Thursday, June 19, 2008
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
San Blas Islands
A young boy races past in a dugout canoe, splashing the water out of the bottom with his feet as he paddles with one flip-flop in each hand. As he hits the surf over the reef off the palm-lined point, he heads straight for the waves and yelps gleefully as the breakers rock him about. Beaming, he continues flip-flop paddling toward his village of thatched huts nestled snugly at the base of the permanently misty mountains of the Darien.
We have just entered the Comarca Kuna Yala, consisting of 120 miles of unspoiled coastline, 400 picture-postcard perfect Caribbean islands and home to the contagiously happy Kuna people. Smiles spread across our faces, growing of their own accord and we can’t help but yell back, cheering the kid on and sharing in his easy bliss.
Kuna Yala and its 40,000 inhabitants exist in a state of unspoiled bliss in large part because of their political and geographical isolation, arising directly from the area’s status of semi-autonomous region. The Kuna have lived in the area for several hundred years but suffered from economic and social ¨developments¨ imposed by outsiders until, in 1925, they decided to take back their home and their culture. Following a violent uprising and self-imposed ethnic cleansing, they were granted semi-autonomous status. As a result, the Kuna became the most independent indigenous group in the Americas; maintaining their own culture, language, political and economic structure in addition to gaining representation in the Panamanian Legislature and full voting rights! The Kuna still live a very traditional life, but it´s beautiful because it’s what they have chosen.
In Kuna Yala all land is owned collectively to prevent divisions between the ¨haves¨ and ¨have nots.¨ Coconut palms, however, are all individually owned. Coconuts have traditionally been used as barter goods with European ships and are still sold today to Columbian traders, making up a major part of the household income. In some places money really does grow on trees.
The Kuna culture remains matrilineal in nature and recently the women have added a new component to their economy, molas. Molas are reverse applicé tapestries that range from elaborate to extremely elaborate and are what the women traditionally wear as blouses. The practice of mola making began as a way to replicate the designs that they used to paint on their bodies before outside influences finally forced them to wear clothes. Depending on the quality of the mola, they sell for $5 to $20 a piece and, apparently, resell for several hundred dollars in New York. In some villages the men also catch lobsters and octopus to sell to planes that come a couple times a week and take them to hotels in Panama, but it’s definitely an easier economy to keep track of - the price of lobsters is down today, molas and coconuts are holding steady.
Politically the system is equally simple yet effective and democratic. Each island or village has at least one chief, or Sahila (and some have as many as 7), who always has the final word on community matters. Village issues are discussed in the government hut, or Congreso, in the evenings, where the Sahilas swing in hammocks in the center and the community members sit around the edge. Secretaries interpret the Sahila´s wisdom to the people (it´s considered rude to speak directly to a Sahila) and often issues are voted on by the entire village.
Eastern and Western San Blas, though unified politically and to a large extent culturally, are geographically very distinct. Eastern San Blas appears at first glance more dramatic and intimately connected to the mainland. Steep misty mountains plunge into choppy green seas. Leafy green palm trees ramble along the shores and compete for dominance with the savage jungles of the Darien. Crocodiles, snakes and rumors of the occasional "Tiger" ply the mildly murky waters. Few visitors make their way to these parts, except for the occasional cruiser and Colombian trade boat. The people seem to be perpetually smiling and wave at you until their hands are in danger of flying right off their wrists. More than anything the people seem happy and content.
In the Western San Blas, there are more islands that extend further from the shore. Picture postcard pockets of sand exploding with palm trees sprinkled sporadically along the coast of the Darien, like a lace border on a bear skin rug. The waters are calmer here and the men venture further from shore on their fishing expeditions. More sail boats visit this region and occasionally a cruise ship even stops off at one little island. Maybe it's because of this that the people seem to have lost some of their innocence and exuberance. People are still friendly, but feelings of being a walking dollar sign occasionally lurk in the shadows.
Over population is the name of the game in Kuna land. All of the little islands that dot the coast line seem to be overflowing. Those designated as villages are bursting at the seams with Kuna kids and thatched roof huts. The rest are teeming with palm trees. Despite the low population density of Kuna Yala as a whole, the Kuna cram together as tightly as possible. The Kuna respect the environment and believe that happiness exists within nature. Their homes, however, are completely removed from nature. In some villages people might grow flowers in their yards, in others perhaps a tree. Other than that though, the villages are devoid of green. Seas of neatly organized reed and thatch huts divided by straight dirt streets. In sharp contrast to the brown on brown of the few village islands, the rest of the 400 islands are populated solely by palm trees. This doesn't mean they escape the rule of overpopulation, however. Coconut palms cram each plot of sand, sticking out in all directions and battling for a dry foot hold.
A Kuna and his/her canoe is a manifestation of comfortable harmony. Two elements working together in agreement, flowing smoothly. Two halves combining to make a whole. The canoes, or "ulus," are all traditional dugouts made from trees that wash up after big rains or ones cut from the mainland at great effort, and are used for everything. Men sail to the outer reefs to fish or paddle to the mainland to work their fields. Women use them to haul water from the mainland or do laundry in the rivers. Young kids pile in them and paddle around the bays, yelling and laughing all the while. Older kids take them to play soccer or surf the breakers. The ulu is to the Kuna as cars are to Americans. Every family has at least one, if not several, the kids play with miniature sized ones and the Kuna hardly do anything without them. Like peanut butter and jelly or tequila and lime, the Kuna and his/her ulu are two perfect compliments.
Before three drops of sweet morning light have seeped through the oil slick of night, the Kuna men are in their canoes sailing to their fields, chatting and yelling to each other with the excitement of a band of children on their way to a much anticipated festival. As the dawn's sweet nectar oozes over the horizon, the smell of the women's cooking fires drifts along the soft morning breeze, filling the sails and driving the ulus forward. Morning has begun in Kuna Yala.
We have just entered the Comarca Kuna Yala, consisting of 120 miles of unspoiled coastline, 400 picture-postcard perfect Caribbean islands and home to the contagiously happy Kuna people. Smiles spread across our faces, growing of their own accord and we can’t help but yell back, cheering the kid on and sharing in his easy bliss.
Kuna Yala and its 40,000 inhabitants exist in a state of unspoiled bliss in large part because of their political and geographical isolation, arising directly from the area’s status of semi-autonomous region. The Kuna have lived in the area for several hundred years but suffered from economic and social ¨developments¨ imposed by outsiders until, in 1925, they decided to take back their home and their culture. Following a violent uprising and self-imposed ethnic cleansing, they were granted semi-autonomous status. As a result, the Kuna became the most independent indigenous group in the Americas; maintaining their own culture, language, political and economic structure in addition to gaining representation in the Panamanian Legislature and full voting rights! The Kuna still live a very traditional life, but it´s beautiful because it’s what they have chosen.
In Kuna Yala all land is owned collectively to prevent divisions between the ¨haves¨ and ¨have nots.¨ Coconut palms, however, are all individually owned. Coconuts have traditionally been used as barter goods with European ships and are still sold today to Columbian traders, making up a major part of the household income. In some places money really does grow on trees.
The Kuna culture remains matrilineal in nature and recently the women have added a new component to their economy, molas. Molas are reverse applicé tapestries that range from elaborate to extremely elaborate and are what the women traditionally wear as blouses. The practice of mola making began as a way to replicate the designs that they used to paint on their bodies before outside influences finally forced them to wear clothes. Depending on the quality of the mola, they sell for $5 to $20 a piece and, apparently, resell for several hundred dollars in New York. In some villages the men also catch lobsters and octopus to sell to planes that come a couple times a week and take them to hotels in Panama, but it’s definitely an easier economy to keep track of - the price of lobsters is down today, molas and coconuts are holding steady.
Politically the system is equally simple yet effective and democratic. Each island or village has at least one chief, or Sahila (and some have as many as 7), who always has the final word on community matters. Village issues are discussed in the government hut, or Congreso, in the evenings, where the Sahilas swing in hammocks in the center and the community members sit around the edge. Secretaries interpret the Sahila´s wisdom to the people (it´s considered rude to speak directly to a Sahila) and often issues are voted on by the entire village.
Eastern and Western San Blas, though unified politically and to a large extent culturally, are geographically very distinct. Eastern San Blas appears at first glance more dramatic and intimately connected to the mainland. Steep misty mountains plunge into choppy green seas. Leafy green palm trees ramble along the shores and compete for dominance with the savage jungles of the Darien. Crocodiles, snakes and rumors of the occasional "Tiger" ply the mildly murky waters. Few visitors make their way to these parts, except for the occasional cruiser and Colombian trade boat. The people seem to be perpetually smiling and wave at you until their hands are in danger of flying right off their wrists. More than anything the people seem happy and content.
In the Western San Blas, there are more islands that extend further from the shore. Picture postcard pockets of sand exploding with palm trees sprinkled sporadically along the coast of the Darien, like a lace border on a bear skin rug. The waters are calmer here and the men venture further from shore on their fishing expeditions. More sail boats visit this region and occasionally a cruise ship even stops off at one little island. Maybe it's because of this that the people seem to have lost some of their innocence and exuberance. People are still friendly, but feelings of being a walking dollar sign occasionally lurk in the shadows.
Over population is the name of the game in Kuna land. All of the little islands that dot the coast line seem to be overflowing. Those designated as villages are bursting at the seams with Kuna kids and thatched roof huts. The rest are teeming with palm trees. Despite the low population density of Kuna Yala as a whole, the Kuna cram together as tightly as possible. The Kuna respect the environment and believe that happiness exists within nature. Their homes, however, are completely removed from nature. In some villages people might grow flowers in their yards, in others perhaps a tree. Other than that though, the villages are devoid of green. Seas of neatly organized reed and thatch huts divided by straight dirt streets. In sharp contrast to the brown on brown of the few village islands, the rest of the 400 islands are populated solely by palm trees. This doesn't mean they escape the rule of overpopulation, however. Coconut palms cram each plot of sand, sticking out in all directions and battling for a dry foot hold.
A Kuna and his/her canoe is a manifestation of comfortable harmony. Two elements working together in agreement, flowing smoothly. Two halves combining to make a whole. The canoes, or "ulus," are all traditional dugouts made from trees that wash up after big rains or ones cut from the mainland at great effort, and are used for everything. Men sail to the outer reefs to fish or paddle to the mainland to work their fields. Women use them to haul water from the mainland or do laundry in the rivers. Young kids pile in them and paddle around the bays, yelling and laughing all the while. Older kids take them to play soccer or surf the breakers. The ulu is to the Kuna as cars are to Americans. Every family has at least one, if not several, the kids play with miniature sized ones and the Kuna hardly do anything without them. Like peanut butter and jelly or tequila and lime, the Kuna and his/her ulu are two perfect compliments.
Before three drops of sweet morning light have seeped through the oil slick of night, the Kuna men are in their canoes sailing to their fields, chatting and yelling to each other with the excitement of a band of children on their way to a much anticipated festival. As the dawn's sweet nectar oozes over the horizon, the smell of the women's cooking fires drifts along the soft morning breeze, filling the sails and driving the ulus forward. Morning has begun in Kuna Yala.
Galapagos
Land itself, after several days at sea, has a very distinct smell with each new location boasting is own peculiar scent. The Galapagos smells like dry, red African dirt mixed with sweet tobacco leaves and Aspen bark, punctuated by notes of wood smoke and unpolished shoe leather.
Land appeared on the horizon with the rising sun that particular morning. Rising quietly out of the glassy sea, the same tranquil surface we’d just motored across for the last 750 miles. Subtle and unassuming in shape, it projected a soft yet stark beauty similar to that of an African savanna or a wide-open Wyoming horizon. Gently sloping red clay hills brilliantly carpeted with thick layers of shrubs. Wide valleys lounging under brilliant blue skies. Rocky coastlines with mild waves lapping at their ankles. And a seal every once and a while, popping its head up for a peak around or floating lazily with one flipper straight up in the air like a sail to keep it balanced.
We spent most of our time on the island of Santa Cruz but did ignore the budget long enough to make it to Bartolome Island. Bartolome is a small uninhabited island that looks more like a red volcanic sand castle protruding out of a turquoise moat. Craggy and red, like a chunk of Mars mysteriously deposited in the middle of the Pacific. Barren might be an understatement. Stunning might be an understatement as well. There we saw some penguins, the infamous blue footed boobies and Zach laid down inched from a sleeping sea lion.
Now that we’d ignored the budget once, it was a little easier to do it again and we decided to go dive with hammerhead sharks. An experience well worth the splurge. Our first dive was by far the most spectacular. The visibility was good (well for the Galapagos), the current was ripping and the animals were out. When we first jumped in there was a turtle and then a bat ray (like a manta ray, but smaller), and then a hammerhead! Not to mention entire schools of king angel and butterfly fish.
As we approached a cut between the rocks, the current started taking its job a little more seriously and we all soon found ourselves at the bottom, gripping the rocks for dear life. Not to be deterred, we began pulling ourselves through towards the white tip sharks on the other side. With an unusual boldness for sharks (in my experience anyway) several white tips danced in front of us, swimming effortlessly into the current and then falling back. At one point, a white tip swam directly at me and - as if playing a game of chicken - turned only at the last moment, his tail gliding inches from my face. Holding on to the rocks against the ripping current with one hand and taking photos with the other, there wasn’t much I could do but keep on snapping. I actually have a picture of a shark that’s too close to focus!
After a little while the sharks dissipated and we pulled ourselves the rest of the way through the cut where the current eased and we were able to swim once more. We hovered along at the edge of the thermo cline, far enough above to maintain decent visibility and stay out of the freezing waters while at the same time close enough to spot the life that flocks to the nutrient rich waters of the Humboldt current. A group of sea lions joined us for a while, playfully approaching and quickly darting away. It seemed like every other minute we were pointing and yelling silently to each other - Sea lion! Shark! Turtle! Ray! Shark!
Then out of the cloudy green thermo cline appeared the (drum roll please)… hammerheads! Huge, muscular beasts with funny shaped faces gliding like ghosts through the cold murky water. Tons of them! All around us! Like a train of giant hammerhead cars silently parading in front of our unbelieving eyes. And then, as suddenly as they came, they were gone. Leaving us staring into the green water and wondering whether we’d really seen what we thought we had.
On the way back to a calm bay for lunch, a bat ray jumped high out of the water right next to our boat and did a double back flip. Then he jumped out again and executed a beautiful double axel followed by a triple sow cow! No, he really only did three double back flips in a row but we still awarded him a 9.8 for effort.
Other highlights included snorkeling with sea lions, getting salt sneezed on us by marine iguanas, walking amongst the giant tortoises and seeing Lonesome George (a 150 yr. old male who’s the last of his species but refuses to mate), witnessing a battle between two male marine iguanas and a baby reef shark swimming between Zach’s feet. The Galapagos is an absolutely amazing place and we only wish we’d really been able to explore it more.
Land appeared on the horizon with the rising sun that particular morning. Rising quietly out of the glassy sea, the same tranquil surface we’d just motored across for the last 750 miles. Subtle and unassuming in shape, it projected a soft yet stark beauty similar to that of an African savanna or a wide-open Wyoming horizon. Gently sloping red clay hills brilliantly carpeted with thick layers of shrubs. Wide valleys lounging under brilliant blue skies. Rocky coastlines with mild waves lapping at their ankles. And a seal every once and a while, popping its head up for a peak around or floating lazily with one flipper straight up in the air like a sail to keep it balanced.
We spent most of our time on the island of Santa Cruz but did ignore the budget long enough to make it to Bartolome Island. Bartolome is a small uninhabited island that looks more like a red volcanic sand castle protruding out of a turquoise moat. Craggy and red, like a chunk of Mars mysteriously deposited in the middle of the Pacific. Barren might be an understatement. Stunning might be an understatement as well. There we saw some penguins, the infamous blue footed boobies and Zach laid down inched from a sleeping sea lion.
Now that we’d ignored the budget once, it was a little easier to do it again and we decided to go dive with hammerhead sharks. An experience well worth the splurge. Our first dive was by far the most spectacular. The visibility was good (well for the Galapagos), the current was ripping and the animals were out. When we first jumped in there was a turtle and then a bat ray (like a manta ray, but smaller), and then a hammerhead! Not to mention entire schools of king angel and butterfly fish.
As we approached a cut between the rocks, the current started taking its job a little more seriously and we all soon found ourselves at the bottom, gripping the rocks for dear life. Not to be deterred, we began pulling ourselves through towards the white tip sharks on the other side. With an unusual boldness for sharks (in my experience anyway) several white tips danced in front of us, swimming effortlessly into the current and then falling back. At one point, a white tip swam directly at me and - as if playing a game of chicken - turned only at the last moment, his tail gliding inches from my face. Holding on to the rocks against the ripping current with one hand and taking photos with the other, there wasn’t much I could do but keep on snapping. I actually have a picture of a shark that’s too close to focus!
After a little while the sharks dissipated and we pulled ourselves the rest of the way through the cut where the current eased and we were able to swim once more. We hovered along at the edge of the thermo cline, far enough above to maintain decent visibility and stay out of the freezing waters while at the same time close enough to spot the life that flocks to the nutrient rich waters of the Humboldt current. A group of sea lions joined us for a while, playfully approaching and quickly darting away. It seemed like every other minute we were pointing and yelling silently to each other - Sea lion! Shark! Turtle! Ray! Shark!
Then out of the cloudy green thermo cline appeared the (drum roll please)… hammerheads! Huge, muscular beasts with funny shaped faces gliding like ghosts through the cold murky water. Tons of them! All around us! Like a train of giant hammerhead cars silently parading in front of our unbelieving eyes. And then, as suddenly as they came, they were gone. Leaving us staring into the green water and wondering whether we’d really seen what we thought we had.
On the way back to a calm bay for lunch, a bat ray jumped high out of the water right next to our boat and did a double back flip. Then he jumped out again and executed a beautiful double axel followed by a triple sow cow! No, he really only did three double back flips in a row but we still awarded him a 9.8 for effort.
Other highlights included snorkeling with sea lions, getting salt sneezed on us by marine iguanas, walking amongst the giant tortoises and seeing Lonesome George (a 150 yr. old male who’s the last of his species but refuses to mate), witnessing a battle between two male marine iguanas and a baby reef shark swimming between Zach’s feet. The Galapagos is an absolutely amazing place and we only wish we’d really been able to explore it more.
Chicha, Chicha, Chichaaa!
Chicha. The legendary Chicha. We’d heard about it since we first entered Kuna Yala, yet it‘s mysterious nature had eluded us thus far.
Chicha, nectar bestowed by the Kuna God, is a mild alcoholic beverage made from fermented sugar cane. The sugar cane - grown on community plots exclusively for this purpose - is placed on a wooden fork, on top of which is placed the trunk of a coconut palm that is secured at one end by running through a hole in a nearby living palm. Several men hold on to the free end of the palm trunk and jump up and down , thereby extracting the precious juices from the cane. The juice is then poured into a gourd and buried under ground for a week to ferment. The final product is usually mixed with coffee before it is consumed.
Chicha is the only alcoholic beverage that the Kuna people consume and is not an everyday drink. It is reserved for special occasions (usually puberty rights ceremonies for girls and New Year’s Eve) when it is consumed by the entire community and in mass quantities. Chicha ceremonies are such an important part of Kuna culture, however, that each village has a large hut next door to its Congreso (government) hut dedicated solely for the purpose.
We’d heard that outsiders were allowed to participate in Chicha ceremonies and desperately wanted to do so, but had been unsuccessful in getting any details or the slightest hint of an invitation. That is, until Venancio, the transvestite master mola maker, visited our boat. The ceremony was in his village, Mormaketupu (literally shirt, or mola, making island) in two days time. We quickly changed course and headed that direction. We arrived as the Sahilas were tasting the batch and setting the official date.
This Chicha ceremony was to mark the puberty rights of a young girl in the village, an event which warranted mass celebration. Around mid-day, the spiritual leaders of the community entered the Chicha hut and began discussing with God and each other when the proper hour would be to begin. The whole village was showered, dressed in their best and stuffed full of yucca and fish soup, patiently waiting for the word. At roughly one o’clock the doors of the Chicha hut were opened and the village (and visitors) began filing in; men on one side and women on the other.
Chicha huts look like all traditional Kuna homes with reed walls, thatched roofs and dirt floors . The main difference is that they’re super sized; large enough to fit several hundred people and adorned with a series of crude wooden benches.
Once all the adults were gathered, more or less, and seated on their respective sides of the hut, the Chicha pots were opened and the party began. First, gumballs were distributed (the hoards of impatient children outside ended up with most of these). Then the elusive Chicha began to appear.
As the adults began gathering at the start of the ceremony, I’d stuck my head timidly past the door of the women’s side of the hut. A little old woman quickly motioned for me to sit next to her at the back of the hut. She immediately began talking to me. The problem was that she only spoke Kuna, and I didn’t. That didn’t seem to bother her though. I think she was asking me if I wanted to buy molas or her necklaces. I said “no” (or tried to anyway) and another woman asked me, again in Kuna, if I was going to drink Chicha (I got that word!) I nodded. Soon after, the Chicha gourds made their way to our corner of the hut and they made sure I got some.
The Chicha is served out of communal gourds that circulate around the room. When the gourd finds its way into your hands you’re expected to stand, maybe do a little dance, chug the entire gourd, and then spit the coffee grounds on the floor. In fact, if you do not chug the entire gourd, God will punish you.
Not wanting endure the wrath of the Kuna God, I chugged my Chicha like the rest of them. It tasted like a bitter-sweet coffee beer with a tangy after taste, punctuated by gritty coffee grounds - sort of - and left me with a mild, warm fuzzy feeling inside. It was definitely different, but I was up for more.
Kuna women traditionally wear bright red and orange scarves on their heads, and that day all had donned their finest. Feeling slightly naked on the top, I tried to communicate that I needed one too if I was going to participate. After a while the old woman went to her hut and returned with a well-worn scarf heavily scented by dust and wood smoke. Always thinking of business, the old woman asked (with the help of an interpreter this time) for $2. I gladly paid and put on my new accessory.
The women thought it was great and began talking up a storm (in Kuna of course) about what had happened. All I could do was keep smiling and laugh at myself right along with them. Then the women (again through an interpreter) asked how I liked the Chicha. I told them it was good. The next time the Chicha gourd came around, they made me get up and do the Chicha dance with them. I tramped around hunched over in a circle with my gourd in the center chanting hu-hu-hu-hu-hu-hu-huuuu, held my gourd in the air and chugged my tangy coffee cane brew. That did it. I liked the Chicha, I’d asked for a head scarf and I danced the Chicha dance. I was in.
It continued like this for a while; I sat in complete oblivion, smiling at the women and kids, laughing when they laughed at me, drinking Chicha and doing the Chicha dance. After a couple rounds, half of the women in the hut got up and left together. I asked whether it was time for the ritual hair cutting of the recently pubescent girl to begin (finger-scissors to the head is a pretty universally understood sign) and was told it was. I thought they asked me if I wanted to go, so I nodded “yes.” The little old woman promptly got up, took my arm and led me out of the hut, down the street to the house of the young woman, right past the milling crowds and plopped my down next to her on a bench beside the young girl getting her hair cut. Front row seats.
In each village there are only a few women trained to cut hair during puberty ceremonies, the “Iedies.” One is selected to do the honors for each ceremony. As I sat down, this specially trained hair-stylist -in-communication-with-God, began cutting the girl’s hair by taking a pair of scissors, starting at the base of her head and cutting the hair as close to the scalp as possible. She worked her way up the middle of the girl’s head, creating a sort of reverse Mohawk, and then moved on to the sides. As the Iedi gave the young girl a buzz cut with scissors, cocao beans smoldered in clay pots and gourds full of Chicha circled through the women.
As usual, the old woman made sure I was included in the Chicha rounds and a couple of times we were sent back to the Chicha hut to get more. I followed along, hop-skip dancing back to the Chicha hut, waiting in line to get my gourd refilled, dancing back and passing the gourd on to the next woman. It was as we were hop dancing down the street that I realized, at 5’ 2”, I was at least a full head taller than the rest of the women.
After I was finished serving the Chicha and sat back down next to the hair cutting, someone pulled out a jar of the orange paint the women paint their cheeks with. Everyone sitting around the young girl got a dab, including me. Shortly after, cigarettes began circling through the women. Like alcohol, cigarettes are something that are not consumed on a daily basis but are enjoyed in excess during Chicha ceremonies. Most of the women had been smoking like chimneys throughout the ceremony. Not wanting me to be left out of anything, the little old lady - who had been smoking continually from a pipe with a light blue plastic pen for a stem - pressured me now to take a cigarette. I started to refuse, but then thought to myself, “If there’s ever a time to smoke your fist cigarette this is it; sitting front row at a traditional female puberty rights ceremony, next to a spunky old lady with less than half her teeth, surrounded by women chattering in Kuna and decked out in their traditional dress, in a Kuna village on a tiny island in the Caribbean, buzzed on Chicha, with a red scarf on my head and orange paint on my cheeks.” So, what could I do, I accepted.
Shortly after, the Iedi decided she was done cutting hair (I think she just wanted to go drink Chicha) and another young woman took over. The old woman and I danced back to the ceremony and joined in more Chicha rounds.
From the first gourd of Chicha, the women had been asking me if I was drunk by pointing at me and asking “borracha?” It was one of the few things we could communicate to one another. By now some women really were borracha; rocking back and forth singing to themselves, dancing around in hats and black rimmed glasses borrowed from the men.
Around the time the sun approached the horizon, the young girl made her appearance in the hut with a red scarf draped over her head, her scalp apparently fully shaven. Her hands were painted black and she stood on one side of a screen holding two, mini, Siamese twin gourds. The Siamese gourds were first filled with water, which the revelers were supposed to spit on the ground. The party goers were then supposed to take four shots of a mysterious rum mixture out of the Siamese gourds from the hands of the Kuna maiden with a freshly shaven head. It all had a very funny fairy-tale like feel to it.
Things all start to run together after that point. The Captain of our boat had ceased playing blues harmonica with the oldest Sahila, and tried to get himself in a little bit of trouble. Another Sahila thwarted his efforts. The sun went down. The Chicha ran out. I danced the merengue on the street corner with two women who must have been at least 80. More candy was handed out. Mini gourds of gut-rot rum (which in my state I was calling “rut-got” rum) started making the rounds. And the dancing began.
Two musicians playing incredible music on the pan pipes provided the melody. A man wearing a necklace with thousands of thin shells or bones led the dance and provided the rhythm. Everyone else held hands and struggled to follow the dance leader as he hopped and spun around the hut at break-neck speeds. After at least 9 rounds of Chicha and who knows how many shots of “rut-got” rum, it was only thanks to years of ballet training that I was able to keep up.
It was a blast though! Women kept dragging me up to dance and I kept hopping and spinning until I was dripping with sweat and we were informed that it was time to get the Captain out of there. He was causing problems again.
Back at the boat we relived our Chicha glories and theorized about how bad we would feel the next morning. One of the other crew members, Clive, also told us that, at one point, he had managed to get a moment alone with the eldest Sahila and ask him a question without the interference of the interpreter. He asked the Sahila what the meaning of life was. Apparently, the Sahila looked directly at him and simply responded, “Si.” What a perfect word to sum up the evening. Yes. Why not? Si…
Chicha, nectar bestowed by the Kuna God, is a mild alcoholic beverage made from fermented sugar cane. The sugar cane - grown on community plots exclusively for this purpose - is placed on a wooden fork, on top of which is placed the trunk of a coconut palm that is secured at one end by running through a hole in a nearby living palm. Several men hold on to the free end of the palm trunk and jump up and down , thereby extracting the precious juices from the cane. The juice is then poured into a gourd and buried under ground for a week to ferment. The final product is usually mixed with coffee before it is consumed.
Chicha is the only alcoholic beverage that the Kuna people consume and is not an everyday drink. It is reserved for special occasions (usually puberty rights ceremonies for girls and New Year’s Eve) when it is consumed by the entire community and in mass quantities. Chicha ceremonies are such an important part of Kuna culture, however, that each village has a large hut next door to its Congreso (government) hut dedicated solely for the purpose.
We’d heard that outsiders were allowed to participate in Chicha ceremonies and desperately wanted to do so, but had been unsuccessful in getting any details or the slightest hint of an invitation. That is, until Venancio, the transvestite master mola maker, visited our boat. The ceremony was in his village, Mormaketupu (literally shirt, or mola, making island) in two days time. We quickly changed course and headed that direction. We arrived as the Sahilas were tasting the batch and setting the official date.
This Chicha ceremony was to mark the puberty rights of a young girl in the village, an event which warranted mass celebration. Around mid-day, the spiritual leaders of the community entered the Chicha hut and began discussing with God and each other when the proper hour would be to begin. The whole village was showered, dressed in their best and stuffed full of yucca and fish soup, patiently waiting for the word. At roughly one o’clock the doors of the Chicha hut were opened and the village (and visitors) began filing in; men on one side and women on the other.
Chicha huts look like all traditional Kuna homes with reed walls, thatched roofs and dirt floors . The main difference is that they’re super sized; large enough to fit several hundred people and adorned with a series of crude wooden benches.
Once all the adults were gathered, more or less, and seated on their respective sides of the hut, the Chicha pots were opened and the party began. First, gumballs were distributed (the hoards of impatient children outside ended up with most of these). Then the elusive Chicha began to appear.
As the adults began gathering at the start of the ceremony, I’d stuck my head timidly past the door of the women’s side of the hut. A little old woman quickly motioned for me to sit next to her at the back of the hut. She immediately began talking to me. The problem was that she only spoke Kuna, and I didn’t. That didn’t seem to bother her though. I think she was asking me if I wanted to buy molas or her necklaces. I said “no” (or tried to anyway) and another woman asked me, again in Kuna, if I was going to drink Chicha (I got that word!) I nodded. Soon after, the Chicha gourds made their way to our corner of the hut and they made sure I got some.
The Chicha is served out of communal gourds that circulate around the room. When the gourd finds its way into your hands you’re expected to stand, maybe do a little dance, chug the entire gourd, and then spit the coffee grounds on the floor. In fact, if you do not chug the entire gourd, God will punish you.
Not wanting endure the wrath of the Kuna God, I chugged my Chicha like the rest of them. It tasted like a bitter-sweet coffee beer with a tangy after taste, punctuated by gritty coffee grounds - sort of - and left me with a mild, warm fuzzy feeling inside. It was definitely different, but I was up for more.
Kuna women traditionally wear bright red and orange scarves on their heads, and that day all had donned their finest. Feeling slightly naked on the top, I tried to communicate that I needed one too if I was going to participate. After a while the old woman went to her hut and returned with a well-worn scarf heavily scented by dust and wood smoke. Always thinking of business, the old woman asked (with the help of an interpreter this time) for $2. I gladly paid and put on my new accessory.
The women thought it was great and began talking up a storm (in Kuna of course) about what had happened. All I could do was keep smiling and laugh at myself right along with them. Then the women (again through an interpreter) asked how I liked the Chicha. I told them it was good. The next time the Chicha gourd came around, they made me get up and do the Chicha dance with them. I tramped around hunched over in a circle with my gourd in the center chanting hu-hu-hu-hu-hu-hu-huuuu, held my gourd in the air and chugged my tangy coffee cane brew. That did it. I liked the Chicha, I’d asked for a head scarf and I danced the Chicha dance. I was in.
It continued like this for a while; I sat in complete oblivion, smiling at the women and kids, laughing when they laughed at me, drinking Chicha and doing the Chicha dance. After a couple rounds, half of the women in the hut got up and left together. I asked whether it was time for the ritual hair cutting of the recently pubescent girl to begin (finger-scissors to the head is a pretty universally understood sign) and was told it was. I thought they asked me if I wanted to go, so I nodded “yes.” The little old woman promptly got up, took my arm and led me out of the hut, down the street to the house of the young woman, right past the milling crowds and plopped my down next to her on a bench beside the young girl getting her hair cut. Front row seats.
In each village there are only a few women trained to cut hair during puberty ceremonies, the “Iedies.” One is selected to do the honors for each ceremony. As I sat down, this specially trained hair-stylist -in-communication-with-God, began cutting the girl’s hair by taking a pair of scissors, starting at the base of her head and cutting the hair as close to the scalp as possible. She worked her way up the middle of the girl’s head, creating a sort of reverse Mohawk, and then moved on to the sides. As the Iedi gave the young girl a buzz cut with scissors, cocao beans smoldered in clay pots and gourds full of Chicha circled through the women.
As usual, the old woman made sure I was included in the Chicha rounds and a couple of times we were sent back to the Chicha hut to get more. I followed along, hop-skip dancing back to the Chicha hut, waiting in line to get my gourd refilled, dancing back and passing the gourd on to the next woman. It was as we were hop dancing down the street that I realized, at 5’ 2”, I was at least a full head taller than the rest of the women.
After I was finished serving the Chicha and sat back down next to the hair cutting, someone pulled out a jar of the orange paint the women paint their cheeks with. Everyone sitting around the young girl got a dab, including me. Shortly after, cigarettes began circling through the women. Like alcohol, cigarettes are something that are not consumed on a daily basis but are enjoyed in excess during Chicha ceremonies. Most of the women had been smoking like chimneys throughout the ceremony. Not wanting me to be left out of anything, the little old lady - who had been smoking continually from a pipe with a light blue plastic pen for a stem - pressured me now to take a cigarette. I started to refuse, but then thought to myself, “If there’s ever a time to smoke your fist cigarette this is it; sitting front row at a traditional female puberty rights ceremony, next to a spunky old lady with less than half her teeth, surrounded by women chattering in Kuna and decked out in their traditional dress, in a Kuna village on a tiny island in the Caribbean, buzzed on Chicha, with a red scarf on my head and orange paint on my cheeks.” So, what could I do, I accepted.
Shortly after, the Iedi decided she was done cutting hair (I think she just wanted to go drink Chicha) and another young woman took over. The old woman and I danced back to the ceremony and joined in more Chicha rounds.
From the first gourd of Chicha, the women had been asking me if I was drunk by pointing at me and asking “borracha?” It was one of the few things we could communicate to one another. By now some women really were borracha; rocking back and forth singing to themselves, dancing around in hats and black rimmed glasses borrowed from the men.
Around the time the sun approached the horizon, the young girl made her appearance in the hut with a red scarf draped over her head, her scalp apparently fully shaven. Her hands were painted black and she stood on one side of a screen holding two, mini, Siamese twin gourds. The Siamese gourds were first filled with water, which the revelers were supposed to spit on the ground. The party goers were then supposed to take four shots of a mysterious rum mixture out of the Siamese gourds from the hands of the Kuna maiden with a freshly shaven head. It all had a very funny fairy-tale like feel to it.
Things all start to run together after that point. The Captain of our boat had ceased playing blues harmonica with the oldest Sahila, and tried to get himself in a little bit of trouble. Another Sahila thwarted his efforts. The sun went down. The Chicha ran out. I danced the merengue on the street corner with two women who must have been at least 80. More candy was handed out. Mini gourds of gut-rot rum (which in my state I was calling “rut-got” rum) started making the rounds. And the dancing began.
Two musicians playing incredible music on the pan pipes provided the melody. A man wearing a necklace with thousands of thin shells or bones led the dance and provided the rhythm. Everyone else held hands and struggled to follow the dance leader as he hopped and spun around the hut at break-neck speeds. After at least 9 rounds of Chicha and who knows how many shots of “rut-got” rum, it was only thanks to years of ballet training that I was able to keep up.
It was a blast though! Women kept dragging me up to dance and I kept hopping and spinning until I was dripping with sweat and we were informed that it was time to get the Captain out of there. He was causing problems again.
Back at the boat we relived our Chicha glories and theorized about how bad we would feel the next morning. One of the other crew members, Clive, also told us that, at one point, he had managed to get a moment alone with the eldest Sahila and ask him a question without the interference of the interpreter. He asked the Sahila what the meaning of life was. Apparently, the Sahila looked directly at him and simply responded, “Si.” What a perfect word to sum up the evening. Yes. Why not? Si…
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