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.

Crazy Cool

DJ, aka Little Crab, Anthony, aka Wha-chu-PEH (Catfish), and Sean, aka Tikon (Small Gift), are seated on the plank benches of the dinner hut in La Chunga, a small village up the Sambu River in the Darien Province of Panama. We are four hours or so by boat from the nearest road of any consequence. Some people call the place the Darien Gap, the empty hole between the north and south ends of the Pan-American Highway. It's got a bad reputation for guerilla hideouts, drug running, people smuggling, and hungry bugs. Lots of mud and jungle too. But we are talking life here at the table with DJ, Sean, and Anthony. These guys rock the world of hope and possibility. For two years they have been living with indigenous communities as Peace Corps volunteers in conditions that most of us in the material abundance of the developed world would find dangerously primitive: no lights, no running water, no access to easy food, oppressive heat and humidity, and regular bouts of irregularity and infections. They are givers and love being part of something bigger than themselves. Yes, they are doing aqueducts, eco-tourism web sites, and "charlas" about HIV and birth control, but they are also river-runners, surfers, rock climbers, dancers, and are lucky at dice and love. Dang! How did I end up here?

Working Late in La Chunga

Short. Really short. Stocky too. He's ahead of us on the trail at two in the morning. Shirtless, clad only in threadbare shorts, he emerges from the darkness into the light of our lamps. He holds a hand-carved paddle, cocobolo, rosewood for English speakers, the kind used for dugout canoes for traveling up and down the river to places like La Chunga. The tide was coming in and the water rose high in the channel. Frogs hunted spiders. Spider eyes by the hundreds shown in the light of our lamps. "Busco una embarcacion, " (I'm looking to get on a boat) he said to DJ, our guide back out to the big river, the Sambu, and our lancha back out to roads and buses. He said this into our little sphere of light and its swarm of mosquitoes and gnats. "Pero no hay barcos," (but there aren't any boats) he mused to no one in particular. He was mostly deaf, seventy something, widowed, and rumored to be the best pig hunter in the village. He worked all the time, day and night. DJ told us he was one of the old timers of the village, a real traditional Embera man, one who knew the ways of animals, birds, fish, plants, spirits, and water. He sighed at the lack of boats before he stepped forward in the direction from which we had just come. Darkness closed in behind him. I watched him fade into the night, he who knew the way in, before turning to follow the others, all of us on the way out. 

Up and Down Mazlow's Hierarchy

We were off schedule. Eight hours ago we left Panama City with the plan to arrive here at the bridge over the San Felix River before sunset. The sun had set an hour before, and I was just now getting my pack off the roof rack of the little bus at the end of the line.

No more motors. We would walk from here up to Sean's site, Cerro Pita, in the dark. There was no moon, just stars and our headlamps to light the way. Sean, of course, just set off across the bridge with no light. Dayna, my niece, a climbing guide, had a lamp that was dying. She didn't mind. I had my freshly charged monster of a light and felt a bit goofy for being so gear-obsessed. Megan had lost her light, so I gave her my back-up.

A small parade of lamps in a sea of darkness, we set off across the suspension bridge into the next chapter of our Panama trip. Within minutes, sweat saturated my shirt and pants. I may as well have jumped into the river for how soaked I would be for the rest of the hike.

I have my doubts and fears. Ten months ago I ruptured my Achilles tendon. It still hurts. It has not been tested. I am aware of the rocks, the slippery dust on the inclines, the unfamiliar surface of the road. It is dark. I don't know whether or not I have what I will need to be here. I don't want to get sick. The heat takes my energy. I feel old. Sounds, smells, strangeness assault my calm. I am a bit on edge, but take steps, breathe, let go. Life is right here, immediate, no intermediaries or provisional comforts that let the mind wander. 

We pass houses of canaza (bamboo) and thatch. Wood cooking fires light the interiors. Emaciated dogs bark, but only as announcement. I feel no threat like I had from the guard dogs of the city. The dogs here are family dogs, hunting dogs, work dogs, and are always hungry. An atmosphere of hunger hangs over the area. People subsist on rice and beans and fruit, but there are always hungry times. It is summer here, the dry season. Food is running low. It's time to clear "monte," wait for it to dry, burn it, and then sow seeds for the coming rainy season. The crops will come up fast in this rich, life-crazy climate.

Cicadas buzz in the trees along the trail. Click, click, click, ZZZZZZeeeee. The noise drills into my skull. I remember it from last year. It rises and falls as we make our way to the road that will climb up to Cerro Pita.

We pass others on the trail. Women wear naguas, a kind of tent dress, hand-made, with bright trim around the collar and across the waist. They are made with hand-cranked sewing machines. Most of the children are in shorts, shirtless. The men wear hand-made trousers, beat-up T-shirts, baseball caps, and rubber boots. Young guys dress with brand-name style and wear sun glasses.

In the dust I see prints of horses, dogs, bare-footed adults and children. A big scorpion scurries in and out of the circle of light cast by my lamp. We join the road and begin the steep climb. A fine dust fills the beam of my light, as fine as flour. I settle into the rhythm I used for high mountain ascent. The pack is full of groceries and the usual stuff of first-world travel.

We crest the first of several long climbs and then drop down into a narrow defile, cut by floods in the rainy season. Sean says that the "gente," the Ngbere (NO - bay), don't like dropping into the thick forest lining the stream. They say the place is haunted by demons. As we enter and the stars disappear beneath the cover of trees I get a creepy tingle. A big toad hops in front of me; another scorpion cuts across my path. A bat dips into my light before darting off in another direction. No more wood smoke, but the air is thick with flowering and rot. The woods are crawling with life.

My tendon throbs with the strain of the incline. I have to be careful not to push it too hard. I stop every couple of minutes to recover, to let the sweat run down and off my fingers and toes. I am utterly saturated in a film of sweat.

The cicadas sing. Exotic scents waft from the forest. We split a chocolate bar at one of the saddles. Sean is excited about seeing his cat, Wilson, and his dog, Chaco. He wants to get back to his "tabla" house. No flush toilets. No electricity. We will have to get water from the spring down the hill and carry it up if we want coffee in the morning. Well... Yeah!

The climb evens out after an hour and a half of slogging up and down the steep terrain. The Ngbere were pushed off the flat and fertile lands to the south by the big banana companies many years ago and have been relegated living off the less productive slopes of the cordillera. History has not been kind to indigenous people here or elsewhere. Money is scarce. Some of the old men have never been more than thirty miles from the place they were born.

Life travels in tight circles here in the comarca.

I see Sean up ahead, and he turns off the road toward a compound of low thatch houses. His host family is still awake, the abuela cleaning up from dinner, the abuelo hanging out in a hammock. No TV, no radio, no music, just cicadas and other night sounds.

I too climb the bank off the road to the houses. Wilson, the cat appears from around the corner. He is tiny, skinny, an afterthought of a fat first-world cat. Sean lifts him and sets him on top of his pack. Wilson settles there, like a sphinx, and purrs.

Sean will sleep on the bare boards of the floor. Dayna on some clothes put together into crude pallet. Megan and I on Sean's foam mattress. He will light a mosquito coil. The smell of palo santo will fill his house. Wilson will hunt bugs. Chaco will guard the house.

I read quotes written in chalk on the walls of the little house. Paulo Friere, Whitman, and good old Ed Abbey are all represented. Abbey's words, "You can't know the darkness by flooding it with light" ring particularly true.

After we haul water, we will make some tea. Tomorrow Sean will make coffee grown a few feet from his front door. We'll have rice, boiled green bananas, chicha.

There will be time for stories.