When Things Go South

The line for customs and migration at the Tocumen Airport in Panama City snaked back and forth between nylon tape barriers. It was going to be a while. I figured at least three hundred people stood between me and the customs officials sitting in front of the fancy computers, finger-print readers, and cameras. Might as well check my phone for any messages.

It had been a long day, traveling from Tucson to Panama. Rain had followed us as we traveled south, and a storm was forecast to hit Panama for the next four days. Rare heavy rain right in time for our visit and for time spent with Sean, but that was not the only thing hanging over, or going south, during the trip. 

My phone came to life with a flurry of texts: "Someone kicked in your front door and tried to kill Philip (a neighbor) with a shovel." "A police helicopter and three squad cars were here looking for an ex-con that somebody said you brought to the ranch." "You have endangered the community with your vile irresponsible disregard for safety." "Why didn't you tell people that someone had trespassed in your house back yard you left? Even rattlesnakes get warnings here."

It only got better from there.

Welcome to Panama and two weeks traveling, I thought to myself. Sheesh, what a way to begin...

I knew I would have a lot to clean up when I got back home to Tucson, but for now all I could do was feeble explanations and triage. They were out for blood and for someone to blame for the crisis of security.

So what does one do in such situations?

I can tell you that an ineffective response is to get defensive or to refute the concerns of single mothers worried about their children. So I caved in and took full responsibility for endangering the community, my neighbors. I would keep quiet about he had been a long-time member of the prison writing workshops, had been featured on a national news program for his writing, had been given opioids when hospitalized for pancreatitis and fallen back into drug use, had biochemical toxins pickling his brain, was desperate and had burned every bridge left for him to burn. No excuses, just what is. And none of that mattered. It served only as preamble. What had transpired was its own context, the trigger for a narrative of fear and blame. I saw that there was no way to counter that, so I would have to bend with it.

"Yes, I made a mistake inviting an ex-con to the ranch to help me remodel the bathroom," I wrote.

That helped a bit, but people wanted more.

"What have you learned from this?" "How will you ever regain our trust?"

I went contrite, rolled over, exposed my belly. The story is too long to tell I decided. I live with some risk and engage with some hot-button social realities. Sometimes things go to hell. I take it as part of playing the game, the cost of doing business in a world rife with danger and inequity.

I kept all of that to myself. I tried to see things through their eyes. Yes, they are afraid and want to protect their children from drug addicts and desperate characters. Got it and I'll say it again and again.

The fires have died down and the pitchforks put away for now.

I offered to meet with anyone who wanted to know more, but no one took me up on that. I just got a few more slaps on the wrist for being such a bad neighbor.

Oh well, there are always so many sides to to any event, so many stories competing for traction and proof that who we are is right and that the world spins according to our versions of it.To keep the peace, it's sometimes best just to shut up and listen, for now, anyway.

A more capacious narrative will take time to tell, and openness to take hold. Odds are not in my favor, but I hold out anyway. The work of framing a different way of seeing takes courage and time. Steady boy, steady. 

Over the Hump

"Lookin' pretty grey," he said as we rolled along the river trail, the route used by cyclists no longer fast enough to ride with traffic out there in the real world.

He had not seen me in a while, so the observation held water. I forget that I am getting on in years. Reminders like his still come as a bit of icy water to the face.

This slide into late mid life is not what I thought it would be. I thought that by now I would be content with my lot as a has been, washed-up, decrepit old fart. I thought it would be time for beer and TV and collapse into cardiac shut down.

Unfortunately, I am still hot and hungry for life. I want to be free, sharp, focused, and deep into some form of creative self-expression. I want to be in love. It's a bit self-centered and narcissistic I know. Also I don't know for sure if I have the talent to produce anything worth someone else's attention.

And my work life is not over yet. I am supposed to be grading papers, revising assignments, making calls, scheduling meetings, and on and on. So this life I want is on hold, private, and a stewing secret for now.

As I gain momentum on this the later season of my life, I wonder if I will ever get there, to that place where I conduct the music I hear in my heart, narrate the story I compose in my dreams.

Mola Lisa: Woman Between Worlds

The dugout was painted bright green with red trim. Lisa said the colors represented the forest and the sun. It was made by her father and was a gift to her when he died. It needed some work. We powered through the waves with a borrowed motor. Long story there. Suffice it to say that it was all but a miracle that Lisa was there at all, given all that had transpired that morning -- sickness, miscommunication, mechanical breakdown, evil spirits, and gender identity. It was only six-thirty and already a full day. We loaded up and headed toward the mainland, an hour by dugout across open ocean.

Water poured over the gunwales when we plowed through the heavy swells on the way to the mainland. Two by six boards had been bolted on the original limits of the dugout to make it more seaworthy, but the gap between the boards and tree wood had not been caulked. I  guessed that caulk was too expensive, if not hard to come by, here hours away from the nearest hardware store.

I bailed water with a cut-in-half gourd that was just like a big coconut shell as we talked over the whine of the outboard. Just what you do. No big deal.

Clouds hung over the summits of mountains that rose steeply from the coast. It was raining up there, hard, as it had been for several days. A big storm had blown into the San Blas Archipelago and whipped the seas into a nice swell. My shorts had blown overboard in spite of being clipped to the guard wire of the sailboat.

We rose and fell with the swells, and talked about gender roles and how women do so much of the work of the world. She mentioned that her family was short men: she had not married, her brother-in-law had died and left her sister and her niece for Lisa to care for, her father had died, and her mother too. Lisa was the head of household, a community leader, and spokesperson for women in the weekly congress meetings of her community. Her glasses hid her eyes, but I could see the gravity carried by them.

Her Spanish was excellent. She had been selected by the cacique, or silas, what we might call chief, to go to Panama City to study. She had been a star student and now spoke Guna Yala, Spanish, and English. She had been designated the "tour leader" by the tribe and now fulfilled that role with us. We were going to a sacred river to see a cascada, or waterfall, and would be permitted to wash off some of the salt film we had accumulated over five days at sea.

We asked if we could visit her village. Lisa told us that the village was under quarantine because a man had died at the hand of demons. Those demons were still around, and the leaders of the village were performing ceremonies to drive them off. No one who did not live there, even other Guna Yala, was permitted to visit the island. The whole island was under a red flag, and boats were expected to give it a wide berth.

I asked her to elaborate and she said there was nothing more to say. I turned toward the mountains and the trail we would follow up into them. 

The prospect of fresh water, agua dulce, sounded heavenly to me. I had not showered in fresh water since we got on the boat five days ago.

The trail wound past burial grounds, and we paused while Lisa paid her respects and cleaned the mounds covering her father, mother, and other family members. She told us the story of her life. It was one of work, and early responsibility.

Her family was struggling, in part, because there was no man to work on the house or to go work a finca, land used for bananas, rice, yuca, papaya, coffee, and other crops. The men leave the island communities every day at dawn and work until mid or later morning. The women stay and tend the children, cook, clean the house. The roles are quite prescribed, unless one decides to identify as a gender other than the one they were born into. Transvestites are common in the tribe, and, as it turns out, Lisa was one. As such, she was given access to cash by giving tours, with permission, of course. She kept some of the money, but paid fees to the tribe for the opportunity. With a little extra money, she could hire men to help with jobs that she, as a woman, was not supposed to do. She had made her choice and lived within the roles she was given. All very interesting to me.

She had no children for reasons other than marriage or fertility.

Still, she played to role of woman well and led us up to the waterfall with a steady narration of plant, bird, and cultural stories. One of the blossoms looked like lips. The women tried them on.

Lisa held up a sign of protection from evil spirits as I took the picture. Lisa kept invoking protection as we went along the steep, rooty trail.  I heard her speaking softly and asked her about that. She told me she was talking to the spirit world about us, about our being there. She wanted us to be in harmony and on good terms with them. She did not want to get hurt or to have any of us twist an ankle. We heard monkeys howling in the trees when rain began to fall. Lisa told us they hated rain and complained loudly whenever it began.

We passed some of the aqueduct pipes and storage tanks. The water comes from high on the mountain, travels down to the ocean, crosses underwater to the island and supplies the community with fresh water. Wow! Fresh water, no bugs because the island is surrounded by salt water, and cool breezes off the ocean -- not bad.

The trail, which had been climbing steeply for miles, suddenly dropped down into a tropical, muddy densely wooded defile. Then it opened onto a waterfall worth the long walk. Fresh water!

Time for lunch and some swimming. Lisa joined us for sandwiches. Her assistant kept his distance from the group and said little. I offered him some cheese and chocolate. He accepted with a nod but no smile.

Megan jumped in after Sean and we all began a trip down-stream following the river. We slid through various waterfalls and slides. Lisa purified us at the end of the pools.

After the purification, we headed back to the boat where Lisa showed us her molas. Lovely as might be expected. She told us how the molas told stories and were the results of years of practice and training in the stories of origin, of the animals, the ocean, the spirits -- everything that defined the place and the role Guna Yala played in it. Only women, a select few, were allowed by the tribe to make and sell molas. It was a high honor to be designated a molas maker by the community, and Lisa, holy woman, priestess, story-teller, inhabitant between worlds, was considered one of the best. 

Note to Self

So I'm working on this book about the prison writing workshops. It's pretty much dead in the water, but yesterday I dove in to begin editing. The main idea is emerging and has to be incorporated, cleaned up, made more front and center. Specifically, I claim that the workshops provide space, a language-rich environment, and an audience for which the inmates can compose and perform. They have to bring desire, imagination, and courage to step up and into their work. The benefits of creative self-expression  are seeing a bigger possibility, learning to express and communicate, seeing through another's eyes, and beginning to imagine a narrative of what a life has been, what a life might be. How to love, work, play, die, and be all arise as subjects in our talk. In short, what is imagined as humanly possible becomes the basis for expression, and, with any luck, action. It may be enough to pull me and them through some rough spots.

Remember

A crescent moon hung above the dark line of trees along the Sambu river. For the first time in many days, I was cold. The lancha sped down-river in a deafening whine of engines pushing against the weight of muddy, living water. That light, that sound, the voices from the last several days all settled into a mix of joy and peace as the air rushed past in the early morning calm. What it said was I have work to do. I'm not as good or done as I think I am. It reminded me that the lazy demon that drags me down is not the only voice to live by. There is possibility out there. You might still get your act together, learn to surf, get back in shape, do something big and beautiful. Dare I say I found comfort cradled in the gift of hope? This life is a scramble from which we do not escape alive. There is still some time to learn how to live the days I am given, to get to work on the book that languishes in my neglect, to sing a song or two, to remember that it is not about the recognition you get or even the results, but the absolute resolve to squeeze out of every moment joy and generosity. You are spirit pilgrim, spirit in motion. Get moving.

Kinda Weird

Boobs and butts. That's what I remember about Panama City. Yes, I know that speaks more to my perversions than to the city, but that's what stands out. First world priorities, I could say, pander to the baser drives, given that food, shelter, clothes, and community are likely met in at least a minimum form. In front of our hotel, for example, was a crouching, buxom, wonderfully big-butted steel sculpture figure of a female, head up, buns open for all the world to see. I had to wonder. Then, in the men's bathroom, there were wall-sized murals of beautiful breasts all covered in body paint. The men's stall was like a private room, door and all, with a larger than life woman swimming along the wall. Mirrors were everywhere. Then there were the women walking the streets. Plastic surgeons must make a good living in Panama. Augmentation stuck out, so to speak. The advertising for blue jeans featured monster female protrusions. It was a spectacle to which I was not immune, sad to say. Good thing I was with people who reined me in, helped me stay focused on the trip, on getting to our destinations on time, packing food, being a bit responsible. Left to my own devices, I might still be there, broke and spent. Such is the life of an addict, a sucker for sensation, the delights of living in this ephemeral body, still hungry for the light that dims a bit more with each passing day.

From La Chunga, Down the Sambu to Puerto Quimba

The planks of the boardwalk through the manglares (mangroves) look solid enough. But DJ warned us about their tendency to flip, sending unlucky hikers plunging through the gap and into the mud below. "Step on the cracks," he said. "Don't worry about your mother's back." My headlamp beam dances over the walkway and I gauge my stride to hit the joints as often as possible. Each time I don't I brace for the flip. So far, so good. I see Dayna up ahead. The young people are better at this. I am the slow poke.

It's 2:00 a.m. Our boat, "La Gringa," is scheduled to pass the dock on the Rio Sambu in an hour. We should make it fine. I see Dayna go down ahead of me. She has slipped and is nursing some splinters that went into her big toe. She's a wilderness first aid instructor, so is not squeamish about pulling the wood out from beneath her toenails.

After what seems a long walk, we arrive at the floating pier on the Sambu. We take off the pack and look up to see the stars and get away from the bugs of the dense woods. A US AID sign tells us that this site is an eco-tourism project for the Embera tribe.

We lounge on the packs, split a bag of cashews, tell stories, and wait for the boat. Soon enough we hear a motor far up the river. I feel like we are listening to the rails to find out when a train will arrive. After about fifteen minutes we see the searchlight of the boat come around the bend in the river. A man stands on the bow scanning for logs. If the boat hits one, the hull could crack, the propeller could shear, and we would all be stuck, stranded, or sunk. There is nothing up or down river for many miles. This is wild jungle.

When the lancha ties up to the dock we throw in the packs and settle in for the long trip down river to the Pacific estuary and then on to La Palma and Puerto Quimba. I lie on the packs and watch the stars spin as round the curves in the river. They turn like a disc on an axis. A crescent moon sets behind the wall of trees lining the banks. We slow for debris and floating trunks between the high drone of the big outboards.

As we enter the salt water, bio-luminescence lights the spray from the bow. Drops sparkle like fireworks. I see rocks, islands, and a primitive lighthouse. The pilot slows the boat when we pass through narrow straits between the outcrops. An osprey carries a fish toward the shore. Fishing boats troll parallel to the shoreline.

Sean has to pee, so stands and lets it fly over the side of the lancha into the glowing foam of the wake. Propeller wash dances in light. Waves grind against the hull as we make our way toward La Palma and then upriver to Puerto Quimba.

The eastern sky lightens as we pass La Palma, the capital of the Darien. The city squats on the river, lights still on. It is a ramshackle mix of blues, reds, orange, yellow, and rust. The bright lanchas wait at the main pier.

We have to go through immigration at the Puerto Quimba pier. Sean has an urgent need for a bathroom. In spite of this being the main port for travel to a provincial capital, there is no bathroom. He squats behind a building. I pee at the edge of the parking lot.

Once the soldiers release our passports, we load up for the hour bus ride to Meteti. From there we catch the big bus to Panama City, a five hour trip, and re-entry into developed world of speed and complexity.