for anyone over three years old, gas, diarrhea, chronic upset stomach, distended bellies, malnutrition, a lack of energy, and an increased risk of getting sick as a result of a weakened immune system have become normal parts of life.

Samuel Salinas (left) and Martin Santo Pinto, the leaders of the latrine project, in front of Martin's new latrine

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Completing the project was a difficult and time consuming process because we could build only two concrete latrine floors per day. Once they were built, however, the families constructed their "little houses" as we say in Spanish, in quick fashion. (The excitement as we neared the end gave everyone a needed last boost to finish). Once they were done there was just one thing left to do... Celebrate!

The inauguration ceremony was held after all the latrines were completed. I purchased a large amount of food, asked some women to cook it (they got to keep the leftovers!), and on July 19th a group of fifty or so people met and listened to a series of speeches. Many spoke about how grateful they were for their latrines. Some explained how nice it was for someone to follow through on a promise (the government representatives here infamous for not following though). A few even said I would be in their hearts forever and that they hoped they would be in mine. I assured them they would. When it was my turn to address the group I spoke of the two year process we went through, congratulated them on their incredibly hard work, and thanked them for opening their homes to me and treating me like family. I finished, "back in early 2011 you decided a latrine project was your number one priority. Not that you have latrines you get to decide what your next priority is and take it on. In this slow way you can improve your lives step-by-step."

After all the speeches were given, we sat down and enjoyed rice with chicken and veggies, juice, bread, and coffee. We told each other stories and took breaks to snap photos (one woman wanted a picture with me to make her husband jealous. She was going to tell him, "see I don't need you, I have a gringo boyfriend"). Later, just before I left, a young guy I'd never met approached me and while shaking my hand proclaimed, "Choy, bueno, esa proyecto demoraba mucho pero siempre vale la pena. Estamos muy contento." ("Scott, well, this project took a long time but it was definitely worth the effort -we are very content."). 

"I couldn't agree more," I replied. And with that said I left and walked home in the rain watching -waiting- for the sun to peek through the clouds. Fleetingly, I was sure it did. But then a light bulb flickered in my head and I quit watching, for I now know that if you are patient enough the sun will always follow the rain.

Happy new latrine owners at the inauguration ceremony

Quebrada Plata Latrine Project Begins!

Peace Corps Volunteers quickly learn that although two years seems like a long time to carry out a project, it is often not enough. This is especially true for Environmental Health Volunteers because we tend to undertake physical projects like building latrines and aqueducts. Most Peace Corps work is education, capacitation, and leadership based, and require little funding. Physical projects, however, do require funding, and that is the primary reason EH work tends to take longer.

A secondary reason for this delay is common to any PCV anywhere: sustainable development work is slow. This is true for a myriad of reasons. Just imagine yourself learning to do something you´ve never even heard of from someone speaking neither their nor your first language and you might have an idea why these things require a hefty dose of time and energy.

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Back in early 2011 I began visiting six communities within an hour hike from my hut. This was to introduce myself, make friends, share cultures, and hold a series of meetings to brainstorm potential ways to improve their lives.

After a few months one community emerged as both needing my help and willing to work within the PC framework to accomplish their goal of bringing a latrine project to their community. Quebrada Plata is the name of the community and their name -which translates as "money stream" - is sadly ironic; they live in the poorest district of the poorest province of Panama where many suffer from malnutrition, insufficient healthcare services, a lack of education, and nonexistent sanitation services.

After organizing a group to lead the project we held a series of meetings to discuss the project timeline, mutual expectations, and to finalize numbers. Finalizing the number of beneficiaries proved surprisingly difficult as many people wavered in their interest. We repeatedly postponed the cutoff date for individuals to join the project but eventually, in late September, we couldn´t wait any longer and set the final number at 46, which included the community school and meeting area.

I got to work writing the funding application which, when finished, made its way to the PC website where the project awaited donations. Luckily I know many generous people (including not a few followers of this blog) and found an NGO called Synergy willing to fund half the $4696 I hoped to raise.

By late February the money was raised and sitting in my account and after a series of lectures covering disease transmission pathways, latrine construction and maintenance, and healthy personal hygiene practices we at last set dates for the delivery of materials in early April. In doing so we checked the final item off our to-do list.

After getting a quote from Supercentro San Felix, the company who would be delivering the materials, I traveled two hours to David and got a bank managers check to actually buy the materials. The next morning, April 12th, I met the loaded delivery truck and we set off for the first drop off. To my pleasant surprise the "truck" was actually more of a tank: a ten-wheel WWII era Jeep. We packed it full of sand, rock, rebar, nails, and cement bags then putzed off down the road to our drop point. I sat straddling the stickshift between two very latino Panamanians. The windshield was flipped outward like old-school sunglasses because it was too cracked to see through. Through my sunglasses - which I wore because sand was kareening off the hood and stinging our faces - I could see that none of the gauges worked.

This didn´t matter though, because the driver, Eric, knew the truck like the back of his hand. Also, we were driving laughably slow as the truck was not capable of exceeding 40 km/hr. We hugged the shoulder and semi´s passed us like sports cars. It felt just like I imagined riding in a tank would.

When we finally got offroad in the Comarca the truck came to life powering up steep and muddy Comarca hills seemingly without effort. (It actually seemed to get stronger throughout the day, feeding off the workout like Strong Guy, the Marvel Comics superhero who absorbs kinetic energy to enhance his physical strength). To keep things sufficiently dangerous our friendly driver Eric incessantly honked the loudest horn I´ve ever heard at every child, woman, and person on the phone we passed. He paid more attention to scaring people in this way than dodging the large rocks and ruts in our path.







Around noon we arrived the drop point and met the patiently-waiting residents of Quebrada Plata. We unloaded, divided the materials, then watched people haul one-hundred pound bags of cement over a mile to their homes. That´s just how things are done here. When you don´t have horsepower, you use manpower.

The following day was effectively the same and after two long days we were finally in a position to begin building concrete latrine floors. After a year and a half, it was really happening! As any PCV here will tell you, Panama has an exceptional ability to test one´s patience. This time consuming process reminds me of an Ethiopian proverb I once heard, "If one is not in a hurry, even an egg will start walking." Indeed.

Guna Yala Independence Day 2012

"Gaspar, why are you tagging all those trees?"

"So we don`t get lost. Don`t you worry."

Three years ago Gaspar de Leon Smith fell thirty feet out of a tree onto a concrete floor, breaking his arm, wrist, many ribs, and puncturing a lung. He barely survived the fall but credits his impressive recovery to natural medicines his family procured from the "campo", what Panamanians call the jungle. Gaspar is from the indigenous group Guna and he is our guide over the cordillera mountain range.

Our group in Pigandpí at dawn, just before departing (pic by Mateo Johnson)

Fourteen Peace Corps Volunteers and three Returned Peace Corps Volunteers have hired Gaspar and another guide, Fernando, to traverse the twenty-eight miles over the mountains with us. Our goal is to arrive the Carribbean Sea in time to participate in the Guna celebration of independence.

The Guna are a immensely independent people located on the Northeast coast of Panama where they control 365 islands as well as 2.3 squared kilometers on the mainland. They achieved independence in 1925 with the help of the U.S. military. In Panama, the Guna are by far the most organized and economically successful indigenous group. They advocate for a completely closed culture and their celebration for independence is the one time each year they open their borders to outsiders and allow photographs. We were told to be extra respectful so as to ensure PCV`s can participate in the celebration in future years.
We heard rumors that because the Guna have been a closed group for so long they have a high rate of albinism. Actually it`s the highest rate in the world -one percent of the population is albino. We also heard of a legendary independence day party.

So it came to pass that on February 21st, with our interest sufficiently arroused, the seventeen of us met in the town of Pigandì, about fifteen hours from my site on the opposite side of the country. There, we discussed logistics and got ready for an early departure in the morning.
At the crack of dawn we downed some PB&J`s and set out for our campsite fourteen miles away. During the hike Gaspar periodically tagged trees with his red can of spraypaint. On one tree he drew a skull and crossbones. Another drawing said "G Unit," our team name, after him. One said "GY Feb. 22, 2012."

The hike was gorgeous and filled with all types of jungle critters and interesting plants such as an ant the size of my pinky finger. We arrived exhausted to a picturesque campsite at dusk, greedily eying the nearby stream for what became the perfect cool down. A dinner of rice, lentils, and snacks was followed by ghost stories around a campfire, skipping stones, then stringing up and drifting away into our hammocks.

The next day was much the same and we arrived the Carribbean shore at night, then boated to Ustupu, the island with the biggest independence celebration. Once there, we slep at Gaspar`s house.

Gaspar, our fearless leader, showing beautiful Guna Molas (pic by Mateo Johnson)

The 24th was our recovery day. We met with the Sila ("chief" in the Guna language) of the island who told us, "God wants you here and so you are free to take pictures and do as you please." The highlight of the day, though, was when a few of us had beers with a marxist revolutionary named Andrès who told us about his communist studies in Russia and Nicaragua and how he led an attack against a gringo trying to use their land. He also said that he feels solidarity with the Ngäbe people: "they are experienceing what we went through in 1925. I offer my guns, blood, and my life to them in their struggle."

At 6am on February 25th a parade passed Gaspar`s house. We all joined the stampede as it made its way through the island to a stream near a large drinking hut. For two hours graphic demonstrations were acted out depicting their struggle for independence eighty-seven years ago. Following the demonstrations everyone funneled into the sex-seperated drinking hut.

People watching the graphic demonstrations (pic by Omar Cardenas)

Males stood in lines of six and dance and chanted toward six other men opposite them offering bowls of a tasty wine-like alcohol made with coffee and some unknown ingredients. The men recieve the bowls, chug it, then whoop and yell together while getting out of the way for the next line of men.

Some PCV´s and a Guna man recieving drinks during the party (pic by Mateo Johnson) 

The organized drinking style displayed by the men was nowhere to be seen on the female side. Dressed in their beautiful traditional dress, they walked around passing out mini-bowls of the homeade wine to anyone who would take it. Almost each woman had a whistle in her mouth which they blew incessantly. They also passed out Menthol cigarettes (which they LOVE) and carried bottles of Seco, Panama`s sugarcane alcohol, to supplement the wine (which they did).

A Guna woman in traditional dress (pic by Mateo Johnson)

It didn`t take long to realize the Guna women were much more generous with the alcohol than the men. This was evident because the female PCV`s slowed down to the point that a few needed to leave -they´d had enough. Needless to say, the men gradually migrated to the female side of the hut and began recieving drinks from women who were about as tall as my belly button. They were a stumbling, whistling sea of red and yellow colors and they were determined to get an entire island trashed.

At 11am the alcohol ran out and hundreds of people stumbled from the hut arm in arm and blinking their eyes at the hostile sun.

The next morning  the adventure continued. We boated eight hours west in an uncovered skiff along the coast to the port town of Cartì. It was nothing short of miserable; seawater soaked us, winds froze us, and rough seas had many puking over the gunwale. Eventually we made our way back to Panama City for some rest before we began doing what I`ve done so many times in the Peace Corps: trying to figure out what in the hell just happened. Amidst our confusion and uncertainty, there remained one thing of which we had no doubt: nobody parties like a Guna woman.

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.