The Center of the World

Over these Tierras Altas (Highlands) stands the imposing presence of the tallest mountain in Panamá, Volcán Barú, or, as I think of him, Abuelo (Grandfather). By the Ngäbe Buglé inhabitants he is called Kdi, meaning “Big” or “Great”. The name “Barú”, I have been told, is how the Spanish mispronounced Marú, which in the Ngäbe Buglé language refers to the fuerza or fuego del Sol, the power or fire of the Sun. What is more, the valley over which he rules, the valley in which I live, is called in the same language Charaqué (my spelling of the word after listening to my oral sources), which means “The

Valley of the Moon”, and which, mispronounced by the Spanish, gives this province of Chiriquí its name.

These names are appropriate, calling to mind the complementary glories of the sun rising from behind the mountain in the chilly morning and sending its light down into the deeper alpine valleys, and the limpid moon floating over Barú and firing the crags with an invisible sheen of silver. And at sunset, when red and orange beams from the west strike fire upon the rocky

monolith.

* * *

As they come to me to be written, new chapters will be added to this blog, so stay tuned! But the blogs up to a certain point are now chapters are now in a book.

So, to read more, you need the book A WRITER IN PANAMÁ.

The book is available in three formats:

HARDCOVER (large-size edition, photographs on nearly every page)
SOFTCOVER (large-size edition, photographs on nearly every page)
SOFTCOVER (smaller size edition, no interior photographs)
E-BOOK (all versions available, including Kindle and Nook, no photographs)

To browse or order, CLICK HERE!


The book is also available through Amazon (USA, Great Britain, and continental Europe) and other major book retailers.

The More the Marry Her

In North America and Western Europe individuals marry each other, and then they put up with their in-laws as best as they can, ignoring them if necessary. However, in Panamá the extended family is still very much in evidence. It was clear to me that I was not going to be able to marry Andrea unless her family entirely approved of me – which, fortunately, they did after each of them met with me, often several times, probing, though always politely, to see what stuff I am made of.

Simply put, I didn’t merely marry an individual, I married a family. Moreover, I did not become through marriage just that eccentric foreigner who wedded the matriarch of the family, a tolerated presence at gatherings of relatives, best ignored. No, I am henceforth a full member of a large Panamanian family, and in fact much more than that: I am the paterfamilias. Already the grandchildren are calling me Abuelo, Grandfather, and when they arrive at the house they run to throw their arms around not just Andrea, but me as well. I often am called upon to guide wisely, to console, and to teach.

In Panamá, at least here in the Tierras Altas, the extended family survives – though I cannot say for how long it will continue to do so as the corrosive arrogating influence of consumeristic “America” laps upward like a flood ever higher on the isthmus. It is marked by much togetherness and much love. My bride Andrea’s children all live in greater Panamá City, putting up with the pollution and traffic and stress because there they can earn more money to support their families. She regularly travels seven or eight hours on the public bus to spend a few days in the city – a couple nights with this child’s family, a couple nights with another, and so on – and she does so joyfully, not complaining as a North American surely would about the lengthy travel and the humidity and heat in the capital.

What is more, every chance these children get, they take some vacation days, pack the children into their cars, and drive the same long highways here to Paso Ancho. Here they bask in the sunny but cool climate, such a relief from la ciudad de Panamá, going fishing or swimming hiking, visiting with friends, or simply lying back in the sunshine with a can of suds. Andrea’s sons look for things they can fix in the house, and her daughters help her with her various cottage industries, making tortillas or duros or knitting.

* * *

As they come to me to be written, new chapters will be added to this blog, so stay tuned! But the blogs up to a certain point are now chapters are now in a book.

So, to read more, you need the book A WRITER IN PANAMÁ.

The book is available in three formats:

HARDCOVER (large-size edition, photographs on nearly every page)
SOFTCOVER (large-size edition, photographs on nearly every page)
SOFTCOVER (smaller size edition, no interior photographs)
E-BOOK (all versions available, including Kindle and Nook, no photographs)

To browse or order, CLICK HERE!


The book is also available through Amazon (USA, Great Britain, and continental Europe) and other major book retailers.

Village and City

Early in the morning and again at about dusk, pickup trucks rattle down the road near our house. The cargo areas, fitted with rails, are crammed tight with Ngäbe Buglé men or women. They stand upright, silent and unmoving, facing outward. I watch them go by, looking out impassively at the world, in which I am apparently no more or less to be observed than a tree or a rock. Early on I tried waving to them, but they never react; now I content myself with observing them, not staring, just seeing them in as part of the world around me, just as they see me as part of the world around them. They are teaching me how to observe.

They do not complain about being trundled up to the big farms where they work, like so much machinery, which is just about all they are. From the moment they arrive in some rich man’s

fields they start in at breaking their backs through the day, setting out new onions or tearing potatoes from the earth or picking coffee beans from the bushes, either baked raw by the unrelenting sun or soaked to sodden shivers by the rainy season, all for – if they are fortunate – a maximum of about eight dollars a day. So poor are these people that in the rainy season their raincoats consist of black garbage bags, through which they poke their heads and arms.

In the rainy season it never gets particularly warm in this mountain land. Only in the morning is there usually a bit of sunlight – but it hasn’t quite dispelled the cold of night when the afternoon clouds steal across the sky, then hugging each other close until they pour forth the rain. But even in the dry season the relatively thin air here does not retain much heat. For most of the day in that part of the year, only excepting perhaps the height of the afternoon, the sunlight is warm but the air itself is cold – the light feels good on your face, but the sudden breeze reminds you that it’s hardly more than an illusion. Sometimes too, even in the dry season, the breeze bears that weather phenomenon unknown to me in my previous life – the bajareque, the rain blown down from the mountain heights. More often in the dry season it carries dust or sand; through those months I can sweep the floor two or three times a day to keep it reasonably clean. All year round one scents wood smoke in the air, especially in the morning and evening as people cook their meals.

* * *

As they come to me to be written, new chapters will be added to this blog, so stay tuned! But the blogs up to a certain point are now chapters are now in a book.

So, to read more, you need the book A WRITER IN PANAMÁ.

The book is available in three formats:

HARDCOVER (large-size edition, photographs on nearly every page)
SOFTCOVER (large-size edition, photographs on nearly every page)
SOFTCOVER (smaller size edition, no interior photographs)
E-BOOK (all versions available, including Kindle and Nook, no photographs)

To browse or order, CLICK HERE!


The book is also available through Amazon (USA, Great Britain, and continental Europe) and other major book retailers.