Where the Sidewalk Ends

• Lacasarodante's Profile
• About this blog
• Entry from Chagres River

Trip Start Jan 14, 2006 Previous
Entry Trip End Apr 04, 2006 Next
Entry

  Chagres River, Panama
Thursday, March 9, 2006

The InterAmerican highway runs from Alaska in the north to the Tierra Del Fuego at the southern tip of South America. For much of this trip we have been travelling on this road, which varies in quality from a four lane concrete divided highway with road cuts and wide paved shoulders in some places to a narrow strip of pothole riddled asphalt with no lane markings that winds up and down the contour of the terrain. The idea though is that there is actually a paved link running the length of the Western hemisphere. That is, with the exception of a 150 mile gap in the southwestern Darien province in Panama where all roads end, including the Panama highway, which only picks up again on the other side of the border in Columbia.

The Darien is a completely isolated, wild area, inhabited by stone age Indians and is accessible only by primitive river transport, i.e. dugout canoes. It is also a hotbed for malaria, yellow fever, and drug traffickers. All the guidebooks and the State Department strongly discourage travel to this area. And, no we did not go there. However, about 50 years ago one of the indigenous tribes, at their request, were relocated out of this area to the region northeast of the Panama Canal zone. It is the watershed area that supplies the huge quantities of water needed to operate the Canal. It is currently protected by National Park status, but the Indians there are permitted to remain as they continue to live traditionally. Stone age lifestyles do not impact the environment very much.

And, although one can not live there, by prior arrangement with one of the villages, visitors are allowed to go up the Chagres river to visit the villagers. So, one morning a tour bus picked us up at our hotel and after driving about an hour out of Panama City dropped us off at the edge of a lake where we were greeted by a dozen or so Indians dressed in beaded loin cloths. On the bank were four or five hand carved dugout canoes waiting to take us up the river. The canoes were quite large and seated about 10 people. They looked like they had been in service for quite awhile. Ours was patched down the middle with strips of metal where it must have developed a leak.

Our guides were very friendly and helped us all get into the canoes, tying a bright orange life jacket around each of us before we got in. Since we have had several rather wild riverboat rides on this trip without benefit of life jackets, this made some of us wonder just what was ahead. One woman was particularly distressed to find her jacket soaking wet. Had the previous wearer enjoyed an unexpected dip in the river?

After we were all settled in we left the bank and cut across a weedy marsh. The boat was propelled by a 30 h.p. outboard motor and we made good time soon starting up a wide river that wound its way through jungle covered mountains. The scenery was lovely and the ride smooth and pleasant. We were seated in the front of the canoe with one of our loin clad hosts in front of us in the bow. He was carrying a very long pole and perhaps was acting as a lookout for obstructions or whatever.

At one point a squall came up and we had to scramble to get our ponchos on or we would have been soaked. Or should I say that our clothes would have been soaked? Our hosts were unfazed by the downpour. After the squall passed, and the sun was out again, I noticed that the fellow in front of us was doing some upper body stretches. Bored, I thought. He probably does this trip so often that it is as interesting to him as a subway ride to us. But, all of a sudden the river widened, shallowed, and we were passing over rocks and gravel in water only inches deep. The current quickened and we began weaving around sandbars and other obstructions. We crunched on the bottom and at that point our motor became useless. Our guide sprang up and began poling furiously through some very strong rapids using every ounce of strength he had. And he was built like Atlas. From then on the propellers were in and out of the water alternating with spells of poling. This was a big canoe and the current strong. I dont believe I have ever seen anyone except possibly Olympians strain so hard physically as did this fellow.

We did finally reach the village which was high above the river at a lovely bend where it widened out leaving a sandy beach just below the village. We got out, gave back the life jackets, and started up the path to the village. Before going up, however, I brought out our polaroid camera and took a picture of our poler. When the camera spit out the picture, I gave it to him. He seemed to understand what was going on when I indicated it would be several minutes before the picture would show up. Well, this little episode was not unnoticed by some of the other Indians who had come down from the village to take us up the path. I photographed a half dozen more individuals and family groups, everyone preening a bit prior to assuming a pose of their choosing. Bachrach on the River! I would have run out of film right then and there had it not been for the leader of the caravan calling for us to get up with the rest of the group.

Up in the village we were invited to walk around and make ourselves at home. The houses were all built up on stilts and accessible by a log with steps notched into it which could be hauled up at night. The sides were mostly open with thatch for the roof. Inside was a mixture of old and new. they all had hammocks. I noticed one had a bookshelf in one corner. Except for the thatching, etc. it looked like they were tent camping on platforms.

In the center of the village was a square sports field and just above it was a two room schoolhouse. The kids were educated through the 7th grade. I gathered most dropped out then but if they could afford it and had the aptitude, they would continue somewhere down the river, most likely as boarders. This village could not be the base for a daily commute.

There were two common buildings. Both opensided and built high off the ground and reached by the notched logs. I climbed up into one and some of the women were cooking fish in a steel pan, first dredging the fish which they said was tilapia caught in the river, then deep fat frying it. They also were frying up a starchy vegetable whose name escapes me. They were very friendly and put up with my very broken Spanish. Later we were served the tilapia and the little patties wrapped in a cone of banana leaves with a wedge of a citrus fruit I had never seen before. It was quite tasty and I did not eat the dry ham and cheese sandwiches which had been brought along so we would not starve if the Indian food was not to our liking.

The members of the tribe practice the traditional crafts such as basketmaking, wood carving, some beadwork, etc. In the space below the communal areas they had set up little stalls to peddle their wares. Almost everyone in our group bought something. For their simple lifestyle, it represented quite a bit of money. We bought a basket. The woman who made it was not around when I picked it out. I paid a young man who turned out to be her husband. When she came back and found out that I had given the money to her husband she was quite perturbed. So much so that I had to apologize profusely. It was interesting.

Meanwhile, word of the polaroid had spread and in a very unobtrusive way I was being asked to take more pictures. At one point a young man asked if I would take his picture with his brother who I gathered he was going to get. As our visit wore on he did not come back. Soon I was down to one picture. This put me in a bind. I was holding out so that if he came back I would keep my promise to take his picture. The problem was that in their loin cloths they all looked alike so I did not know who I was looking for! And I could not say I was out of film since they would see me later taking the last picture and think I had lied to them. Cross cultural communications are delicate you know. I could end up causing them to think Americans were all liars.

Finally, after a few "traditional dances", it came time for us to go. I consulted with the caravan leader. We thought that it might be nice if I gave the last picture to the chief since my guy had not shown up. As we discussed where the chief might be, all of a sudden my guy appears. He was ready. His brother was just over there. When he went to get him, I turned to Sue. "I guess the chief wont get his picture taken." "That is the chief!" she informed me.

So, off I went with the chief back down to the river where he wanted the picture to be taken. Got a lovely shot of him, his brother, and his cousin, the river and towering mountains. When I left to find our canoe, they all three were huddled over the polaroid watching the picture appear.

But, that is not the end of the story. When our party of tourists and escorts returned to the shore of the lake, the chief, who had accompanied us, asked that I stay back for a minute while he very graciously bid everyone goodbye and made sure they got out of the boats without mishap. He then came over to where I was waiting and opened up a backpack that he had brought along. He pulled a black and tan beaded necklace with something hung from the end. I could tell it was special and I was really touched at his generosity over a few polaroids. It was from the tribe he told me. I put it on. I was really pleased. A necklace from an Indian Chief, and such a nice chief. I thanked him heartily. Just did not know what the special necklace was. Well, found out later it was sharks tooth necklace! So, when you see me with a sharks tooth around my neck you will know that it was a gift from a Stone Age Indian Chief!

Anyway, got to go to the dentist. This one does speak English I have been told! More later. Hope you are all well. We are now headed north and home.

Print this entry Share Panama City hotels

Previous Entry Next Entry