Guatemala

Antigua

Thursday, July 17, 2007

Antigua, Guatemala, a small, yet rich town nestled between three volcanoes, was founded in 1543 and has maintained its colonial, antique feel in many ways.

The cobblestone streets, the colorfully painted houses, the Spanish-style roofs, and the indigenous, beautifully designed clothes of the women all contribute to the maintenance of its rich mix of Spanish-Indian culture.  On the one hand, walking down the streets of Antigua is like stepping back in time five hundred years, as the architecture and atmosphere draw you back to the 1500’s.

On the other hand, this same aspect is what pulls in the masses of foreigners.  It might as well be renamed “Little Gringo-ville,’ since nearly every other person roaming its streets speaks not a lick of Spanish while proudly sporting their khaki white shorts, leather sandals, and rounded straw hat.  I just try to ignore them and not be bitter, since I myself happen to one of them, plaguing the streets. (Minus the whole crocodile Dundee get up J)  Though I have always thought of myself as a gringo outside-Latino inside, I guess anyone who saw me walking down the road wouldn’t know the difference.

I spent nearly all of my time in Antigua roaming the streets, exploring the ruins of enormous earthquake ruined cathedrals, wandering through the marketplace, talking with the Guatemalan locals, climbing mountains, and tasting new foods.  Obviously, I’m really suffering here!

I am sitting even now in a dimly lit, yet brightly colored restaurant where the air is thick with the smells and sounds of Peru.

The music is smooth, flowing with effervescent South American roots from the corner of the restaurant.  A group by the name of “Sol Latino” is setting the tone for the evening and doing a good job of it too. This is the life...

Guatemala

Tikal

Friday, July 18, 2007

The long twisted moss, hanging like old rags from the tree branches, grasps for the ground.  The sky is a rich color blue containing grey suspended puffs accompanied by wisps of white milky clouds.  The cries and sounds of birds and other jungle creatures come at me from all sides and monkeys are swinging from the branches over head.  Below, to my left and right lie the ancient Mayan ruins of a city known as Tikal, the greatest and most powerful city of Latin America in its time.  Directly in front of me stands the “Temple of the Grand Jaguar,” towering above the city as a tribute to King Moon-Double-Comb.  Small tomb-like stones dot the ground below, their shadows growing as the sun lowers to the horizon behind me, and I, even as I write, sit atop a great temple facing the “Jaguar.”

  The ruined city is spread out in all directions 100 feet below me. I spent the entire day exploring the palaces,

climbing the steps of the numerous stone pyramids,

 making my way through courtyard tunnels,

 and admiring the majestic panoramic view of the jungle from atop the tallest Mayan temples.

 Tikal, unlike other Mayan cities, was unique in that it was located deep in the jungle. While its many plazas are cleared of trees and vines, the walk between the different sections of the city have you passing under a dense rainforest canopy, with a rich and loamy smell of earth and plant life thick in the air.   It feels as though I have stepped onto hallowed ground and I’m even thinking of staying the night just outside the ruins of the city.  Even as I sit here atop this temple, I can feel it, there is something powerful… something almost mythical that nearly overwhelms my capacity to feel.  I feel kind of silly saying all this, but it’s true. 

 There is something about the way the stone towers reach up to the sky, the thick columns firmly grip the earth, the ancient monuments erected in their place, and the way the musty warm air echoes through the chambers and passageways. 

I am a spiritual creature who is wired, designed to worship something grand, something powerful, and something that humbles me in its presence.  Is it that these powerful spiritual urges, or yearnings, can even be awakened by an immense stone city?  I find it incredible that as I roam the dirt pathways and stand beneath the shadows of the temples, I feel an irrepressible need to worship something; to bite my lip and even bow my head.  This must be even more evidence, that I, as a human, must worship, must admire, must be in awe of something…anything.  I suppose that I used to quietly think it was irrational and even absurd that any civilization could worship the sun, the moon, the mountains, or even a statue.  But I think I can now see why they did it…why they needed to do it.  It may not have been a forced choice so much as a response to a real, immanent need put there by God Himself. But really, the society I live in is no different; only the object of worship has been altered. I’ve sensed the same breathe stopping emotion and even worshipful need when I have seen a ridiculously beautiful woman. How easy it is to go down the road of worship...In fact, I’m pretty much convinced that women are the prime object of worship in most men’s life. I wouldn’t pretend to really know what it is for ladies… :)  Every once in awhile I run across some place, some person, some song, some spot in nature, which could easily become an object of worship in my heart.  How important it is to take those gripping, almost paralyzing urges, and direct that worship that begins to well up in my heart toward Jesus.

“For by him all things were created: things in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or powers or rulers or authorities: all things were created by Him and for Him.” – Colossians 1:16

    One quick observation…it’s obvious that I am nearing the wonderful land of Mexico. Most the men are wearing their bushy mustaches and the polka music is being blared from all directions…

Mexico, I'm on my way!

Guatemala

Somewhere in the middle of nowhere

Sunday, July 21, 2007

Now this is the kind of lifestyle I really love…  I woke up yesterday morning with one goal on my mind: Get to Mexico while avoiding all the tourists possible.    I took the bus from Flores, Guatemala, with the intention of crossing the border into Mexico, but on the way I met a young man who was trying to learn English, and his father, a lifelong farmer.  In the back of my mind, I thought of how great it would be to just get off the bus somewhere around their farming community and just…see what would happen.  They got off the bus and I was left sitting there, wrestling inside with what to do.  Within a few minutes of driving, I convinced myself to take the chance and see if anyone would take me in.  I told the driver to stop because I was going to get off. I took my bags, stepped down and was left there alone, without a hotel for miles.  First, let me describe the scene:  I was on a reddish dirt road which cut through a farming community; one that probably had never seen a gringo in its streets.  (I found out later that I was the first gringo to visit).  That being the case, it was as if an alien had entered the territory by the looks on some people's faces. 

The sun was pounding down on my head, concentrated and hot; It brilliantly illuminated the entire countryside.

  The farmland was rich and as green as I had ever seen, punctuated by lone palm trees poking their heads through the corn and other crops.

 As a backdrop, the hills, full of vegetation, rolled on for miles.  I swear that I have never seen a sky so blue or grass so green my life.  The entire place had been photo-shopped and saturated with color.  It didn’t even look real and could have been taken from a storybook.  I began walking down the road, looking at the townspeople, trying to guess who might take me in.

 But before I got far, I saw the boy from the bus walking toward me.  “No, dis no es Bethel. No es Bethel!” (Where I was originally supposed to get off the bus)  He thought I was confused and that I had gotten off at the wrong stop.  I, of course, gladly followed him when he led me to the house. “Let go my house.”   We walked through a field and came to a brightly painted, peeling church building, with a house to the side.

  Sitting outside the house, and swinging in a hammock between two nearby trees was an entire family, looking at me with a bit of confusion in their eyes.  They soon realized that I was “lost” and assured me of another bus which was to pass by soon.  It was then that I took my chance by asking if I could camp out until tomorrow.  With typical Latin hospitality and much enthusiasm, they agreed and began to fix dinner.

 In the meantime, the sons of the family asked if I wanted to swim in the lagoon. 

We made our way through the dirty pathways, into the jungle-like woods and came to the spot.  Many of the people of the village were there bathing and playing in the water.

 One little fella was floating around on an old log, and so I thought I would see if he was up for some good ol’ fashioned log rolling.  Soon, nearly all the boys were involved.  

    Freddy, the oldest son, then led us on a tour through the woods and shared with me his dreams of learning English, becoming a tour guide and even transforming this area of the jungle into a tourist spot.  Of course, I am cringing at the thought of turning this peaceful haven into a tourist trap, yet nod my head as his enthusiasm contagiously drives his dream.  Back at the house, we feasted on potatoes, tortillas and homemade lemonade. 

At “misa” that night, (catholic Mass) we sang and prayed until the end when I sang a few songs for the church.  Afterwards, we sat around under the single light bulb which illuminated their dirt porch and we talked.  After awhile we turned in for the night, the family into their one-room house, their cousins to the hammocks, and me to the dirt floor of the Catholic church.   The next morning I headed off for the corner where the bus was to pick me up. As I waited for the bus, some children gathered around.

I mounted the bus, then a motorized canoe, and finally cross the border into Mexico.

  On my way through the southern tip of Mexico, en rout to the small town of Palenque, I met a lively couple from Norway, who I would end up spending the next day with.

Mexico

Palenque

Monday, July 23, 2007

I’m in a 15-passenger bus, headed back to town from a great day of…well, I guess I gave up on my great determination to avoid tourism and gave in for a day and... I took a tour package with my Norwegian friends to the Mayan ruins of Palenque, along with two impressive waterfalls—Misol-ha and Agua Azul.  It ended up being a great day and well worth the extra cash I spent to do it.

 The Mayan ruins could have been an illusion…the temple grounds, complex mazes of city, and the ruined Mayan homes were in the most dream-like exotic setting you could ever have imagined.

 Situated on the side of the mountains, surrounded by a thick rainforest, the “jungle palace” was dream-like, as the morning mist floated among its towers and temples.  It would be an understatement to say that the place I experienced this morning is one of the great marvels of Mexico.

  Next were the waterfalls.  “Cascada Misol-ha” was impressive but seemed to lose its natural appeal, thanks to the throngs of tourists who over-ran the grounds.

  After a short time there, we drove another hour to the most spectacular waterfalls I had ever seen, the “Cascadas Aguas Azules.”

 Incredible amounts of water tumbled continually over a wide line of rocks, forming a massive white wall, stretching many meters across.  The breathtaking sight made it easy to squander away several blissful hours near its myriad tropical pools.  A perfect day...a perfect life…

Tuesday, July 4, 2007

I am twenty hours into what will be a 40-hour final leg through the enormous country of Mexico.  The further we travel north, the more desert-like the terrain becomes.   The dusty outlines of a long mountain range fade off to the east as the orange sun prepares for its descent, leaving our bus alone on the drawn-out, single lane highway, to slowly inch our way toward the border of Texas. The further we drive into the reddening desert, away from the lush green countryside of Central America, the more I feel the land is reminding me of what I am leaving behind.

 Soon I will be back in Iowa, a normal student at the university,  and all this, which I have lived for the last seven months, will only seem like a dream…a very, very good dream.  I sit here, taken aback when I realize what this time has been, and am still in a slight sense of disbelief that it actually happened.   While I don’t know in this very moment just how, I can say I am a different person after it all. I can say that my whole perspective of reality is changed and I am thankful for it.  It has been said that two things pierce the human heart:  pain and beauty.  And if this is true, then Central America has left me lying on the ground, pierced from all sides, taken out by the blows.  The culture and the way of life have both challenged me by their strong bond and reverence.  The people have inspired me by their humility, work, and kindness. Yet, at the same time, I have felt the disillusionment heaped on by the people’s ever-present struggle with poverty.  Their power in unity has impressed me; their perseverance in belief has amazed me; their contentment despite adversity has inspired me, and their hospitality has spoiled me rotten.  The rich abundance of natural beauty is almost hypnotic and the possibilities of adventure within this small strip of land, endless.  And as with any culture, the good has always been in company with the bad.  I have seen how fear can cripple those who allow it to do its work; how war can impoverish an entire country, both physically and mentally, even years after its end; and finally, how passivity holds the potential of leaving an entire people without dreams or ambition, apart from eating, drinking, and dying.  I’ve seen how the Word of God has transformed lives and brought hope where there was nothing but seemingly impoverished futures.   I have met numerous people who have taken their call from God seriously, and truly are making a change around them.

All that being said, if you have had the chance to follow me along this journey for the last seven months, I hope you were able to experience a little of what I did through these pictures and writings.  I suppose my fierce dedication to the “xanga world” will really let up now that this trip is over, but thanks so much for all the encouraging comments and letters that many of you sent.  One part about this trip that has been a little difficult was not having any of my friends or family there to experience and share it all with…in some way, xanga has been a way to bring you all along with me, and for me to better express what I experienced.

   Panama City

Panama

Monday, June 25 2007

I arrived Monday morning at the small airport where Mario Vasquez, the Director of missions at the church in Panama City was there to pick me up. He was very excited to see me and I went on to regale him with all the stories from my time on Playón Chico.  After picking up another colleague who works for the church, we ate breakfast and then headed out to the Panama Canal. It was such an interesting experience to see this engineering wonder at work.  We then meandered through the 4 story tourist center.  The next day, I explored Panama City and more specifically, an old part of town called “Casco Antigua”, which is overflowing with history, old yet eloquent buildings, and the occasion delinquent roaming the dark alleys nearby...

That very day which I returned from the Islands of San Blas, I was invited to take another small “avioneta” to the Darien Jungle in order to spend some time living with another tribe in one of the most unexplored region of the world. As tempting as the offer was, I opted for continuing on my trek north to Nicaragua. I had already stayed in Panama twice the amount of time originally planned and knew that the rest of Central America was awaiting my arrival!  Having been warned by nearly every Costa Rican I met for the last 5 months about the great danger Nicaragua held for foreigners, especially those from the US, I can admit that I was pretty nervous about stepping off the bus.

Masaya

 Nicaragua

Unfortunately the picture painted by Costa Ricans of Nicaragua left me suspicious of everyone, expecting the intentions of each person to be malicious. Not only that, but my uneasiness was heightened all the more when, as passing two days in Costa Rica (en rout to Nicaragua), $100 was stolen from my wallet. All that to say, I was a little on edge as I when I boarded the bus for Nicaragua. But…having been here for the past 3 days, I can see that this country is far from the horror movie I was expecting. I was greeted as I stepped off the bus in Masaya by two Nicaraguan Pastors who had been called by one of my recently made friends in Panama and were expecting my arrival.  I was taken to the home of a wonderful family.

We were soon on our way to a local restaurant in order to feast on a typical “Nica” dish which was saturated with both flavor and grease. (Is there really any difference between the two??) From there we went to the home of some friends of Eden (the youth pastor) where around 15 youth had gathered for a Bible study.

Eden asked me to give the message. Though I was caught off guard by his request, I didn’t turn it down. I talked about Jesus, and how he spoke of all Christianity being summed up in the verse “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind and strength and love your neighbor as yourself.” And that the greatest sign off being found in Christ is in the love we show to those around us. Simple, yes, but I have been finding lately that the more I come to know of Jesus and the Christian life, I realize the great importance of knowng and living out the basics, the very simple things. I think that it is so easy to get caught up in learning and "growing" in the Word and knowledge, while all along neglecting the working out of the very foundations of our faith; love, justice, kindness, grace. In fact, all that extra knowledge is more of a hinderance if the basics are left to the side. Anyway...

After the meeting, we began driving around the poor, aging town only to find the entire town outside, on their front porches, in the streets, and overflowing the parks. They were all conversing, slowly passing the evening away in peaceful community. We made our way to the main city park which was alive with people. Children where running around playing, youth hanging out near the dirty fountain, and adults of all ages enjoying the evening. Both the sounds and smells set the tone for a great night with my new Nican friends.

(Eden and Emma. They are the youth pastors at the church in Masaya and new friends of mine.)

I felt perfectly safe and even walked around the park with my faithful video camera out. It seemed like the whole town was there and all were so content with thier small town, tranquil lives. I have overall found the people to be so receptive and friendly here. They have a distinct and very present culture alive and well. The people here say that Nicaragua is the safest of all the countries in Central America and while I am not sure about the validity of that, I do know that I have stumbled across a real gem here in Central America.

And as usual, I can´t help but mention a bit about the way people get around here. Every place I go has it´s own, unique mode of transportation...Costa Rica has it´s formal, very safe buses. In other places, the Panamanian party bus is the way to go. But I would have to say that the Nicaraguan horse drawn carriages, blue buggy cars, and bicycle taxis have slipped into first place on my list of favorites so far...

After checking out the rustic, colorful market, we opted for a ride in the "cartera". Wooden wheels rolling and horse hooves clicking along the brick laiden streets of this working class city were the background music, while the colorful little shops and many parks were the stage for our horse drawn cart which shimmied along to the house. Later on I strolled around the niegborhood played soccer with a little feller and sat down with a family to talk on thier front porche.

Monday, July 2, 2007

Another day has brought with it plenty of interesting experiences and new places. After a breakfast of pancakes, Eden and I dropped off his wife at work and then made our way to Volcán Masaya. This Volcano was accurately described by the Spaniards at “the gates of Hell” for its continuous flow of smoke that breathes from one of its five mouths.

From the main view point, we could peer down into the grand hole that was violently carved out by an eruption which took place in 1772. Since that time it has remained active, fuming smoke and even fiery rocks.

At the highest point of the crater there was a cross which was placed there by the Friar Francisco de Bobadilla in order to ward off the “demons” which he believed were coming from the “gates of hell”. It was also the spot from which the native aboriginal priestesses would throw women and children into the burning sulfur below as an appeasing sacrifice to the “Hag Deity”.  Being that the immediate area was home to five craters, we wanted to check out at least one more before leaving the area.

San Fernando, though inactive, was still quite impressive. We hiked around the very edge of the crater from which we could see the entire Masaya and Managua region spreading out in all directions under a deep blue, sunny sky. Off in the distance were Volcán Momotombo, El Lago de Nicaragua, Lagoona Masaya and El Lago de Managua. What a sweeping, breathtaking view…

Later one that day, Mariano and Josué (the 23 and 17 year old sons in the family I am staying with) took me on a hike to a nearby mountain where the century old fortress of Coyotepe stands representing both the last stand of brave generals and countless stories of prisoners held in dark, cement, underground prisons.

It also made for an incredible panoramic view of Masaya, the volcano and the surrounding area.

We decided to pay a local “tour guide” to take us down with his weak flashlight into the prisons.

As we were wandering around the echoing chambers all of a sudden a young man popped out of the dark with a face completely covered in red. He started wandering around the room, asking random questions about the prisoners...I was a little more interested in getting out of there in that moment that hanging around for the rest of the tour… but the weirdo with the red face wandered his way out of the chambers and so we continued on…

(This was the view the gunmen had as they were fighting of the opposing army which charged up the mountain)

Wednesday, July 4, 2007

After four days in Masaya, I am ready to move on. But the last night needed to be something to remember...and that it was. I sat down with my Nicaraguan family to a delicious dinner and soon the conversation was underway. I learned so much about the U.S. in that conversation...not all of it so good. Either way, to make a long story short, I hope that my visit through Central America has left a better immpression that that of the government on these people. Well, after dinner we sat in the living room talking when the music began... Nicaraguan folkloric music to be exact. And what is music without a dance to go along with it? Some neigbors made thier way to the house and taught me how to dance a traditional Nicaraguan folk dance.

I suppose I could have (and maybe should have) felt a little foolish, but I threw all shame out the window and did it right! Hand lifted in the air, head dipping in sync and feet shuffling around on the slippery floor, I did my best to keep up with the Nica neighbor.

Tomorrow I board a ferry for the Island of Ometepe, which is formed by two huge vocanoes jetting out of the largest lake in Central America, Lake Nicaragua. Should be an incredible time and definitely will have photographic material...

Ometepe Island

Nicaragua

Friday, July 6, 2007

For the first time in my month long trip, I am alone. I have not even one time been without the offer to stay in a home by a family save tonight (Well, even tonight I was offered, but had already paid for a hotel). I am amazed at the hospitality and kindness of the Central American people. As I write, I am carelessly swinging back and forth on a hammock which is overlooking the great Lake Nicaragua.

 The island I am on is called Ometepe, which mean "land between two hills". It is rightly named being that it is formed by two huge volcanoes; Concepción and Madera.  The larger of the two, Concepción, is still active and regularly spews hot lava and rocks from its fiery mouth. In front of me and a little to the right is a local family, all busy at the waters edge. Children making their way back to their homes after playing in the water; jumping, shoving, laughing and innocently enjoying the simple lives they each share together. And then a little further to the left there is the hard working mother who is washing her clothes on the rocks nearby. This is truly a picture of peace.  Thankfully, this area has been left relatively unspoiled by the ever consuming expansion of tourism. Ahh, but even the trip here was an experience in itself.

 I began yesterday morning in Masaya by boarding a school bus headed for Rivas. I was the only gringo in site and really preferred it better that way. The radio speaker pumped mercilessly the happy Nicaraguan costal music as we bumped down the uneven, country road.  Upon arriving to Rivas I then hopped on the front of a bicycle taxi to San Jorge where I would board a boat headed for the island.

These bicycle taxis are ingenious really, and made for a perfect way to see the view and we slowly strolled down the highway. Nearing the boarding docks, a magnificent, panoramic view of Lake Nicaragua and the island of Ometepe opened up in front of me. An enormous body or water stretching for miles was suddenly interrupted by two conical mountains jetting out of the green, choppy waters.

With this in my site, and the island as my destination, I boarded the 50 passenger boat and descended the steep, damp stairs leading to the passenger area where I joined 40 or so citizens of Ometepe.

 The hour long voyage can best be described as a roller coaster on water, like the ones you ride at theme parks. The water poured into the boat as we would descend each rolling, hill like wave. Being the weak stomached gringo that I apparently am, I wasn’t handling the constant dipping and rocking the best and started to get sea sick. I didn’t feel quite so wimpy when I looked behind me and saw the good majority of the people on the boat with their faces in their hands and looks on those faces which foretold the coming of morning breakfast. At least we were all in the same boat. ;)  We reached land and all climbed aboard yet another school bus which was to take us all around the island until we each had reached our desired haven. I stepped down near “Charco Verde” along with another local girl. She quickly ran off to her farm house down the road and I was left there alone, on a deserted highway, in complete silence.

One of the islands two Volcanoes towered above me and trees surrounded me. I had stepped into yet another great adventure…This is the life. Could I ask for more?

Saturday, July 7, 2007

I rented a bike for the day and mostly rolled along in silence, taking in the beauty and serenity of the island. The people here impress me. As I rode down the octagon blocked pavement, nearly everyone I met burst into a large, white smile. The word to best describe them would have to be humble.

 I biked to the small town of Antegracia and then made my way to a water hole called "Ojo de Agua". After hiding under a hut from a swift and merciless downpour, I sloshed by bike down the muddy road to the beach called "Santo Domingo". And here I am sitting at a wooden table outside a lake side restaurant, listening to the chorus of waves and wind singing as the sun sets behind a thick, dreary wall of clouds, bringing the day to a close. The waiter is a young, seemingly innocent Nicaraguan who, when asked if he liked his job, responded by assuring me that work was important to him, not drugs like “many of the other’s on the island his age”. I think the food is on its way…

Sunday, July 8, 2007

I have been paying a lot more attention to the people on the island lately; talking to them, observing their way of life, what they do, how they spend their free time, the way they intereact. I was walking down a long, dusty road yesterday and came across a man who was walking his rusted, dust caked bike down the same road I was. His face was aged and wrinkled from the years, but evidently from a difficult life of work and poverty as well. As I came up behind him,  stricking up a conversation, I found him to be very kind, gentle spoken and more than willing to talk.

 Somewhere throughout the conversation I asked him what the most important thing in his life was. His response was simple, his response was honest. As he lifted his well worn hand to a nearby banana tree field, he pointed and said that this was what was most important to him: That there are crops in the fields and bananas on the trees. Crops in the field mean work for the people, which mean a little money in the pocket, which means food for the family, which mean they survive. And when I say a little money, I mean it. A heavy set woman with gold capped teeth, wobbling down the same dirt road on her bike told me earlier that she makes around $2.20 each day for sweeping the small town park for 8 hours a day. But she has it good. Those who work in the fields with their machetes gain a mere $1.10 a day. Hours upon hours in the hot sun, bent over swinging a metal blade only to bring home enough money to buy a McDonalds cheeseburger for the entire family. How do these people make it?    As the elderly man to my side continued, he told me of how the island has been nearly forgotten, and help from the government was next to none. When I asked him what his view of the U.S. was, the first words out of his mouth were that the US could feed the whole world if they wanted to. No dreams of having a fancy car, or of adding an extra pool in the backyard, rather he and the rest of the island are simply in need of having enough food to continue living. I don’t say this to imply that there is anything wrong with owning a car or a swimming pool, but it is just amazing to see the immense gap that exists between the average Nicaraguan farmer and the typical U.S. waitress or bank teller.  But humanity always adapts, always adjusts to its surrounding environment. Even as I was walking along the lake side and looked out to the waters edge, I saw dozens of people up to their wastes in water, each standing next to a rock which served as a washboard. Their hands, a hard bar of soap, a rock, and the green mirqy waters of Lake Nicaragua. No moaning, no complaints, just contentment, this is life, period. Around the washing women were children, numerous children, darkened from days spent in the sun, with their nets in hand, throwing their nets out over the water like a light blanket in hopes of snagging a fish.  The community was alive, thriving with activity, and there I was, wanting so much to be a part of it all.

And that being the case...I ran back to my room, grabbed my bag of dirty clothes, and made my way down the embankment and to the water edge. The young lady at the nearest washing rock was busy, hard at work scrubbing away. I asked her if she could teach me how to wash my clothes and she even loaned me her soap and scrub brush. I guess I was so engrossed in the process that I didn´t evn notice the big, angry, white goose that was slowly approachig me for an attack. My washing partner warned me just as the goose was under my urm. I wacked it in the face and showed him who was in control. (Apparently I was invading his water territory) Anyway, the gringo washing his undies drew a local crowd of fisher boys and soon I was surrounded by several skinny, curious, wide eyed kids. They quickly offered me several branches, fresh with fruit, from a nearby tree. As soon as I finished with the clothes I was out with them in the deeper waters learning to net fish from the best.  The boys knew the tricks of the trade and were bringing them into an already large pile of flipping, squirming fish. While the fish were still alive and well, the boys would then take a metal spoon and begin to scrape off all the scales in the wrong direction. The poor fish became stiff with intense pain and would occasionally twinge as the spoon stripped him of his life long coat. After the scaling, the boys then proceeded to slice a deep canyon into the fish’s belly, spilling its organ on the rocks. Then they cut numerous thin slashes on each side and declared it ready for the skillet. The crazy thing was that even after all this brutal torture, the fish was still alive! Now I never considered myself an animal activists, but I nearly converted in tht moment! ;)  After noticing out loud that fish was still alive, one of them looked up at me, with a innocent playful smile on his face “Well, it won’t be after we fry it” (all in Spanish of course) Going for the full experience, I repented for what I was about to do, and under their guidance, followed in their footsteps; fishing, de-scaling….

All in all, these experiences have been good for me. Diving with the lobster hunters in Panama, washing clothes with women in Nicaragua, chopping through jungles with the farmers of Playón Chico, and fishing with the children of Ometepe has opened up a whole new reality of life as I step into their shoes, into their homes, into their lives. I can say two things. Life for these people is hard. But I can also say that you will rarely see these kind and innocent smiles on the faces of those living in wealthier countries. Maybe I have my priorities all wrong; maybe my perspective of humanity, of happiness, of success has all been skewed by the "American Dream". Maybe the things I have passed off as mere comforts and conveniences have actually been a distraction from what I really want, what I really need.

The animals run free on this island…pigs as pets and cows as cars. I tried hopping on one of the horses roaming about but he would have none of that…

I leave in two days for Tegucigalpa Honduras

3 countries down, 6 to go

CENTRAL AMERICA OR BUST

FIRST COUNTRY “PANAMA”

Panama City was great, but I was ready to get to the places far from civilization, And so I boarded a small plane headed for the San Blas Islands, more specifically “Playón Chico” This island is home to the Kuna tribe; an indigenous people who have a fascinating culture that I got to peek into for 6 days. Here is some of the journaling I did during my time there…

Tuesday, June 19 2007

I slept one and a half hours last night due to a last minute decision I made to buy a ticket to an island off the coast of eastern Panama’s Comarca Kuna Yala region. I was asleep by 1:45 am and up by 3:30. Though tired, the fact that I was to leave within a few hours for an island of an indigenous tribe seemed to help me over come the tiredness.

I boarded a small airplane at the Albrook airport in Panama City, destined for the small island of “Playón Chico”, where nearly 2,000 natives from the Kuna tribe are crammed into a space of around 550 x 250 ft. I was warmly greeted by Pastor Bernabé Ramirez as soon as I stepped off the plane.

He then led me to a long bridge which extended from the main land to the island. Little did I know that upon crossing that bridge, I would be stepping into a different world than the one I left.

 The Kuna people are a peaceful people who work both in the field as farmers and on the sea as fishermen. Immediately Pastor Bernabé Ramirez began to flood me with information about the Kuna tribe and their ways of life. I couldn’t have found a better guide being that he himself was born into the Kuna tribe. Imagine what Christopher Columbus must have experience when he came across the Indian tribes that were settled along the “New World’s” landscape and maybe you could know what I experienced when I stepped foot on the island.

Little, dark children running around naked (or close to it) in dirt covered streets, thatch roofed huts with sugar cane walls filling every last space of the island, women dressed in Indian style attire that clearly marked creativity, heritage, distinction, and history of their culture.

 The traditional dress reflects those that their ancestors wore, paint often adorns their faces, and a gold ring is worn through the nose. Around the waist they wear a fabric of various colors as a skirt, and on top is a loosely fitting blouse that is vibrantly decorated with colorful “Molas”. The legs are wrapped from ankle to knees in strands of small bead which form colorful patterns. A red printed scarf, necklaces, rings, and bracelets then complete their authentic ancestral Kuna appearance.

 The four public telephones on the island service the 2,000 inhabitants and those who do have light only have it from 6-10 pm in the form of a small, dim, florescent bulb dangling on a thin wire from the ceiling. Pastor led me to his hut and I settled in with my luggage. My bed; a hammock. My shower; a bucket of water. My bathroom; the ocean. My food; fresh lobster, octopus, and whatever else comes from the sea. It was soon clear to me that I was going to be getting the full experience of living like a Kuna. None of this staying in fancy, air conditioned touristy hotels as I periodically come down from my estate to take pictures of the natives (and thank God that wasn’t the case!) Pastor Bernabé took me down to a spot near the beach and unraveled the story of how he came to live on the island. (I’ll save the story for later) He now lives like the people on the island, eats like them, and sincerely serves and cares about them. This love for the people is obviously reciprocated as was displayed by the smiles on the faces of nearly every person we crossed paths with as we strolled through the streets.  Being that I slept less than 2 hours the night before, I opted for a nap in my hammock. I fell asleep to the sounds of life all around me; children running by the hut laughing and playing (A sound which is always heard here!) and the voices of hard working fisher men conversing. I fell asleep well satisfied and yet still in a slight state of disbelief that I was actually here on a tropical island, hundreds of miles from modern civilization, living with an indigenous primitive tribe…life is good, life is good.

 After waking up, the next objective was to find something to eat. Bernabé already had a plan, and it lead us to the turquoise blue, Caribbean seaside where we met some local lobster divers who had recently brought in 6 large, juicy, red lobsters.

 Within minutes, the lobsters were thrown into a boiling pot of water, and served for dinner. I did my best to avoid thinking about how the lobsters were starring back at me as I chomped on their thick, meaty tails.  But before the meal, I took advantage of the free time to visit some neighbors.

Within moments of popping my head through the neigbor´s sugar cane fence, I was surrounded and literally being crawled on by a dozen little Kuna children fascinated by the pale skinned, blond haired, blue eyes “gringo”. I also found that they love the camera, and most aren’t in the least timid about striking a pose. They were actually wrestling each other down to the ground in a desperate attempt to get even a hand in the photo. It was such an amazing time listening, watching, and eventually joining in as they exuberantly sang their songs and danced around me. After showering (which doesn’t seem to make to much sense here being that the moment you finish you are sweating again), I was informed that the leaders of the various islands, called “Silas´s” would be coming to “Playón Chico” tonight and that all the men were required to attend a meeting in the main town hall (or town hut would be more acuarate)

 The “Silas” were walking around all day through the streets in their sandals and round straw hats anticipating the coming meeting. Pastor Bernabé and I made our way to the main council hall and joined hundreds of other men in the dimly lit, very large grass hut in the center of the island. What transpired next was so interesting and yet so boring that I just had to write about it! ;)     The Kuna language that is spoken today is not the same as it has always been, and the “Antigua idioma” is so different that very few currently understand it, let alone speak it. The reason I mention that is because in the town hall, where this bi-annual meeting takes place, there were 6 or so hammocks strung from wooden posts in the center of the hut and dozens of wooden benches surrounding the hammock “thrones” of the “Silas´s” Then one of the elders began to tell the ancient story of the Kuna people in the form of a low, monotone, minor keyed song. Another elder would then complete each sentence with a melodic phrase which meant something along the lines of “So be it”. This went on for hours… To me it all sounded like they were repeating the same things over and over and over again. Periodically throughout the story, someone from the crowd of men would let out a loud, high pitched extended scream which was apparently to keep the men from being lulled to sleep by the mellow, laborious voice of the story teller. Near the end of the meeting, several Kuna women entered the back of the hut with a very large barrel of “avela” juice to serve to all the men. It was one of the best tasting drinks I have ever had by the way… The meeting ended and we slowly sauntered back to in the direction of our hut. The walk back was dark, yet illuminated both by the small flashlights in our hands, and the songs of little girls singing softly in the huts which lined the main dirt road. It was a perfect way to end a perfect day here on the island of Playón Chico.  At this rate, I may never want to leave this place.

Wednesday, June 20 2007

What an incredible day yet again! I woke at 7:30 and Bernabé and I went to the store to buy eggs, potatoes, and bread for breakfast. Just I we sat down to eat, a very elderly, gentle man by the name of Ebelarto Brenes, came in our hut and sat down to eat with us. This man has played a vital role in the maintenance of the Kuna culture on this island.

He, for several years, played the role of “Silas Dumad”, which is the maximum authority in the Kuna community. He spent 10 years memorizing 30 pages of Kuna history, with the end purpose of being able to sing, or chant really, the complete history by memory to his teacher. By doing this, he would earn the right to sing in the town meeting. (I found out that he was actually the one chanting last night) The interesting part is that the Kuna language doesn’t have a written form, it is all pictures. He then showed me the drawings that he himself made. Each page was filled with colorful pictures. They told old, yet supposedly true stories of the Kuna’s history. This man now sings these stories every Monday and Friday in the obligatory meetings held for the people of Playón Chico. These meeting hope to serve as the key to preserving the Kuna heritage, culture, and love for their people. The problem is that the youth of the community have lost interest in the stories, culture, and the traditions. Ebelarto currently has only one student under him who is learning the stories (his student is currently 20 years into the process!) and this student is already 60 years old. What does this mean? It means that the Kuna culture is slowly slipping away. The youth don’t want to attend the meetings, nor hear the stories. Many children don’t even know what a “Silas” is anymore. If this wasn’t bad enough, now the children don’t even want to attend any type of school. Rather, you can clearly see that many choose to roam the streets of the island… According to Pastor Bernabé, this is happening very rapidly, to the great shame of the tribe. The people are abandoning the rich culture, which for years, has given them an identity, a history. They are slowly losing their interest and the Kuna culture is loosing its grip on the people. What will this island look like in 10 years if things continue to progress in this direction? Bernabé is afraid that what will be left, if anything, of the Kuna tribe will be far from what the forefathers had in mind…Another interesting tradition is that when someone dies, the body is placed in a hammock, and then one of the “singers” will lie underneath the hammock singing for three days. The song is a prayer to God that the person would enter heaven and be blessed. Only after three days of singing is the body placed in its grave.

After an incredible breakfast I decided to go walking around town to meet the local people. Well, as bad as it may sound, many of the youth really do nothing all day. Some go to school and others fish, but aside from that (and IF that) they hang out, play around and that’s about it... Well, I came across several youth on the front steps of the Catholic Church.

On of them started talking to me and I ended up asking him if he would be my guide through the town. He, having nothing else to do for the rest of the day, more than willingly accompanied me and gave me the full tour. We spent the rest of the day together, talking and visiting people from the town. He took me to the house of his uncle, who happened to be the head president of the island as well as one of the herbal doctors who uses natural herbs as medicine to cure the sick on the island.

This man was completely saturated in the heritage of the Kuna people. He was full of stories and answered all my questions. After a picture of two, he then said I needed to pay him $5 because he was very experienced and a leader in the town. He spoke only Kuna and so through Benilto, he made known to me that his great wisdom, experience, and prestige were going to cost me $5! Well, well, at least I had the HONOR of getting another “free” session with him in the afternoon too! (Sarcasm intended…yup) Benilto and I continued on through the town and went to watch the traditional dancers on the main street.

It’s quite a site to see and it’s performed by the townspeople every day between  3:30 and 5 pm. Women in traditional dresses, men with wooden pipe flutes, and tiny Kuna girls were all dancing in a circle, intercrossing, melting in and out, all in synch, all in harmony with the tone of the melancholy notes and with each other. I took some pictures and even learned how to do the dance.

The children of the island…One walking down the streets of Playón Chico will always, without a doubt, hear the sounds of children, talking, laughing, shouting and simply playing like it was their last day on earth to play! Tiny children often with little or no clothes fill the main dirt pathway of town like ants fill the surroundings of an anthill. The best part is that after only two days of being here, a good majority of them already know my name and all of them make sure to greet me.

Everywhere I walk on this island I see little faces popping into view, then their lips part, revealing a pure white smile brightly shining against the backdrop of their dark, rounded faces. A dozen high pitched “hola´s” come at me from all directions followed by a dozen little waving hands.  Whenever the neighbor kids see me now, they come running. “Hola, hola, hola!!” all hugging my legs, taking my hands, or simply feeling the hair on my arms. I usually then bend down and make room on my lap for as may as can fit and then the rest crowd around as if I were Santa Claus with a bag full of presents. These kids are so great and seem to be starved to have an adult hold them.  Bernabé told me that the way of the Kuna is so far removed from that of the typical, affectionate Latino in that the parent will show little or no affection toward their spouse and children neither in public nor in the home. Even the common Latin greeting of a kiss is not practiced by the Kuna people. This being the case, of course the children are dying for attention, love, and a hug from someone older than them. I, of course, am loving every minute of it and just hope to not make any parents mad! I also have been taken back by the exceptional warmness, and seeming innocence of the youth here. Whereas in the big cities of other Central American countries the youth seem standoffish or even give the impression that they want to rob you, I have found the very opposite here on Playón Chico. The youth will generally smile and greet me, seemingly to be genuinely interested in making some kind of friendship. I was walking by a group of “thug” like looking teenagers as the sun was setting and they wanted me to take their picture. Seeing their do rags, baggy jeans, and "mac daddy" way of leaning back on a log, I assumed they just wanted to take my camera. ;)  Well, I couldn’t ignore them and as usual decided to take my chances. I found then to be an innocent, kind group of kids who simply were excited at the chance to get their pictures taken. This really seems to be the attitude of most of the youth here.

Being absolutely convinced about God’s desire to use me on this trip, I was starting to wonder how it was all going to play out. Well, the next few days may be part of it all. Pastor Bernabé has been praying for God to send someone who can inspire and spark of flame in the Kuna youth in his church. He wants me to plan a seminar which will be directed to the youth of the church in an attempt to equip them to grab hold of their purpose God has for them, reaching out to the other youth and seeing a revolution for Christ among the youth of the island. Well, obviously this would have to be completely God’s doing since I got scared out of my mind thinking about doing trying to do something like that! But the Pastor told me something that really stuck with me tonight. He told me that God has allowed me to have all these experiences learning all about other cultures, Teen Mania, and traveling for a reason. Now I have to begin letting out what has been stored up in me. I need to apply all my learning, teaching, experiences in order to help other people know Christ more. I couldn’t agree with him any more and think that putting on this seminar may be part of the reason that I came here. The fact is that if I lead this seminar, it will all have to be in Spanish; which both frightens and excites me. So, Saturday is the official date and till then, life will go on here on the beautiful island of Playón Chico.

Thursday, June 21, 2007

Once again a new day in the island brought with it both new experiences and new lessons learned. I woke at a quarter to 8 and ate breakfast of eggs, fried potato slices, and corn flakes. After getting ready for the day, Bernabé and I headed out for the fields. Nearly half the people on the island have fields on the main land, those being often deep in the jungle where they work in the hot sun with their machetes in hand. Today was my day to experience how the Kuna people work each day.

(Yeah, yeah, yeah I know. I look pretty goofy) Rubber boots, straw hat, long sleeved pants and shirt, hand woven basket over my shoulder, and a machete strapped to my back, we both headed out under the hot, merciless sun.

We walked 15 minutes to the grave yard of the community.

 The graveyard, located on top of the sacred “Monte” overlooked the sea and islands scattered there. Over each grave site was a grass shelter, built so as not to allow the bodies to be exposed to the direct sun light. While there we found a group of women around one of the grave sites, cooking, conversing and being with the deceased loved one.

Bernabé told me that sometimes the women of the family will go and visit the grave site every day for hours at a time for up to a year. We continued on another 20 minutes until we reached a mountainous area whose trees had been cut down and small corn stalks had begun to sprout in their place. We had arrived to one of Bernabé´s 15 acres of land, and here was the task ahead of us: All the area of untamed, thick jungle which stretched out in front of us had to be cut and clear...by hand.

And so we attacked the thick, intimidating jungle with tenacity. No sooner did we start when it began to dump down rain and didn’t let up until we had finished. But even better than the experience of working in the fields was the conversation I had with Bernabé before we started.

I have learned a lot on this trip so far, but I can honestly say that the times that my eyes have been opened more than any have been with my conversations I have had with Pastor Bernabé. Though much of my time has been spent here on the island has been spent in conversation with Bernabé, I think that more than anything, I have learned by watching this man’s life. I mean, just two years ago Bernabé was a Doctor of chemistry making $204,000 dollars a year, had 14 employees, 3 chemistry businesses, a personal chauffeur, nice house and great recognition in the Latin American chemistry world. And simply because he wholeheartedly believed God called him back to his ancestors to preach the gospel, he abandoned it all and came. He converted to Christianity 10 years back, literally saw a vision of him preaching the gospel to the Kuna people on these San Blas islands, and then fought it for 8 years before actually coming. Think about it, 40 years old, well established in his life, and yet he knew that he had to go. He said that it was like a feeling of anxiousness, a tingling in his feet such that he simply couldn’t resist it any longer. He just had to go. He forsook it all, packed his backpack, and came to the island not knowing anyone, nor having any training as a Pastor. He didn’t have a place to live or much of an income since leaving his profession. He has been supported by a church in Panama City but very little comes from there. And so there he was, one day a rich leader in the chemistry field, the next day on an island with an indigenous primitive tribe where the average salary is less than $5 a day. Little by little, he took over an assembly of God church that had already been established on the island and gave it the name “Casa de Oracion Cristeana de Playón Chico” With the little he had, he began to fix up the broken down building, building benches and painting where it was needed. To this day, he is working day in and out to see the church raised up and the gospel message spread to the people of Playón Chico. If the 180 degree turn in lifestyle weren’t enough of a challenge, the tests he faces daily are enough to make one throw in the towel. During the services, few adults come and when they do, it’s very inconsistent, and the children are running around making a huge scene throughout the whole service. It’s almost impossible to maintain a topic of doctrine two services in a row because the inconsistency in the attendance is so terrible. He’s all alone and basically does everything by himself and gives his whole life daily for these people. He has to work hard in the hot sun and humidity in the fields trying to raise a little money to live on, to help feed his relatives on the island, the church, or works out on a canoe fishing for not only income but also to be able to understand what the people in the community experience on a daily basis. Imagine a Doctor, a prestigious, well known, educated Doctor of Chemistry out in the field covered in mud and sweat, sleeping in a hammock under a roof of palm branches, all to serve a people who don’t even seem to care? And it’s not just for a weekend or even a month long mission trip, but rather he is committed to doing this for the rest of his life if that’s what it takes to reach these people. Working, sweating, sacrificing, for what seems to be futile, and a waste of time, Bernabé is truly giving his life daily to serve God and these people. When he came here, he had 15 acres of land passed onto him by his grandparents and had the option to sell them. But instead, he decided to become just like the people and farm the land himself. He spent an entire year alone in the jungle clearing land with his machete every day for 4 hours a day. He did this for two reasons: First, he didn’t want to have to be supported by the church. He wanted to work for his living and have food for his relatives on the island. Second, he wanted to experience what the Kuna people experience on a daily basis. He wanted to be able to talk to them about the things that interest them. Bernabé had an extremely formal and sophisticated education and could easily engage in a conversation of profound depth and philosophical topics with the brightest and wisest, yet with these simple Kuna people, he knew that he needed to master the topics that engaged these people’s daily lives; farming and fishing. He arrived to an island of people who had little if any education, with little understanding of the outside world, and a primitive lifestyle of farming and fishing.  He wanted to better understand them, being able to sympathize with them, and build relationships with them even to his own pain and discomfort. Working out there for one day was hard enough for me, but it’s hard to imagine doing it day after day after day in the hot sun for weeks, months, even years in order to relate better to the people. It’s hard to comprehend that kind of sacrifice. But the amazing thing is that he doesn’t do it with an ounce of unwillingness or a feeling of superiority or obligation.

But the reason that I go into such detail about the life he has given up and the life he now lives is to give reason for my amazement when I see that this incredible man does it all with pure joy, and willingness, more than grateful to serve the Lord in even worse circumstances were they to come. Despite the apparent failures that daily plague his work, he never gives up hope, and keeps incredible faith that God is going to bring about the change in the hearts of these people and that God will finish the work He started on this island. Never have I seen such humility, such perseverance, and such faith in all my life and I can say that my life has been changed by the honor of spending 6 days with a person of such priceless and rare character.   To sit there on a log in the middle of the hot, humid jungle with such an admirable man and to look into the eyes of someone whose love for God and for people drove him to such sacrifice was a real honor and privilege for me that day.

To be content in any circumstance is a lesson I am profoundly learning as I watch the daily life of this noble saint. Here is a man who is truly living out his faith, his belief, to its maximum capacity. I have no doubt that were he to never see the outward success, the fruits of his mission on this island, he would still be content, satisfied, even exuberant about knowing that he loved this people and loved his God with every last drop of his soul and strength until the very end of his life. This is the only life worth living, one spent in selfless love and service to God and to the people He places in our path. To live with confidence, yet humility; justice, yet compassion; and passion yet sensibility. Who could possibly be capable of living with such contrasts in balance in this crazy world? I suppose that only the one who humbly accepts the grace of God and the mantel of His calling on their life with complete meekness and gratitude

After we finished cutting through the vines, trees, and branches, we continued on to the top of a large mountain were we sat down under a small grass hut which looked out on a gorgeous panoramic view of all the islands. More than 25 spanned out in front of us, dotting the turquoise Caribbean Sea with their pure white sanded beaches and bending palms trees. We returned to the island and now I sit in the hut writing by the light of a small candle. Just outside the hut I can hear the conversations of two men on the front porch of a local store, a baby crying, and the Spanish music crackling out of a small old stereo across the street. The sounds of foot steps scuffling across the dirt streets and the voices of children are never silent. Life is good here on Island Playón Chico and I think I’ll sleep well tonight…

Friday, June 22, 2007

Today was my day to take a voyage out to the deep, blue sea... I  woke up around 6:30 so that I would be sure to arrive on time to Benilto´s house on the west side of town. We prepared our gear and along with two other fishermen set sail (or rather started up the motor!) for a great location to catch lobsters walking along the ocean floor. The spot was about an hour and a half from Playón Chico.

 On the way, we passed numerous movie like deserted islands overflowing with coconut trees. Their pure white beaches edging their way toward and then dropping off into the celestial, pure water where they met with the rich, deep navy blue waters of the ocean. Never have I seen the ocean as blue as I have here; a perfect picture of tropical paradise undisturbed and just waiting for me to pull ashore and claim their exotic beaches for myself! Well, unfortunately, we passed right on by them, continuing on toward our lobster haven.  By the time we arrived to the spot, all the rising a falling of our hand carved canoe over the rolling waves made me so sick that I quickly lost interest in the thrill of the hunt and only wanted to lay down and vomit. The scuba divers jumped in the water and got right to work. The only things that could be seen from the canoe where I waited were the sun darkened, black backs of the guys and their breathing devices skimming the surface of the water as they scanned the ocean floor. Once they spotted one, they would then disappear into the water and soon return with the biggest, reddest lobsters I had ever seen! Benilto would then excitedly yell “Edick, langosta! Langosta Edick!” And would soon be right back to work doing what he did best. I was actually relieved when they flopped back into the boat, ready to return. I had become so sick and had roasted in the sun for so many hours that I was ready to call it a day...but not without taking a dive myself, or course. “No te preocupes Edick, tu vas a buscar langosta también!” Benilto repeatedly assured me.  I put on the goggles, popped the breathing device in my mouth, slipped on the flippers, and was in the water. I realized in my very first dive that I, the weak, unaccustomed gringo, was going to look like a weenie as I couldn’t dive very far because of the pressure on my ears. It felt like they were about to explode under the weight of the ocean. At least I had a good time looking around at the jelly fish and coral reefs of the Caribbean Sea. We speeded back to the island with four big lobsters and a new experience under my belt.

 I took a shower, and came back to the hut to find a big, slimy octopus that Bernabé had gotten, ready to be cooked up and eaten. Bernabé started right away with the preparation of the “pulpo” along with the rest of the meal. In the meantime I walked around the island taking in the culture and greeting all the little kids running around the dusty roads.   The octopus was pretty chewy, and ended up swallowing the sucker down with slippery ease… We were joined in the middle of the meal by the “Silas” (the one who sings the Kuna  stories with the picture book), who at one time was head leader of the island and had since retired to the position of story singer at the regular town meetings. This short, wrinkly man always seems to waddle in through the small doorway of our hut just when its mealtime. He kind of makes me laugh and is always a pleasant surprise. Later that evening, Pastor Bernabé and I made our customary stop by the general store to drink some juice, and a package of crackers. After, we both hit our hammocks and called it a day. Another day well spent…

Saturday, June 23, 2007

I woke up again to the sound of children playing and laughing in the streets, a consistent alarm clock as sure as the rooster that would wake me up on the beaches of Mal Pais Costa Rica. I suppose that most mothers have given up on bathing their children being that within 3 minutes they will be caked in dust again….

I spent a good portion of the day locked in the church preparing for the youth session I was to give that night. It would be the first time that had ever given a message or teaching in Spanish. The meeting was to start at 5 and of course 5 rolls around and no one is there. 5:30…no one. 5:45…3 young ladies show up and we get started. We started with worship and then I began to share with them. I admit that at first it felt so rigid, it just wasn´t flowing. But as the night went on, things seemed to pick up. More people showed up and soon we had a full house.

Saturday, June 24

I didn’t journal this day. But here’s what I did. I helped with the music at the church and then one of the local boys took me out in his canoe to a few beautiful deserted islands not far from Playón Chico. Here are some pictures from the trip.

And if you’re interested, here’s a little history I learned from the Kuna people about their history.

This week I stumbled across a fascinating culture that in just 10 year could very well be non existent. The rich and unique customs and traditions of the Kuna people are being run over and left behind by a younger generation that seems to have lost interest in preserving their past… For hundreds of years, the Kuna tribe inhabited the eastern regions of Columbia. Slowly they migrated to the mountains of Panama, residing there until diseases and infirmities, which plagued the mountainous jungles, drove them to what became known as     the San Blas islands. Now, the 40,000 Kuna which exists today are scattered throughout parts of north-east Colombia, but find their greatest concentration the string of islands of Panama’s Carrie bean coast. In the mid 1920´s the government of Panama, greatly influenced by Spanish ways of life, began mandating that the Kuna people forsake their “backward” way of living. This would mean that the customs, the clothing, the customs, and the practices, and much of that from which they derive their identity as a people would be destroyed. The government set up stations on the islands with soldiers who would even go so far as to rip the rings out of the women’s noses and strip their dignity from them. Though being a peaceful, far from violent group of people, they knew that the preservation of their tribe and its culture were something worth fighting for. . In 1925 three Kuna men lead a surprise attack on the Panamanian soldiers that were stationed on the island of Playón Chico, fighting along with the rest of the men and women in the community. The government’s troops were massacred

with machetes right on the main streets of massacred what is now a tranquil dusty road on which innocent children play their endless games, dancing and singing their songs of the islands past. Even today, both the red paint on their faces and the red color of their flag is a constant reminder of what took place in order to preserve their precious, hard won culture. Gaining courage from the acts of the men and women of Playón Chico, the other Kuna communities decided to fight back against the government in an attempt to gain their freedom to truly live as the Kuna tribe. The battle on Playón Chico sparked a revolutionary flame in the hearts of all the Kuna people for independence which was never extinguished and lead to the Panamanian government eventually seeding a long strip of long call “Comarka Kuna” to the tribe. A refuge in which the people can now live in peace, relatively free from the modern influences of the quickly evolving world.  And here on the island of Playón Chico, as well as countless other islands on the Caribbean coast, these calm communities live, working in the fields with their machete’s in hand, and diving from their hand made canoes to the ocean depths in search of crabs, lobsters, and octopus, to feed the children at home.

The Kuna culture is centered around the mountainous range “Serranía de San Blas”, which grazes the skies of Panama’s Caribbean coast. According to the ancient stories, God formed the mountainous range for the Kuna people to protect and preserve their tribe. The mountain could almost be taken as God himself to by these people. From “El Monte” comes much of their food, and forms a protective barrier from hurricanes and other tropical storms.  According to their legends, around the same time that God sent Jesus to Israel, he sent Ibiórgun, a man of great miraculous power and wisdom. He is the one who taught the Kuna people everything they know about agriculture, herbs, medicines, and animals that can be found in “El Mount”. This man is nearly given the place of savior in the hearts of the Kuna people and is greatly loved and respected by them to this day.

And finally, when I made it back to the City I headed for the Panama Canal.

This is the family I have stayed with during my time in Panama City; the Diaz Family (Maria and Oscar´s family). They are a wonderful family who has treated me as if I were part of the family. (Not to mention they have parties and bring typical Panamanian groups to the house!!)

Time has gotten away from me recently and so I am going to have to backtrack a little to fill you in on what has happened in the last few weeks. It’s really incredible how much happens here in just three weeks! But before I jump back in time, I will give a little update of where I am right now.  I started my Central American trip by bus five days ago. I arrive in Panama City, Panama on Friday and was warmly welcomed at the¨"Gran Terminal" by Oscar Diaz, the father of Maria and Oscar Diaz. They have made me feel like one of their own sons, really. As I arrived to the bus station I immediately noticed the difference that exists between Costa Rica and Panama. (Here a little from my journal that day) "After a long, and cold bus ride from San Jose, I finally arrived to Panama City to the "Gran Terminal", which is by the way far "grander" than any bus station I had seen in San Jose. Already the differences between this country and the last are coming into focus. Straight ahead of me and to the left I can see the Panama City skyline. That’s right, Skyline! Something that definitely didn’t grace the San Jose sky! ;) Second, the bus´ here are rather extravagant...kind of like a party on wheels, I guess would be a good way to describe them. They are in the shape of your typical American school bus, yet rather than "big bird" jumping out at you, an array of colors, swirling every which way, green zig zag lines, large painted murals, and designs of every kind grab your attention...no, DEMAND your attention."    After riding one I am even more convinced that it’s like a Latin party on wheels. Beside the fact that no one is actually dancing, Latin music pounds from the speakers, and in some bus´ strobe lights brighten the whole place. Oh and the drivers are a whole other story. Panamanian gangsta´s is a better name I think! I had to jump on the first one because the driver started taking off when I was halfway through the door. And then in the middle of traffic he stops the bus and nearly leaves us all to go pick a fight with another bus driver. When I asked the man next to me what was happening, he calmly told me, with a grin on his face, that bus driver was getting into a fight. (As if it was a common occurrence!) Those around me seemed to find my surprise amusing... But I do have to say that I love it all. I love it ALL!      The Diaz family threw a surprise party for the Mrs. and it was a hit. Great food, great company, and of course...a typical Panamanian band complete with accordion and all! (And yes, this gringo dared to sing when we had the Karaoke part of the night)

Now this gets good... While I am so, so thankful to be staying here with the Diaz Family, I have been a little anxious to get out to the country, where the indigenous tribes live. Well, my wish is being granted tomorrow at 6:00 am. But rather than just taking a bus a few miles outside of the city, the journey begins tomorrow morning at the airport.... I´ll wake up at 4:00 am in order to be at the Albrook airport by 5. I will then mount a small, 5 or 6 person plan which leaves at 6 am for an island called "Playón Chico" off the coast of Comarca Kunayala (better known as "San Blas" to other Panamanians). This tiny, secluded island is anything but touristy, and inhabited solely by the indigenous people known as the "Kuna". I will be meeting up with Pastor Bernabe Ramirez, who is a Doctor of chemistry who has given up his practice to serve, and evangelise the Kuna people with the gospel of Jesus. He is there alone with the people and hopefully will really appreciate the company of a gringo from the U.S! To be honest, I can’t believe I am actually going. I mean, I was talking to a man just today who is head of missions at his church and when he found out about my desire to go and serve these people, his offer to me was almost too good to be true. He basically told me that the choice was mine...He would send me to either the Islands of San Blas, the tribes hidden away in the jungles of Darien, or to an indigenous group up in the mountains near the border of Costa Rica  I mean, what was I suppose to think?? This was like a smorgasbord for me! Well, I opted for the island and we immediately left for the airport to buy the $50 ticket. While there, I will be living among the people, helping the Pastor in anyway he needs, getting to know the Kuna people, working with them, learning from them, sleeping in a hammock, and eating the fish we catch from the ocean! I am excited to be apart of what God has already started in the midst of this tribe and am also looking forward to the ways God may use me to show Christ to them. I sincerely have given this entire trip to Jesus and known that even in the few days I have been on the trip He has been guiding my steps, opening up doors when I wouldn’t have imagined. I just want to serve Him, I just want to fulfill the purpose God has given me for this trip.  Of course, our only lights on the island being fire, lanterns, and flashlights, I am just guessing that there won’t be internet. And so, it may be a little while before I can get to a computer to update. ;)

Now, here’s some of what has been happening over the last few weeks...

 La zona Roja

Saturday, May 26

How am I supposed to put into words what happened last night? I think that while much of life tends to mesh into a clutter of random events after another, lines blurred and memories mixed without clear cut distinction of what really happened, from time to time an event or a single image becomes so imprinted on your heart and mind that even with the chipping away of clarity that tends to come with the passing of time, that image remains a life like, crystal clear reminder; packaged with the feelings, smells and sounds of what really took place.  Such an image was stamped firmly in my mind last night in the ghetto of San Jose.

I arrived to the Coca Cola terminal around 8:15. Being warned adamantly not to take the bus to Parroquia Cristo Rey during the night time, I opted for a taxi. Sometimes I get tired of all the warning about going to certain areas of town. Not because I don’t believe them, but simply because I hear it from EVERY person I meet. Every person I told that I was going to “La Zona Roja” at night time started laughing because they were just sure I was joking. These streets are particularly infamous for being the homes of the drug addicts, prostitutes, and other people without homes, forced to take to the streets. No gringo in their right mind would go to the “Red Zone” of San Jose at night. Well, maybe that’s so, but for some reason I was determined to do it anyway.  Back to the story… The taxi driver dropped me off in front of the barb wire fenced off Catholic Church “Parroqui Cristo Rey”, were I met with a group of about 30 other volunteers from the church and from other parts of San Jose in order to bring food, clothing, and friendship to the people of La zona roja. When I arrived, the leaders of each area of ministry in the mission were all in a meeting. It was incredible to sit down in the back and simply imagine the stories that each on of these leaders had to tell. These were each people who regularly sacrificed their times, energy and even their safety to serve the poor and destitute of San Jose.      We gather hundreds of pounds of both food and clothing and loaded it in the back of the big, red vans. Around 10:15 pm, we boarded the vehicles and departed for the La Zona Roja. Just as soon as we stopped the car people were all around. Men, women, little boys, girls, and even 2 year old babies were scattered all over the area. As it was raining, many were trying to stay under the awnings of the buildings to keep dry. We all got out of the buses and began making our way to the crowds of people. We set up the tables, and brought out the food, and continued talking with “indigentes”. When we arrived there seemed to be plenty of people there, and yet as soon as the food was brought out, even more began to come of out nowhere. Seriously, one minute there was a few, the next there was a long line of 40 or 50 people waiting to receive their bowl of soup or pasta. They were coming from everywhere; the dark side streets, from under the bridges, and appearing out of the alleyways. Just how many roam the streets of San Jose I don’t know, but there are far more than I had imagined. After a few conversations with some of the men, I was called over to the clothing van, were I mounted the back of the van to distribute the clothes. It was in the back of this van that I realized the extent of these people’s poverty. These men and women were nearly hysterical to get clothing. All I remember was the way they yelled out my name…”Edeek, Edeek, sweater, por favor!! Por favor, Edeek, pantalones…para mi!!” Their cries were wrenching. I just remember looking over my shoulder as I was rummaging through the clothes, looking for a sweater, and seeing nothing but outstretched hands, sad, sad eyes all staring back in frantic desperation, and voices pleading for clothing to keep warm during the wet, cold nights. This is the image that I will never forget, the one that will always remind me that “no todo que brilla es oro” -Things are not always what they appear to be…   Again I was called to accompany a group from the ministry to leave the immediate area and walk the streets, armed with food and drink to find the others who couldn’t make it to the corner where we were set up. Lining the streets were so many others, coming out of dark crevices and crouched in the corners near the buildings were still more, and running from every which direction yet even others came.  But, there was hardly a moment that I felt unsafe. Each person from the ministry was given a red, vest like shirt to wear as we distributed the food and talked with the people. This red uniform was much like a shield in that everyone in La Zona Roja respected it and would never try to rob or harm someone wearing one. The truth is if someone who was not from the area of the city (especially a gringo!) were to walk in the area alone at night, that person could almost count on encountering trouble. Thankfully we had the red jackets as well as God’s protection…   After a good while out, we ran out of food and made our way back to the base. Things were slowing down and we were preparing to leave. I stopped near a man eating his bowl of soup, and had the chance to talk to him for a while. He then wanted me to read the Bible to him. Gladly, I went to the van and took out my Bible. What a great moment it was to be able to stand there next to this man and read such beautiful words of life to a man in such despair. We read the fifth chapter of Matthew, and the words of Jesus really seemed to come alive. I have found that I love the Word of God more than I used to and think that reading one phrase that Jesus spoke could do more good than an hour’s worth of advice I could ever try and give this man.  We spent some time in prayer for the people, and finished packing up. Hopefully we left that desolate area with a little more hope than when we arrived. What a night. What an incredible night.

Me and Leonel; a man who I met while we were there at the church in Paroquia Cristo Rey before heading out to nieghborhoods. Here is a little from what I journaled after meeting him.

"Being that it was so late, I was going to stay in a hostel downtown but was graciously invited to stay the night at the house of one of the volunteers: Leonel. At his house we ate food and talked late into the night. Let me tell you a little about Leonel. This man was born in the same house that he lives in now and has always had financial troubles, never was able to move, and is still in the same small, small house with his family. He has a son and two daughters that are now out of the house. He used to work on pools and construction but found out that he had Parkinson’s disease; A disease that worsens with time. Now, no one with hire him because of thedisease and he is without a job. His wife, a heavy set, humble lady has had back troubles since a car accident a few years back and can’t work either. Now they both struggle to make it by as their son is in his final year of high school. Before, he said that he believed in God, but never went to church or was involved with it all. But a year ago he discovered the ministry that the Catholic Church has there in Cristo Rey and started to get involved. Now he spends three days a week going out with these groups of volunteers to help the people. This is his life: helping people, giving them food and clothing, praying for them and befriending them. It is really amazing that despite his own financial situation, he refuses to eat the food from the Obra, and eats when he gets home. He still gives his life every day for the poor and distraught of San Jose. I don’t know just how “spiritually” capable he would be of preaching, or expounding on proofs surrounding the existence of God, but I do know that his acts count for something great. He is living out what Jesus said to live out.    We talked for hours and even when I asked him what hobby’s he had, he said that his hobby is to help the people of San Jose. (without of hint of arrogance in his voice and pure sincerity) Even before he found the ministry, he was helping his suicidal neighbors. What an incredible witness of Christianity! Well, I plan to return with the group next week as well. On Friday then are going out to La Zona Roja, which is the worst part of San Jose, where the drug addicts, prostitutesand others go at night. We are going gives them food, clothes, love and Christ. What a beautiful life I get to live here in Costa Rica!"

Breaking news!! Goodell family comes to Costa Rica!!

That´s right, my mom and sister Jenny came to visit me a week ago and we had an incredible time. We dicided to rent a car so that we could see as much of the country as possible during thier far too short one week stay. Here were some of the things we did.

Hogar de Ancianos

Jenny and I had the chance to sing at the local "hogar de Ancianos" during the first few days.

Downtown San Jose

The trip wouldn´t be complete without a trip to El Parque de la Cultura

“Paseo” through the Guanacaste Province

Here we are starting off from Ciudad Colon. Our destination: As much of the province of Guanacaste as possible in 5 days!

Ferry Ride to the Nicoya Peninsula

Plenty of great food along the way of course!

Surprise visit to my friends in Mal Pais. (The family I wrote about a months back)

The beaches of Guanacaste

Mail Pais, Santa Teresa, Sámara, Tamarindo, Conchal, and Flamingo (Conchal was by far the best. The name "Conchal" comes from the spanish word "Concha", which means "Shells". An appropriate name for the beach being that it was a made up entirely of sea shells.

Rincón de la Vieja and Monteverde Cloud Forest

We seriously could have been in the middle of the movie "Junlge Book". Monteverde was took the top spot for Costa Rican Rain Forests in our "rating system".