Soloy: Part 2. Fire and Cocoa

When we got off the bus, well into the night, without a flashlight or cell phone coverage, we expected a long walk through the forest until we reached the home of our host family. We were supposed to meet Juan Carlos, our local contact, at the entrance of the town hall, and from there, he would take us to our new home. Having read the prospect on the website of one of the local NGOs, we expected an extremely inaccessible rural and impoverished town, where water had to be carried from the river and traditional values limited many aspects of life, from the dress-code to social interaction.

Much to our bedazzlement, when the bus dropped us off, we walked a mere 200 meters down the paved road and arrived at the house we would live in for the next few weeks. It was easy to find the house, for they were burning leaves right at the entrance, creating a massive wall of fire and smoke, through which one could spot a small entrance between the bushes aligned along the road, delimiting the property.

We walked through the smoky curtain and saw a concrete structure with light green walls, a large, single window on the facade and a slightly sloped tin roof which ended in a small overhanging "roof" made of dried banana leafs above a concrete floor. The porch was completed by a measly hammock, swinging on the two thick branches which supported the structure a few meters directly in front of a wooden door. A few trees and bushes surrounded the house, but it was hard to tell whether they had been planted there on purpose.

Timidly, allowing Juan Carlos to make the first steps, we walked through the yard towards the front door. As he shouted a greeting to "declare" our presence, I inadvertently got my neck caught on a metal wire inconveniently hanging across the yard. Its purpose was clearly to hang clothes, but during the month we spent in Soloy, my head was the only thing that came close to hanging from it. Of course, I was the only one ever bothered by it, as everyone else could carelessly walk underneath without needing to crouch.

Ignoring everything happening around me, I massaged my neck with one hand and felt the air in front of me with the other, in case of any other elevated traps. When I reached the concrete floor, a few women dressed in long, colorful traditional dresses emerged from the door followed tightly by a parade of children. Unsure as to the proper etiquette of salutation, we tamely extended our hands with broad smiles spread across our faces. With the unequivocal courtesy we had come to expect, their tame and subdued voices welcomed us to their home. It was hard to distinguish how many children there were, or the names of the five women we had just met. We were shown into our room; a humble but ample room with no furniture other than two large mattresses resting on home-made wooden structures. We sat our backpacks down and accommodated our eyes to the dark as they put two small chairs out in the porch. We sat down on the chairs as they did the same on the floor, conversing mildly as the dancing flames dimly illuminated their faces. We could sense the astonishment of the children, who would murmur and giggle amongst themselves, and the intrigued amusement of the women as we rampantly summarized who we were and what we were doing there, yet we also got the feeling that although they understood the words we were saying, they somehow didn't fully comprehend the message we sought to communicate. It was not the first time this had happened to us, and it definitely wouldn't be the last. In fact, minutes later, it happened again.

After the conversation died off, they led us through the main room of the house - one of three, counting ours - and out the back door. A large, dirt yard spread in front of us with formidable mango trees emerging from the ground and growing upwards and away to drape the sky with their leaves. Such was their immensity that the full moon, bashful in the presence of the seething fluorescence of cities, but ardent and intense in remoteness, couldn't breach the arboreal overcast.

Immersed in the darkness, against the black backdrop of the mountain, a faint fire nervously illuminated figures of all sizes and motions in its near surroundings. Some of the women, as well as a large man, laid on the hammocks and the children used logs and stumps as benches and seats. The scene, complete with a feeble fire under a large metal pot, seemed like the closest I would ever come to see one of those provisional cowboy campsites from spaghetti westerns that I have always felt drawn towards. The sight of a few people sitting around the comfort of a fire, waiting for a long overdue meal, surrounded by the fantastic darkness of nature, always seemed to me like one of the most righteous definitions of freedom.

When we stepped into the circle illuminated by the fire and were introduced to the rest of the family, the giggles, the amazement, the awkward courtesy of two vastly distant worlds coming into contact, all repeated themselves. We ate a large bowl of rice as we became acquainted with our new family and surroundings, amazed at the voracious velocity with which the children and babies devoured their plates, which were by no means smaller than ours. After washing our dishes in a gush of water emanating from a tube - part of the aqueduct system which supplies nearly every house in the area - we retired to our room to digest and reflect.

The next morning we awoke at dawn with the unmistakable pandemonium of children on vacation. As we came out of the house, the children didn't attempt to hide their skepticism, as the youngest ones hid under and behind their mothers' skirts. The older ones managed to muster timid grins, which would grow into full fledged smiles in barely a couple of days. Before we realized, the children would be agog every time they saw us, running excitedly towards us.

After a filling but forgettable breakfast consisting of an insipid boiled corn paste and over sweetened coffee, Juan Carlos appeared from behind the small bean field adjacent to the house, and took us on a walk through the town. As we meandered towards the center of town, Juancho enlightened us about the history of Soloy, the advancements of their modern history and ultimately, the challenges they face as a community. As if to highlight their challenges, when we stopped by the Mayor's office to request an appointment and present ourselves as volunteers, ready to help the town in any way we could, the secretary told us he wasn't there, and that if we wanted an appointment, we would have to come back another day. Although we persevered with our intent to meet him for the next few days, the Mayor was never present.

Nonetheless, our walk was far from futile. We visited a hostel, a Bahá'i center with facilities to house more than fifty guests, meeting rooms and a radio broadcasting station. We didn't see many signs of fervent Bahá'i - or Christian - believers, especially in church service attendance, but the town highly valued the Bahá'i center because of the radio station, which served as the news outlet for the whole area until it was struck by lightning in late November. Since then, it had become a nuisance to communicate important matters to the whole town. Luckily, word of mouth wasn't far removed from their mass communication methods, and lacking the aid of 'modern' technology wasn't a catastrophe.

Our last two stops were by far the most stirring. We visited the largest locally owned enterprise and the home of an indigenous activist  for women's rights and a leader in the community. The business was owned by Arsenio, a quiet and humble man among many, but one who had the distinct gift of carefully choosing his words and the timing of his delivery. Despite being the most successful business owner amongst the locals - who were at a competitive disadvantage against foreign entrepreneurs who arrived with resources and capabilities that one could simply not acquire in the Comarca - his tailor shop consisted of four employees equipped with classic Singer sewing machines working tirelessly from dawn to dusk under a tin roof.

Arsenio was clearly proud and aware of his accomplishment, but there was no sign of complacency in his lexicon or in the attitude of his employees. He clearly had more ambitious visions for his business.
Relativity plays an ironic role in the comparison of societies. More often than not, in the eyes of those who truly seek an equal society, a business owner who desires more success, more money or more growth, is seen as an icon of greed. Nonetheless, in a humble, if not poor, community, a person who makes a name for himself and his business is seen as an example, a role model for the rest. Of course, one could say that the big fish in the small pond is still smaller than the big fish in the large ocean, and that a man like Arsenio still lacks many of the comforts that many people would consider basic, and is therefore not greedy for aspiring for more. However, isn't greed measured by what one has and wants compared to his fellow man? Is it really fair to judge Arsenio compared to people and luxuries that he may not even know exist? Shouldn't his level of greediness, if you will, be measured in comparison to the 74 year old senile woman who walks past his shop everyday with a heavy bag hanging from her head as she tries to make a living selling oranges? Or the families who buy state-enforced school uniforms from him so their children can go to school and receive five free meals a day, offering them a nutritious alternative to bland rice and the occasional bean?

By no means is this an attempt to paint over the image I may have depicted in your mind with the first phrase I wrote about Arsenio, for that is the man I remember, and the rest are cumbersome cul-de-sac reflections. In fact, in a simple, yet characteristic demonstration of thoughtfulness and hospitality, Arsenio invited us to enjoy a traditional cocoa drinking experience that same evening. For centuries, the Ngäbes, like so many other native americans, have had a special place for cocoa in their culture. In days past it was used primarily as a nearly sacred ingredient in ceremonies, and considered the most valued resource available. Consuming it provided strength and courage for their warriors, and lucidity  for the shamans, which allowed them to connect with the forces of nature. During funerals and rites of passage, everyone present would drink cocoa for four nights, dancing and talking until the sun rose.  

Although these rituals are barely - if ever - carried out, many people still follow the rules of old when drinking cocoa. Traditionally, cocoa is never mixed with sugar, it is mashed during the day, boiled in water, and served hot in totumas (organic vessels made from an inedible fruit, used as cups or plates). Peculiarly, it is customary in Ngäbe ceremonies to drink a multiple of four full totumas before leaving the ceremony.
Drinking Ngäbe cocoa on a full moon night was one of the most unique and fascinating moments on this trip. The smell emanating from the cocoa was mellow but dense and delectable. It seemed as if in the next few seconds, a luscious, intense, liquid form of the best Swiss chocolate would flow silkily through our mouths. However, the taste was bitter, thin and watered down. Although it was by no means undrinkable, I much prefered the captivating smell, which now I could only compare to the disappointing flavor. Fortunately for us, we had to follow the custom and continue drinking three more cups. Amazingly, the more we drank, the more savory became the beverage. Our lips moistened and our minds cleared, as our senses merged and assimilated the experience together.

Before returning home for dinner, we had time to visit one of the houses at the end of the road. There lived Emerita and her family, in a spruce property with a gorgeous traditional rancho, a large house, a separate building for the kitchen and pantry and probably the only front yard with trimmed grass in a twenty mile radius. The backyard was a more ordinary sight, with log benches, a poultry pen, a few random banana trees and a bunch of extraordinarily plentiful orange trees.

As Juancho introduced us to Emerita and her family, we were immediately captured by her commanding poise. Emerita is a sturdy, vigorous, middle aged lady, and it was evident by the behavior of the teenagers in the house, and the heed given to her by those present that she was a woman of strong character.
Through our multiple conversations with her we came to find out that aside from a certain degree of preeminence, she drew her strength from undeniable competence, dynamism and con
viction. Before us stood a woman who had suffered as much as she'd lived, but whose will to live, and help others live - adequately - was more tenacious than whatever fortune had ever stood in her way.

By means of our initial conversations with Juan Carlos, Arsenio and Emerita, we discovered what was needed from us in Soloy, but it was the incredibly stimulating properties of the cocoa that got the ideas flowing through our heads on how to adapt a seemingly simple solution to an intricate problem.

Soloy: Part 1

I beg you forgive me for the late deliveries of this blog. Although it would be ideal, and fairest to you readers, to update our experiences in a timelier manner; time is the most ephemeral of things, and it is extremely difficult to keep up with it. As time vanishes, thus escape my memories of events, from the most transcendental to the most banal. We promise to keep up with our stories, if you promise to transport yourself to the time at which they happened. The line at which our experiences develop is much faster than my pen.

In a young, yet promising 2013, we found ourselves motivated as ever, but gasping for a breath of fresh air in the form of tangible results to our work. Everything we had done so far had been well intentioned, but lacked the outcome we desired. However, we hoped to steer in the right direction despite waves and currents diverting us from our course. We try to remember that obstacles, like waves, always seem most intense, imposing, and unconquerable from the trough; before confronting them. But once you reach the crest, descrying from above, you can see the sea with clarity, and the wave soon becomes part of your wake. Sailing through calm waters is for those who lack wind to power their sails. Thus, we let the challenges that arise tempt our motivation and skill, ready to witness our path from atop the wave.

Returning o dry land; in February, we traveled to Soloy for our next project.  There, the summer threatens to dry up the mightiest river or the most resilient crop, and the wind never dwindles. The gusts of wild wind, or 'breeze', as the locals call it, steal anything that isn't tied down. Sadly, despite an abundance of real wind, many members of the community do lack the aforementioned metaphorical wind. Although to a lesser extent than in Palmera. There are a number of individuals in the community who are properly organized and informed, who work hard to achieve what they want. However, apathy and abandon reign as the leading philosophy for the majority of the population, who aspire to little more than brief moments of material satisfaction without regard for long term consequences. Ironically, it doesn't land too far from the description of more 'advanced' communities in 'developed' countries.

It is really sad to witness natural beauty being ruined by pollution, unity by violence and the future by greed, ignorance or addiction. But the thing that saddens us the most is witnessing a great potential walking head down, unarmed, hidden in the shadow of these problems.

As our voyage progresses, and thus our experience and education – unlimited and insufficient and unlimitedly insufficient – I realize that there are no insurmountable problems; only unwilling people. Having said that, the most positive aspect of our trip has been the people we have encountered. It's a pity, therefore, that the answer is the same to the opposite question.

So we found ourselves in Soloy, wedged between the two landmarks that intersect Panama. Symbols of the prowess of man and nature alike, the Interamerican Highway and the Continental Divide proudly form the spine of the country. In the Western section of the Divide, growing softly from the flat lands resting at its sides, the Serranía de Tabasará is dominantly poised; an acutely eroded arch in which peaks were formed by volcanic intrusions, of which, Volcan Barú, the nation's tallest summit, oversees the slow industry developing around its fertile soil. Its skirts, abounding with meandering creeks, commanding rivers, and a nuanced spectacle of shades of evergreen jungle full of intricate vines and exotic animals, have long shared their secrets and protective mantle with the Ngäbe Indians.

Today, like so many other indigenous populations throughout the world, the Ngäbes fight an everyday battle against the overflowing currents of modernity and the industrial exploitation of natural resources. As fortune has it, the Ngäbes are settled on the nation's richest soil, a magnet for foreign mining and energy companies as well as government leaders of questionable principles.

Soloy is one of the main towns in the Comarca; not much more than a strip of pavement with houses lined up at its edges, like buttons on a shirt. Located at the end of the main road plunging from the Interamerican Highway into the Comarca, Soloy provides a meeting point for merchants, artisans and farmers. The center of town, which has two multipurpose stores and a restaurant is also a transfer point for the transportation system, as the public bus stops there and taxis, cars and horses transit the area taking people – and food – to and from communities inaccessible by bus.

We lived in a particular section of Soloy called Boca Miel, about 2 km away from the center of town, where the pavement ends and dirt paths ramify in every direction. The Ngäbe Buglé Comarca is divided into seven districts. Soloy is one of eight corregimientos (a country subdivision for administrative purposes; in other, simpler words, a town) in the District of Besikö, located in the south-west of the Comarca. The Comarca is populated by the Guaymi Indians, and receives its name after its two linguistic subgroups, the Ngäbe, and the Buglé, whose languages are mutually unintelligible. Most of the adults speak their native language regularly, as well as Spanish, albeit rather limited in some cases. However, the youth pose a cause for concern, for many do not know more than a few basic Ngäbere words. Worryingly, their Spanish is often a carnage of the already mutilated Spanish spoken by their elders.

The comarca hosts approximately 160,000 people in an area of roughly 7,000 km². Soloy is home to some 1,500 people, most of which live in terrains with a few structures ranging from huts to concrete houses and about half a hectare of arable land. The houses vary in form and material, with concrete, zinc, bamboo and other timber used interchangeably. Zinc roofs, often deemed in Western society as a sign of underdeveloped neighborhoods, were proliferated in the Comarca as a substitute for traditional palm roofs.

More durable, stable and expensive, zinc became a luxury item when it was first introduced a couple of decades ago. An irrevocable trait of human nature, envy, soon converted this developing world architectural icon into a must-have throughout Soloy and other neighboring towns.

Although most households have stable concrete structures where the family sleeps and stores their valuables, many still have traditional "ranchos" in their properties, under which they have hammocks and usually sleep there on warm summer nights. Since there are only two seasons in Soloy - dry and rainy – the hammocks out in the open air are still the preferential sleeping arrangement for the majority, especially nostalgic adults who see their childhood lifestyle quickly fading away.

There are two sections of the town which are distinct from all the others. The center of town, and Barriada 2000. The latter is an infamous aglomeration of huts, people and trash which constantly emanates a profane smell of burnt plastic. An accelerated image of the development of the area, the Barriada was created in response to the establishment of the new school in Soloy at the turn of the century. As the news of the educational center reached the more remote, isolated villages of the Comarca, an influx of families arrived in Soloy.

Ready to sacrifice whatever commodities they had at their permanent residences, they built temporary huts in a space provided by the municipality so they could live during the school year. However, temporary plans gave way to permanent relocation, and soon, an entire hillside, once washed by a crystaline creek, fertile and brimful with handsomely robust mango and orange trees, became a ghetto where somber shacks are separated by still streams of black, garbage infested mud, and dirt paths occupied by curious, energetic children weary of an insipid, mundane life confined to poverty.

Mocked and degraded by their neighbors and forgotten by local politicians, the Barriada 2000 is obviously a source of shame, and to some extent, disgust to the rest of the community. Unresourceful and abandoned, the people who dwell there have little to do in the face of the structural disaster in which they live. Initiatives have been proposed and outside organizations have declared their intention to improve their conditions, – beginning with latrines – but sadly, the rythm of affairs, already slow in this section of the world, is nearly stagnant.

In many aspects, Soloy is very different from other Indigenous Communities we have visited. The road and the proximity of the houses attract businesses and tourism, opening a large gate to the outside world. This has a noticeable effect on the people, who are distinctly less timid than in more secluded places. The first contact we made with the Ngäbes was in the bus station in David, minutes before departing to Soloy on a yellow school bus, one of many specimens sent to Panama after their retirement in the US.

There, I found a scene worthy of a commercial. Three middle-aged Ngäbe women sitting on a bench, jauntily drinking soft drinks while waiting for the bus. They were naturally dark, with long, radiant black hair flowing casually in the wind and dipping behind their shoulders, playfully appearing over the colorful tones of their traditional dresses, which covered their bodies down to their ankles. 

I couldn't resist the urge to take a photo, thinking what a glorious photograph this would have been a few decades ago, yet ready to hear a nearly inaudible "no" for an answer, or a shy affirmation which would result in them turning their faces the moment I snapped the photo, as it so often happened elsewhere. My bold request caused them to giggle like young teenagers, which prompted me to respectfully back away. However, as I turned my back, they all said "sí, por favor!" At that moment, once again deceived by the wrong idea of what we would encounter in the mountains, - this time caused by the official website of a local NGO which hadn't been altered in more than ten years - I believed I had captured a photographic jewel.

After spending one day in Soloy, I came to realize just how mundane that image was...