Working in a Kuna Wonderland

The sun was high in the sky as we walked down the boat ramp to our waiting craft. We’d spent the last three hours in a bus traveling eastward from Panama City towards the Darien, Panama’s easternmost jungle province that borders Colombia. There are no roads through the Darien – although the loggers would love them. It is untouched, and so remote and wild that Panama doesn’t worry about drug traffickers, guerillas, or anything but jaguars and monkeys crossing into its territory from Colombia. The road continued on, but from this point on it ran across islands and, after crossing this massive lake before us, just sort of stopped somewhere in the jungle. The next town lay three hours down the road. We were truly on the edge of the civilized world.

After reaching the lakeside town we now found ourselves in, Akua Yala, we went through a security check by the bridge. Not sure why, except that we were outsiders. People don’t come to this part of Panama. The locals live here, loggers drive through, and every now and then people from villages further on pass through, but this is the kind of place where if you’re not from there, they know it. The town, like so many in Panama, was small, a collection of buildings along the main road including two stores, a restaurant, and a police “station” – desk, complete with mangy dog sleeping underneath, and a roof above. No walls, no door, just enough space for the four armed men to get out of the elements. But this was not a day they would need protection from the rain. The sun beat down, as if trying to prove something, and we could all feel it.

After our brief check-in, we trudged up a dirt road, past the homes of local fishermen and their families, the occasional naked child, and numerous curious locals, to the church on top of the hill. The twenty-two of us from Panama City had come to share Christmas presents, and the true meaning of Christmas, with this Kuna congregation. The Kuna are the largest native group in Panama. So strong and so well organized, they actually have their own treaties with the United States. They are short – I felt tall! – and strong, with short necks and distinctive faces. Their habit of intermarriage has kept their bloodlines as undiluted as they must have been when Balboa first encountered them on his quest for the Pacific. Frequent inbreeding also produces the occasional albino. And while the men wear different clothing based on how close or far they may be from “civilization,” the women are unmistakable in their brightly colored outfits. Every Kuna woman’s pride are her molas, delicately stitched mosaics of fabric. Women put hours into making molas for everything from their own clothes to their daughters’ clothes to whatever else they might adorn. Her blouse consists of puffy sleeves from a different fabric, and, well, a blouse, but mid-chest she sews on a mola of her own making. The mola runs to her waist, and then the bottom part of the blouse is reattached, making a sort-of mini-dress. Then she wraps a long piece of fabric around her waist as a skirt. The blouse, mola, and skirt do not match. Her head is covered with a red and yellow kerchief, but as with women everywhere, the real beauty is in her accessories! Most Kuna women have part of the septum of their nose removed and a gold, sometimes silver, ring inserted. Kuna women also wear thousands of beads. From her ankles to her calves she is covered with one continuous string of beads that makes an amazing pattern, and she will never take this off unless it breaks. Often wrists and forearms are beaded, too. They are walking rainbows, and very proud, their language and culture having changed little over the several thousand years they’ve been around.

This particular trip was organized by a Kuna church in the Panama City area. Our church has had numerous involvements with them: their choir sings in our cantata, and we employ several of their members, to name but two. They speak their own language, in addition to Spanish, and are very organized (which also distinguishes them from the Latino Panamanians). Their pastor, Anselmo, invited anyone in our church who would like to go on this trip to go (for the amazing cost of $10). Seven of us accepted the offer, including three Gringos. None of the Kunas on the trip were fluent in English (Emerson spoke some), most spoke Spanish, and only one other person could translate from Spanish to English (although by the end of the trip I was doing fairly well).

The present handout in Akua Yala went smoothly, and since we were merely stopping in this place on our way to the next, we did not teach a Bible class. Charles, one of the Gringos, brought along his own boat, so we got it into the water and loaded it with most of our luggage, all wrapped in waterproof garbage bags. Then we loaded into our own boat. This dugout canoe, fully loaded, contained seventeen team members, the boat driver, his wife, and half of our luggage. I have no idea how long it was, but I can tell you it had a 15 horse motor. We had a long trip ahead! To make it worse, there were only four seats in the boat. And no shade. There were several logs nailed into either side of the boat to make “seats,” but just the sight of them made my butt sore. Reggie, the third Gringo, and I opted to sit in the bow, in front of all the luggage. Once situated, we cast off, and started out trip. The sun did not relent, and within minutes I was wrapped in whatever I could find to keep it off. Then I felt the water. At first I thought it was just spray from the boat hitting the waves – we were in the one place on the boat where you could get wet from the spray (no wonder no one else was sitting there), and I was glad we’d taken the time to wrap all of our things. But no, it was too low to just be the spray. I checked where I was sitting and found, lo and behold, a small leak in the boat! The weight of my body leaning against the side caused a small crack to begin leaking water. When I moved, the water stopped. So I shifted positions, and continued to get soaked from the spray. Fifteen minutes of our three hour voyage had elapsed.

In the two days since I’ve been back, much of the soreness in my backside has dissipated. However, I would be remiss if I didn’t dwell on this for a moment. You can sit IN the canoe, or you can sit ON the canoe. On the side of the canoe, that is, which as about two or three inches thick. Not only does this require a certain measure of balance, it is impossible to get comfortable. Fortunately, I was distracted enough by the scenery to ignore a great deal of the discomfort. Birds of every shape, size, and color flew out of the reeds along the shore, their serenity disrupted by our presence. Forest, completely undisturbed, bulged out over the waters, glowing every shade of green imaginable. Trees only seen in cartoons, their shapes so unbelievable, punctuated the skyline with their tall, fat bodies, and tangle of branches shooting out just at the very top. At one point in time this lake must have been a forest, for we passed what I called the “Forest of the Dead” – hundreds of tree trunks, dead and bleached white by years of sun, stood like a frozen army whose soldiers, fallen out of formation, were stopped in mid battle. Twisted and gnarled, with the occasional bird of prey perched in their branches, it seemed more like something one would find in a desert. Someone in the middle of the boat was put on sandwich duty and, having no utensils, swabbed peanut butter onto bread with her fingers and began passing sandwiches down the length of the bark. No matter – we were hungry, and we gladly ate the handmade snack.

After hours of plying the waters, we turned into what appeared to be the mouth of a river. The water was still, but the banks were much closer together. Wild horses grazed on the opposite shore, so we knew we must be getting close. After about five minutes we spied a cluster of thatched roofs through the tall grasses, perched on the edge of the river. This was Tabardi, our first stop. As the boat neared, crowds began to appear on the banks, hands waving, children running to see the sight, and dogs barking to herald our arrival. As we got closer we saw more boats like ours, only smaller, near the shore line, and steps cut into the dirt leading up to the village itself, about twenty feet up the bank. In all, Tabardi appeared about the size of two football fields.


We landed and disembarked as eager children scurried off with our bags and adults bade us welcome. Several children were already sporting balloon hats – a sign that Charles and his 60-horse boat had arrive a couple of hours earlier. We followed our guides up the bank, passing house after house decorated for Christmas. Small trees, plucked from the forest, stood sentinel outside a number of the thatch-roofed houses, their desiccated branches adorned with cut paper decorations, and the occasional star or snowflake. As we turned down the main “street” of the village – a dirt path no more than fifteen feet wide – we saw paper cuttings and signs strung between the houses, all in red and green for the holiday. Tabardi was definitely in the Christmas spirit.

We were led into the largest structure in the village, which must’ve been a combination church/ meeting house. A good eighty feet long and forty feet wide, this would be our home for the night. The thatched roof, some twenty-five feet above us, was supported by massive tree trunks. The walls, bamboo slats, stopped about six feet above the ground and seemed more like a fence. On the sides the roof came down to just about where the wall stopped, but either end was completely open from the top of the wall to the top of the building. Beams ran across the house at about the six foot level, forming a sort-of grid from which hammocks were strung. Overhead were strings of empty, colored juice cartons dangling from the ceiling, their colors badly faded. Toys, too, hung above us, covered with dust, their sole purpose decorative. And the children, most under five not clothed, filed through to see what these strange folks were doing.
The villagers were gathering at the east end of the village, next to the school hut . Fifty plus desks were lined up in neat rows across the dirt soccer field facing a temporary shelter shaded by a blue tarp. The adults in the shelter introduced themselves as the teachers of the children, gathered from this and several other villages to present a Christmas program and parade. Each teacher successively welcomed us, bade customary greetings to the village saila (chief) and other important persons, while several children handed out hand-written programs containing the Kuna versions of numerous carols. Then the children danced, sang, and finally lined up to parade through the village. Anselmo asked me and Charles to make as many balloon hats as we could to adorn the children in the parade – not an easy feat while walking alongside the parade, but we did the best we could. Afterwards the entire village sang a couple of carols, and we returned to our lodging.

We hardly had time to sit down, though, before Pastor Anselmo barked out “OK, get your things, it’s time to take a bath.” I grabbed a sarong to use as a towel, a fresh pair of underwear, swimsuit, clean t-shirt, and soap. Emerson had earlier busied himself with one of my balloon pumps and inflated a giant beach ball. The team trotted back through the village and down to our waiting canoe. Joining us was Kennedy, the fifty-something albino missionary pastor of this village. Kennedy’s home church in Panama City sent him to this village, where he lived most of the year. A few minutes up the river and Kennedy said, “Put your hands in the water – warm.” A minute later he announced, “This is where the lake ends and the river begins – feel.” The water dropped fifteen degrees and felt wonderful. We continued upriver to a shallow area, wide enough with a sufficiently flat bottom for bathing, and current strong enough to keep away any alligators. The boat ground against the bottom, and we trundled out – men upstream, women down. After changing into swimtrunks –a moderate acrobatic feat when using towels to remain modest – we plunged into the water so chilly it took our breath away. I hadn’t felt this good all day. After soaping up, rinsing off, and playing a sort-of water volleyball, we dried, donned our fresh clothing, and packed back into the canoe.

It was nearing six o-clock when we reached Tabardi, and the sun was sinking into the west, into the lake, casting a pink glow over the land and into the water. Reggie and I dropped our things off in our lodge and I suggested we hike up a small hill at the far east end of the village, capped by a tall, dead tree, to get whatever photos we could of the spectacular sunset over this wild place. We raced off, through the tall grass, until we reached the top of the hill. By this time the sky was bright red, with streaks of pink and blue running laterally from the lake until they faded out high overhead. The lake, still as glass, reflected the blaze back, making it look as if Tabardi was surrounded on two sides by a river of flame. I wished Tamara was there to take good pictures – it’s one of those moments so beautiful even an amateur photographer can make it look good, but to really capture it, you have to be professional.

We trudged back down the hill and down the main street to find Emerson standing outside the group hut. “Comemos,” he said: “Let’s eat.” I was glad that I was partnered with the only non-Gringo who could speak English and Kuna. We followed Emerson, who somehow knew in which hut we would be dining, and as the sun sank behind the lake and the hue of the sky began to deepen, we entered into a real live Kuna home. A lone candle lit the darkness, although a smoldering cook fire cast a slight glow in one corner. Someone bustled around near the fire, and two other shadows stood in the darkness. Emerson motioned us to two logs on either side of a flat board – this was our table and chairs. We sat, and our hostess promptly brought us bowls of something, explaining in Kuna to Emerson. “This is yucca, this is salt, this is lemon,” he said, jabbing his finger into several bowls on our table. “You can put salt here,” he demonstrated, rubbing his finger in the salt, then onto the yucca, which he held in his other hand. “The lemon is for the fish,” and he again pointed into a bowl. If the bowls hadn’t been white, I’m not sure how we would’ve seen them. “Be careful – the fish has a lot of bones,” Emerson warned, as he began to carefully tear the blackened body apart.

“If you want more fish, I’ll be happy to share mine,” Reggie whispered. We prayed, and began poking fingers into salt, rubbing lemon juice on pieces of fish we hoped were boneless, and pretty successfully felt our way through the meal. Not surprisingly, the food was a bit bland, but quite tasty. The fish was fresh from the river, the yucca tasted like whatever you put on it, and the company couldn’t have been better. Emerson talked about Kuna hospitality, his family, and inquired about ours. When most of my fish was gone, Reggie slipped me his mostly uneaten fish, and I passed him my empty bowl. He grabbed for more yucca.

Our hostess, who breastfed a four year-old child somewhere in the darkness before us, piped up and asked Emerson a question. “Are any of you married?” We ran down our family details for her, and Emerson translated: Reggie was married with two daughters, I was engaged. She said something back. “What is your fiancée’s name?”
“Tamara,” I answered, pronouncing it the Spanish way, rolled Rs and all.
“A beautiful name,” she conveyed through our translator. “This child isn’t named yet. Perhaps I will give her that name.” All three of us sat astonished for a moment.
At meal’s end the hostess brought over three cups of water. “Now watch,” Emerson instructed. He gulped a bit of water, vigorously rinsed, then walked over into a corner of the house and spat it out. “Every Kuna meal ends with cleaning your mouth.” Reggie and I exchanged nervous glances: the one instruction we’d received time and again from those who know was to avoid the water. We smiled, cautiously put the water to our lips, sipped a tiny bit, pretended to rinse, and spat and spat until all traces of the liquid had hopefully left the premises. “Now we wash hands,” Emerson continued, as he grabbed some leaves from another bowl, rubbed them between his hands, and rinsed in a final bowl. “Jeff, you know what this is,” he prompted, having given me a Kuna language and horticulture lesson earlier in the day. I sniffed it and instantly recognized it as the plant I’d seen earlier growing all over the village.
“Bisip,” I smiled, knowing I pleased my teacher. “Basil.”
“Good!” he beamed. “Kunas use this for soap, headache, many things.” I imagined what it would’ve tasted like in the yucca with a little butter, or perhaps wrapping the fish as it was roasted. Oh well, we were here to teach about Jesus, not bring culinary enlightenment to the forest. We thanked our hostess – “No eddy” - and after taking a picture of the family, returned to the lodge.

While the children prepared their evening program behind a curtain on a clothesline, the non-Kunas on the team compared dinner notes, marveling that the food was quite good, and that we hadn’t eaten monkey’s brains, roasted tarantulas, rats, or anything else our overactive imaginations had conjured up. After a few minutes the teacher emerged from behind the curtain and asked us to look at our programs. On each program was the name of a child with whom we would sit during the program. Mine was a no-show, but it didn’t take long for a five-year old to warm up to me and perch on my lap. What began as big smiles turned to sleepy yawns as the dancing, singing, and preaching went on and on. I was jealous of this little one whose youth allowed him to conk out on a stranger’s lap whenever he felt like it. I didn’t want a lap – just to conk out would’ve been nice! At last the program ended, the villagers returned to their homes, and we were allowed to climb into our hammocks.

Now hammocks are great for sitting, even napping, but multi-hour sleeping – well that is a different thing altogether. First, if you don’t get in it just right, you fall out. Luckily this did not happen. However, once in, you have to get your body sort-of diagonal, so you can be relatively level, and you have to make sure your body is positioned right along the length of the hammock, else your legs wind up two feet above your head. Curled like a banana is not a comfortable way to sleep. Add to this the complication of being inside a sleeping bag, and getting settled for the night can take quite a while. Reg just climbed into his hammock and settled in immediately. I think after ten minutes I was somewhat calmed down. Somewhere behind us team members were busy organizing presents for the gift giveaway the next morning. I was debating tempting fate. The sleeping bag I use on trips like this is a silk one I purchased in Vietnam. Lightweight, compact, very thin, it seems the perfect thing to not only keep the chill off, but more importantly to keep the mosquitoes off. However, this requires one’s head to be entirely inside the bag, and while the bag is designed for that very purpose, silk does not breathe. Within a few minutes I’d steamed up the inside of my quarters, and my butt was sliding down into the hammock with every wiggle. I’d wiggle up to a comfortable level only to find my sleeping bag down below my shoulders. Then I’d get hot and breathe again, but before long all the stories of malaria, yellow fever, dengue fever, and the countless other mosquito-born pathogens caused me to recover my head, by which time I needed to scoot my butt further up the hammock anyway. I did not rest well that night.

At five AM Anselmo awoke us, and I was cold. Overnight the temperature dropped into the sixties, and I was in no mood to leave my comfy cocoon. But eventually the need to be a team player, as well as the call of nature, compelled me from my warm nest, and I joined the devotional time. Anselmo spoke, Emerson led worship, and I prayed, silently but earnestly, for coffee. As the last Amen sounded, Anselmo announced it was time for a bath. The tense quiet suddenly filling the room comforted me a bit – I wasn’t the only one not crazy about freezing my toes off. But again, you do what you gotta do, and Reggie and I, exchanging the “Here we go” looks, grabbed our things and crowded in the canoe.

It was just after six, and our canoe headed into the just-rising sun. Fish jumped in the water and birds began their search for breakfast. I kept looking for a thirty-foot anaconda, or at least an alligator, but was disappointed. Kennedy threatened to push anyone who called the water cold out of the boat. He chuckled as he spoke, but I didn’t doubt his sincerity for a moment. The bath water would be just fine.

After bathing, dressing, and returning, we were greeted with warm coffee, with cream and sugar no less! I wasn’t sure if it was blasphemous to thank God for this frivolity that fed my caffeine addiction, upon which I hinged the success or failure of my day, but I was thankful and thanked Him anyway. Even if there’s no night, I imagine we’ll have coffee in Heaven. Breakfast, we were informed the night before, would be Kuna bread. We watched as the women sliced what looked like flattened, pointy hot dog buns and applied some sort of orangey goo. But too decaffeinated to worry about it, and too hungry to care, Reg & I grabbed our food and picked a bench our sore bums immediately regretted.

The orangey goo, it turns out, is commercially available in the supermarkets in Panama City. I know because I have looked for it since returning just to see where this stuff came from. Spuriously marketed as “Sandwich Spread,” it is sold in gallon jars by such otherwise-reputable corporations as Kraft and McCormick’s. Yes, if one likes sandwiches made of cheesy mayonnaise and pickle relish, then I suppose “Sandwich Spread” is apropos. However, my theory goes something like this. Following on the heels of the successful combination of chocolate and peanut butter into the “Reese’s Cup,” the Food Geniuses began testing other combinations: peanut butter and jelly in the same jar (a moderate success), cheese whiz and salsa (staple of every couch potato’s diet), and the like. “Sandwich Spread” was no doubt birthed by the dull-witted son of some important executive, and therefore endorsed heartily by a board that truly thought otherwise. Too cowed by fear of The Boss, “Sandwich Spread” was marketed, mass produced, and pushed on the public to the private horror of the Kraft community. Thus the Edsel of the food industry found its way into a darkened hut of hungry Kunas one December morning. We regrettably choked down another cheesy mayonnaise sandwich, knowing it was all we had until lunch, washed it down with another helping of coffee, and waited for the children to gather.
In the interim, Anselmo approached me. I was proud that he didn’t ask Myrna, who’d been sucked into translating for the Gringos, over to help. Apparently what he had to say was simple enough, or he thought my Spanish was improving. Either way, I sat, and he asked me if I’d like to teach. I rechecked the translation. Yep, that’s what he said. But he had asked me to do crafts, I’ve been planning on crafts. “Only teach, or teach and do crafts?” I asked.
“Yes.” My words failed me. What had I asked him? Oh well.
“I’m not really prepared to teach. We’re doing the lesson you gave me, right?” Days before I’d receive copies of four lessons, in Spanish, designed for some unknown age level, and was instructed to read it and adapt it – at least the craft part – to the sixth-grade level I’d be working with. I was hoping Anselmo would get the hint that I had no idea how I would teach the Christmas story to kids whose culture was light years different from mine.
“So you want to teach?” I contemplated how to explain that I wasn’t really prepared, that I didn’t know how to adapt it to their comprehension level, that it would of course have to be translated, into Spanish, then into Kuna by a second translator, and how effective would that be, and how much do these kids know about Jesus anyway. I decided that was too much to explain in Spanish.
“Yes. I’ll do it.”
“Great. Myrna and Emerson will be with you. You ready?”
“No. I need a few minutes.” Think, Jeffrey, think, you know how to do this. You’re a teacher, you’ve taught sixth graders for a year and a half. Think… what do I want them to be able to do when the lesson is over? What is the most interactive way to get them to learn that? What craft supplies do we have, anyway? My mind raced with a hundred questions, none of which were easily answered, and the children began to pour into the room. It was just about 7:30.
The children obediently sat by age groups, and when the time came, I and my team led them off. Mairo, a craftsman on the team, and Mariella, another Kuna team member, joined the translation duo of Myrna (who would put my English into Spanish) and Emerson (who would put Myrna’s Spanish into Kuna). We’d had just enough time before splitting up to conference about what the game plan would be: learn their names, find out what they know about Christmas, fill in the gaps, and make a nativity scene. An hour and a half should be enough time.
After about twenty minutes of singing, during which time Myrna and I conferred, the first obstacle was their names. Most of the children could not write their own names, let alone read them. So we went around the table and wrote them down, then copied them onto a quadrifold paper and showed them how to make prismatic table tents. They decorated their nameplates with flowers and stars, captivated by the brilliant colors in our 24-marker set. As I watched the children labor to make theirs beautiful, I confessed to Myrna one of my biggest shortcomings as a teacher was my inability to guesstimate time – either I allotted too much time for an activity quickly grasped, or not enough for something that was more complicated that I’d anticipated. This activity fell into the latter category.

I decided to ask questions while they finished up – good teachers assess what their students know before teaching them, so they don’t bore the kids or miss any gaps. I began to shoot them out: what holiday was coming up? What was Christmas about? Who was Jesus? Where does he live? How does he come live in your heart? Why do we need Jesus to live in our hearts? These kids were good – knew the answers to every single one without even stopping to think about it. I looked at Myrna and shrugged – what do we need to teach? They know their stuff!
We handed out blank paper, and took them step by step drawing a Nativity scene: first the cave, now baby Jesus, now Mary & Joseph, ok, a star, then some shepherds in the field, and last angels, lots of angels. This, too, took way more time than I’d planned. Most kids got to their star, some even put the shepherds in the distant fields. Most, however, were determined to make theirs the most beautifully colored paper, and spent inordinate amounts of time coloring. Understandable, I guess, since they don’t see markers every day.

The lesson finished, we cleared up our things and returned to the meeting house, where all the children of the village were gathered. Presents were distributed, each child called by name, and new dolls, trucks, and thingamabobs were gleefully ripped open and sent to good use. The dolls, I’m sure, have been carefully groomed and cuddled. The trucks – most are probably smashed to bits, the boys of Tabardi being like boys everywhere else. Then we set to our packing, and after another meal of cheesy mayonnaise sandwiches, loaded the canoe and set off.

Three hours later Anselmo began giving instructions: no shorts could be worn in Capandi, our next village; most people in Capandi were illiterate, very few were Christian; they have no pastor, and most have probably not seen Latinos or white people. They have a school for preK to grade 1. If you have to go to the bathroom after dark, hold it. Under no circumstances are you to use the bathroom alone – the forest is crawling with big monkeys, bob-cats, the occasional jaguar, snakes, alligators in the river – bathroom time must be done in groups. Most will not want their picture taken, so ask. Tabardi was comparatively cosmopolitan compared to Capandi.
Again the canoe turned up a river, and after about a half an hour, a similar collection appeared on the riverbank – only the houses were much bigger, much closer together, and whereas Tabardi seemed established on a cleared plateau, Capandi looked as if the forest was just waiting to swallow it up. Emerson pointed to a gravelly island in the middle of the river. “That’s the bathroom. Men up here, women down there. If you have to make caca. If just urinar, okay anywhere.” So to “drop the kids off at the pool” I have to wade waist-deep across a potentially alligator-infested river and find a spot… no thanks.

The boat slid into the shallows near the bank, and we began unloading. There wasn’t much of an overlook for children, or anyone, to gather and wave. Some came, cautiously, eyeing this entourage. To my surprise there wasn’t the shrieking, pointing, gawking, or obvious shock and awe I experienced constantly in Korea. The narrow path down which we were led ran between large lodges on either side – all about the same size as the lodge in which we stayed in Tabardi. Definitely much larger than the Kuna homes in which we ate. Down the center of the alleyway ran a ditch, thankfully dry, but littered with garbage and green mossy stuff growing off of I didn’t want to know what. Stray chickens ran across our path as we wound through the labyrinth of thatch and bamboo. Our leader ducked into a doorway, through a large kitchen, and into an adjoining house. We were here, wherever here was.

The children were already gathered in the lodge, and adults soon followed, unobtrusively watching to see what we might do. I don’t think they expected our heads to suddenly pop off and snakes come pouring forth or anything, they just watched with the same level of curiosity I would’ve watched them, were they to come to my town. Suddenly Anselmo’s voice rang out, “OK, time for a bath!” I grabbed what I thought I’d need and, determined not to be the last one in the boat this time, took off with Reggie to the canoe.

The river was wider than the first, and our driver sought to stay in the shade as much as possible. About halfway to our destination I realized I’d forgotten swim trunks. And soap. Oh well, one of my sarongs could double as a swimsuit in emergencies. I had brought both, so I could still use one as a towel and wrap with the other. Suddenly someone called out and pointed towards a shady spot on the bank. By the time I got turned around and figured out what I was supposed to be looking for, the pointing fingers were dropped and heads returned to forward position. “It was a small one,” Emerson said, as if trying to reassure us.
“A small what?”
“How you say? Cocodrilo?” Crocodile. Nice.
Again our canoe ground into the shallows surrounding a rock bar that surely would’ve been submerged, were we in rainy season. But being dry season, the smooth stones formed a nice flat extension of the bank, and we again segregated ourselves, men upstream, women downstream. By the time I figured out how to wear my sarong as a swimsuit without losing it, the guys had found it: across the river a strong current created a human log flume, and they were taking turns jumping into it and being swept 50 yards downstream. We all had our salva vidas on, which kept us from danger of drowning. I borrowed Reggie’s soap and, after rinsing, headed over to the flume.

The current made it difficult to stand, and for a moment I worried about losing my makeshift swimsuit. But throwing caution to the wind, Reg & I counted to three and surrendered to the rapids. Aside from the occasional rock or stick, the ride was smooth and easy – and I didn’t lose my trunks. I did keep an eye out for reptiles of any kind that might be waiting at the end of the ride, but didn’t see any.

After playing in the water for about 40 minutes, we put on our dry clothes and headed back to Capandi. We compromised the bank without much of an audience and carefully retraced our steps through the maze to our lodge. “Quickly, quickly!” Anselmo instructed. “We have to be in the congreso – rapido!” The elders of the village were gathered in their meeting house to convey news of the outside world, air concerns of the villagers, hear disputes, and instruct the young. We were the first outsiders permitted to sit in on such a session. As we approached Anselmo turned with a finger to his lips – “They’ve already begun, we must be quiet.” We ducked under the door frame and entered the hut, lit by the five o’clock sun, as the chief intoned his message to the people. In the center of the lodge a row of hammocks, occupied by the oldest men of the village, swung lazily. The chief sat in the middle, distinguishable by the neon pink feathers on either side of his woven hat. The man to his left, the “first vocalist” of the village, chanted a phrase after each of the saila’s pronouncements. The man to his right lay sleeping, mouth gaping wide. To his right another elder reclined, smoking a pipe. Before them sat the women of the village – one row of breast-feeders, one row apparently childless and young. All of them worked intently on their molas as their saila instructed them in the ways of love and marriage. Around the edges of the room were “bleachers,” in which the other men of the village sat. Given their distance from the civilized world, I half expected the people of Capandi to be nudists, or at best be wearing little leather thongs around their waists. But each man wore a long-sleeved, buttonless shirt, open at the collar. Like the women, their shirts were brightly colored: turquoise, yellow, green, even pink, and their names stitched in the backs in rainbow-colored thread. Their long pants tended to match their shirts. The women, as ever, donned the traditional Kuna dress, and as our female team members entered the room and pulled out their molas, they seemed as home here in the jungle as in the hustle and bustle of Panama City.
For nearly an hour we sat on the brutally hard benches, listening to the drones of the saila. I sat next to Anselmo, whose Kuna is pretty useless. Mairo, on the other side, was fluent in Kuna and Spanish, so occasionally he’d tell me something in Spanish, and I could gather bits of what was happening. We all watched the back wall where Charles, facing the saila, struggled to keep his eyes open. Charles had to take his boat back to Akua Yala in order to re-park his truck (I have no idea how we found out he was parked in the wrong place), then return to Capandi. It had been a long, hot day for him and we all could feel his pain. But an outsider does not sleep in the presence of the saila.

Anselmo decided we’d heard enough, that it would be quite some time before the saila would be ready to welcome us, so we left back to our lodge. The remainder of the evening was a blur that did not go according to plan. We relaxed in the hammocks, we ate a delicious dinner of wild pig caught that day by one of the villagers and his hunting dog. We laid in the hammocks some more until, around nine, Anselmo woke us up. “We rest until 10, then we get up, have devotions, and prepare for tomorrow.”

“Oh that’s brilliant,” said Reg. “Wake us up to tell us to go back to sleep.” I concurred. I’d finally found the right position in the hammock and was peacefully resting. A group trip to the potty, hot chocolate prepared by Fidelio over the fire, lots of mosquito repellant.
“So what if we have to go to the bathroom?” I asked of Charles and Reggie. “My body has its own schedule, and when I have to go, I have to go.”
“Well I guess we just go,” said Charles, whose cheerful disposition and Santa Claus-like size and features betrayed his come-hell-or-high-water determination.
“What were they saying about the animals? Where is the bathroom? I don’t think I quite caught all of that.”
“Oh, it’s not the animals they’re worried about. At least not the four-legged kind,” Charles replied, exchanging knowing glances with Reggie. “’Bout ten years ago a couple of New Tribes missionaries disappeared out here. No one saw ‘em again until eight years later they turned up dead.” My stomach rumbled, not with fear, but with the message that sometime before bedtime I was going to have to make a trip to make caca. In the quiet we could hear the monkeys in the jungle, and wondered what else might be out there waiting for us.

After devotions and the present preparation, we readied ourselves for bed. My stomach was sending me an unignorable message – time to go! Charles announced his intent to find somewhere, that his body didn’t follow anyone’s time schedule, and he wasn’t afraid to die. I grabbed a flashlight, some toilet paper, redoused myself with Off, and headed out into the night. We wound around the huts – fortunately we were close to the edge of the village – and took the path out of the village into the well-tended orchards of Capandi, past banana, coffee, coconut, and mango trees in neat rows with paths between them all. I decided that, since banana season just ended, and it would be awhile before anyone would be around them, the banana grove was the wisest place to make a deposit. Of course, somewhere in the recesses of my mind are numerous creatures whose names begin with banana: banana spiders, banana lizards, banana snakes, banana scorpions. Most, I’m sure, are the product of my imagination, but a cold dark night filled with unusual sounds of the jungle will invigorate such memories. I selected a tree with leaves sufficiently high to look under, and began my inspection. The Mag-lite penetrated the darkness of the tree and I looked for anything that glistened, slunk, or crept. The beam crept down the trunk to the ground, and cautiously scanned the surrounding area. Nothing makes you feel more vulnerable than being bare-bottomed, squatting in mid-excretion, and I was not going to subject myself to any more hazards than I had to. Satisfied that I could go in relative peace, I dropped my pants and prayed it would be quick. From the next tree I heard Charles utter, “Uh-oh. I forgot to Off my butt.” Just then I felt them, little sticks on my left cheek. The mosquitoes had found us! With one hand wiping and another preventing malaria and dengue, I finished as quickly as I could and recovered my tender flesh with repellent-soaked jeans. Later inspection would reveal three bites from that minute of exposure. The two other bites incurred on the trip were on the ankles, which I forgot to spray before we got in the boat in Akua Yala.

The night passed, dawn came, and the fading stars and chill in the air reminded me of camping trips in times past. After waking the dawn and the village with our songs, devotions, and prayer, it was time for another bath. This time, however, we merely trotted across the stream to the gravel island in the middle – what I thought was the bathroom – and bathed from there. Unlike the other morning swim, this spot in the river was sunny, and thus a little warmer. We played a little longer than normal, then returned to our lodge. Then the questions in my mind began: we have an hour and half with these kids who have never heard the gospel. They have no pastor. Even if they had Bibles, they cannot read. How can I brilliantly teach this lesson so they are impressed with the truth of Jesus and want to follow him? I quickly realized the futility of that question, and replaced it with, “How can I possibly teach them anything they will remember? Then the verse came: “[Paul] planted, Apollos watered, but God gives the growth.” Indeed, this would be a tiny seed, and who knew how long before a waterer would be sent. But seeds can live a long, long time dormant, waiting for that right moment. OK, Lord, I’m trusting You.

While munching down breakfast – strong coffee and more yummy sandwiches – I spoke with Myrna, the only other trained teacher on my team, and subsequently with Emerson, about the questions I had, and the verse God had given me to encourage us. We decided that since these kids had never heard of Jesus, we needed to present them with the gospel message and tie it to Christmas. And since time was limited, it made no sense for me to teach the lesson. Myrna agreed and further added that since Emerson had the most experience leading groups AND the best Kuna skills, he should teach the lesson. Myrna and I would draw nativity scenes and have the kids color them as Emerson explained who these characters were and why they were there.
We prayed, assembled our sixth graders (ten boys this time), and set off for the “porch” of someone’s lodge. Mairo worked on making balloon hats for each boy. Some flat boards held up on either end by logs served as benches, and a wider board held up higher by more logs would be our table. We set to work writing their names on the white paper as Emerson explained that we were making nametags. Several boys ran string through theirs and wore them as necklaces. As they decorated their names, most of them by simply recopying the letters themselves, God spoke again: “Tell them I know their names.”
“Emerson!” I called. “Tell them that God, the true God, knows their names. That He knows who they are and where they live. Tell them!” Emerson spilled forth a lesson in God and who He is that I’m sure was far more eloquent than I could have done. The boys continued coloring. Then Emerson began to teach them about God, and creation, and the fall, and sin, and redemption in the form of Jesus. Myrna and I rapidly drew ten nativity sketches, and distributed them to the boys to color. Emerson explained Joseph, Mary, shepherds, angels, and the star, and once again I was struck with how normal birth amongst animals and dirt and poverty must seem to these boys who have never known anything but. Emerson wrapped up his lesson and turned to us who were passing markers and admiring the artwork.
“They all want to ask Jesus into their hearts,” Emerson said. It took us a moment to grasp that. I’m sure I said something like, “That’s great,” but the truth is I’m still grasping that. The boys colored and colored, each one unique as the boys themselves, and Mairo, Myrna, and I continued making balloon hats, then bees, then flowers for the lady of the house we were using.
Our lesson time ended, we took photos and prayed, then returned to the main house for the gift handout. Ninety-five Capandi children received clothes and toys that day before we grabbed yet another cheesy mayo sandwich, loaded in the boat, and headed back to Tabardi for lunch. On the way back Emerson and I had a long talk about ministry to these villages and his future. Then we each quietly resigned ourselves to the sore backsides we’d endure until early afternoon.

Tabardi was once again eager to see us, and rushed us into the big house for our lunch of rice and plantains. At least no more “Sandwich Spread.” Another stop at the outhouse, more pictures with Crespaldo and Otelio, instructions for them to do well in school, promises to see each other again, and back into the boats. I told Charles that Reg & I wanted to get our picture on one of the trees in the Dead Forest, and he said he’d be happy to oblige. So we climbed into the johnboat, knowing we’d be in Akua Yala within the hour, and sped off.

The sun seems much cooler at 30 mph, and before we knew it, we were back in Akua Yala, having stopped along the way to get the Tree Picture. By the time we squared away the luggage and the boat trailer, the other crew arrived, and we set out for home. Three hours later we were back in the city, tired, dirty, smelly, and for this traveler, challenged. I thought it took faith to trust God was leading you to move to another country, or to marry this person, or to take that job. And it does. It also takes faith to trust problems like world hunger, injustice, and poverty will be righted. But even greater is the faith it takes to think that our efforts, our tiny seeds, will one day produce fruit; that one day a generation of Christians will arise in Capandi; that one day a man or woman will rise to the call to go live among the Kuna in that village, and the hundreds like it, and preach the good news. That is the mustard-seed faith the moves mountains and changes nations.