There is a village on the island of San Cristobal that is peopled by Ngobe Bugle Indians. I do not know how long it has been there, but the houses seem fairly new, though weather beaten and full of holes. The people however, have lived on the island since before the days of Columbus.
We arrived in our panga after an uneventful bay crossing and a careful dodging of the reef. A long, well-built dock offered space to tie off the boat. Several kids greeted us. They were playing happily in the fetid water and did not ask us for anything (a rarity in these parts).
We had been in the village before, but wanted to walk the paths again. So, with our pockets filled with candy, we headed up the hill, past the swampy area where the first row of homes is built in the muck, and up onto the dry ground.
There was no road. Just a rough sidewalk hemmed in by banana trees. The homes were close together and children hung beneath the porches and chickens pecked the dirt for little bugs and dogs laid in the sun and flicked their tails at flies and old men smiled half-toothed smiles and cried, “Hola!” in cheery voices.
We handed out a few lollipops and swore the kids to secrecy, trying to keep the hoard of children we knew would find us when word got out at bay. Two little girls grabbed my hands and a boy walked with Lee. The boy looked up at Lee so often, I thought he was going to get a crick in his neck.
It was hot and our bottled water supply was low, so we stopped at a little store with a walk-through window. In the window was a teenager who spoke a little English. He said they were out of water, but he had Coke. We bought one to share and asked if he knew where we could find the ladies who made the bags.
The Ngobe Bugle Indians are simple people who know how to live off the land. The know how to fish and collect food and medicine in the forest. And they are experts at weaving artful items from fibers that come from the pita plant, a plant related to the pineapple and bearing extremely long, thick leaves. After the leaves are harvested and dried, the Ngobe women separate the long leaf fibers. Then they roll them into thread and color the thread with natural dye from roots, flowers, and berries. The bags they weave from the thread can last up to thirty years and are strong enough to carry a heavy load of coconuts or cacao pods. This bag weaving is an art the Ngobe are well known for. But, with the advent of modern technology, the art is dying out.
I bought one of the bags, known locally as a mochilla, and was using it for my purse. I loved the all-natural look and thought maybe it was worth studying to see if we could market the bags back in The States. If we could give the Indians a good price for their artwork and sell a decent amount, it might encourage them to revive an age-old tradition. That would do two things. One: prevent the art from being lost to time. Two: provide an income for the families in transition between the old world and new—an income that made sense to them instead of forcing the women into Bocas Town to clean hotels or cook for almost nothing.
The boy behind the counter knew where the women were. The little girl who was holding my hand just happened to be the granddaughter of the president of the woman’s art group. I didn’t even know there was such a thing and was delighted to hear it. Could she bring us to see her grandmother? Of course!
We backtracked a few hundred yards to a wooden shack with a rustic sign boasting, Art for Sale. Apparently, I had missed it on the way up the hill. Word traveled so fast in the village that the little girl’s grandmother beat us to the art shack and was already opening the door when we arrived.
Inside, beautiful handmade bags hung along the walls. Head-bands and belts hung there too. A table in the middle of the room was covered in red fabric to show off woven jewelry ornamented with seeds and shells.
We'd hit the jackpot.
I bought a bracelet the color of chocolate and cream and talked to Damiana, the president, about coming back to buy more of the bags. I needed the funds to do it and I wasn’t sure where to find them. I wished I could have bought everything on the spot. I admit, I get frustrated with the time it takes to make things happen. Time is slow in the islands of Panama, like the clock is clogged with cacao paste and refuses to turn. But what frustrates me—the slowness of time—is also part of what makes the place so beautiful.
With my head full of ideas, I let Lee drag me back outside. We wandered through the village, handing out lollipops and talking to old men. We headed further up the hill to where the cacao trees grow and we caught the smell of fresh-baked bread. I love bread, especially when it’s hot out of the oven. I had to track it down. Just off the path, several women were baking in a community oven. Well, oven is not really the right word. Grill is better. They were baking Jonny cakes, also known as coconut bread. A pan was set directly over the coals and covered to create a very effective oven that gave a lovely smoky flavor to the finished product. We bought two small, round loaves for twenty-five cents each and I started pulling at the warm bread immediately. The women were pleased with my reaction. It showed them how much I loved their bread!
A few minutes later, we were headed toward the end of the path, having passed a tied up pig (with whom we shared a little bread), a family of chickens (with baby chickens getting lost and found again), a couple kids (whom we also shared our bread), and an old man with only a few teeth left, but a very happy grin.
The soccer field was on the edge of town and it was gym-class time for the school kids.
Funny, now that I think of it, many kids were not in school. I know they have two sessions every day because they can’t fit all the kids in at the same time. I think we were just seeing the younger kids out and about while the older kids were in class. But I also know, some of the kids simply cannot afford school. The classes are free to everyone, but the students are required to buy uniforms and all their own supplies. The cost is around five hundred dollars a year, just too much for some families.
Anyway, Lee could not help but get out onto the field with the kids, at least for a moment or two. The teacher laughed as he ran around trying to keep up with some very adept, albeit it young, soccer players.
It’s what I love about living here. The connections we make. The teacher laughing, the kids out-playing the gringo, the women sharing their cooking skills, the boy at the grocery store helping us find the art-bag lady. This is community, very different from what I am used to back home. I like to call it an open society. In part simply because everybody is literally outside. It’s hard to connect with people if you hide in your house all day.
Which brings me to the water-taxi guy and his family.
We saw him sitting on his porch with kids running everywhere. He spoke decent English. We recognized him from town. He had his own boat and used it to drive tourists from island to island. He worked six days a week, but stayed home on Sundays surrounded by his wife and children and grandchildren.
Lee asked him about a project he was working on in the front yard. It appeared to be a bathroom. A very simple one. But, it looked like the rain had washed away much of the work that was already done. The old man was happy to discuss his project and invited us in. Well, up. In fact, he insisted and let it be known in no uncertain terms that to refuse would be at the very least impolite if not downright rude. So we acquiesced.
A minute later, I was comfortably sitting in a rocking chair on the old man’s porch. Lee was sitting in another rocking chair opposite me and the children were looking at us as if we were a friendly curiosity. One of the younger boys was actually tied to the porch, apparently so he would not fall off. Older kids came and went. The lady of the house was a broad shouldered woman wearing a long, black dress that nearly brushed the ground. She was a little less than five feet tall to my five foot six, so when I sat down and she stood up we were almost eye-level with each other. She noticed my mochila bag and my new bracelet and figured I would be a good candidate to see what she had created in her humble home. A moment later, I was presented with a parade of arts and crafts.
I chose a necklace made from seeds and shells. I put it on and she brought me a tiny mirror that looked like it had been taken out of an old jewelry box. I was happy with my treasure and paid her a wrinkled five-dollar bill.
Things took an interesting turn when the old man asked us if we wanted to rent his other house. I must admit, the idea brought up a lot of mixed feelings. The homes were very rudimentary. And none had bathrooms anything like what I was used to. No running water, no electricity, and very little, if any furniture. It would surely be an experience to remember.
Our host’s house looked better than most. And it would be awesome to spend some time living in the village, right next door to the very people I wanted to help. It would be amazing to share their lives, to learn how to make coconut bread and help the old man finish his project and play with the kids in the afternoon.
Life can be challenging.
Desires battle each other.
Desire for an authentic experience. Desire for a shower—not just a hot shower, but any shower at all.
I will think about renting the old man’s house.
In the meantime, I am happy I got to spend an afternoon hanging out with him and his family.