by David Yeadon
As we edged up the stream, vines and spider-webbed branches caressed us like living things. Some of the vines were so snakelike that I found myself inspecting each one carefully, dreading the intrusion of Panama’s corals, bushmasters, or fer-de-lance, three of the deadliest snakes on the planet. We entered the damp world of greens again—more greens than I had ever thought possible from the limited palate of my landscape painting activities back home.
We maneuvered among whole trees uprooted and thrown aside like twigs in a recent mountain downpour that must have turned this modest stream into a roaring cataract. The banks were mustached with hairy roots of bushes and ferns, newly exposed. Even the delicate clusters of bamboo, lit by filigreed light through the canopy, had been beaten and broken into piles of hollow detritus, their delicate thin leaves dying in the shallows. Yet, even a few days after the storm, new bamboo shoots were emerging from the mulch. The eternal cycle again. Life begetting death begetting life. A valuable reminder of my own mortality. And knowing that soon I’d be on my own in this jungle, my senses of vulnerability and mortality were particularly pronounced.
I assumed our farewells would take place in a village or riverside camp with maybe some food or fruit or rum to assuage the sadness I felt. They had been good, strong men and I would miss their humor and their endurance, particularly as I had been warned back in Yaviza that the path I would now have to follow, away from the stream, was difficult. Difficult in this territory may mean impossible for this weary wanderer with overloaded backpack and bug-bitten body.
But there was no village or camp. We simply arrived at a point where the stream made a sharp bend to the left and they pointed to a semblance of trail that disappeared into the green gloom. Then they smiled, touched my shoulder, waved, and within a minute were gone around the bend, poling their piragua to another one of their mysterious destinations. Maybe to pick up more of those frond-wrapped bundles of whatever. They didn’t say and I didn’t ask.
Okay. Now begins the real test, I thought. And I was right. What is so frustrating about this place is that, on the map, distances look so small. But on the ground, which was now beginning to rise slowly into the foothills, a mile feels like ten and I had at least fifteen—maybe twenty—more crow-flying miles to go until I reached that “peak in Darien.” Many more in wiggle-waggle, up-and-down, jungle-trail terms.
It was hard and sticky going, but slowly the disappointment at losing my friends so abruptly was replaced by a growing excitement. This was my adventure now. If I failed, it would be my fault. If I succeeded, then I’d turn the town of Turbo upside down in celebration. Frosty beer bottles began to accumulate again in my mind. Every five miles, two bottles, and an extra two when I reached the high ridges. Good deal, David. Go for it.
Another raucous night in the jungle. This time alone, but I was beginning to get used to the place now. Fears of being attacked in my pup tent by shadowy forest creatures or eaten to the bone by those big black ants I saw all day long faded. The Darien no longer felt dangerous. Challenging, certainly, in its own fetid and feverish way, but also charming. A riot of nightlife (particularly those damned tree frogs) but a riot that had occurred like clockwork over eons of time and was in no way caused by or threatening to me. It was the forest. Eternal and unchanging—unchanging, that is, if the Cuna have their way and protect its completeness, its wholeness, uninvaded by the Pan American Highway or any other panderings to so-called progress by the Panamanian government. Just let it be, I prayed that night. Let it remain as it is for the Cunas and for all of us. Eventually even those who never venture here (and I hope not many do) will sense its presence as the earth’s last untouched places become increasingly scarce and valued. We’ll know it in the air we breathe and in the rains, maybe even in new medicines and foods. Maybe some will even know it because of the journeys made by individuals of questionable sanity, myself included, and in the words we carry back from peoples like the Cunas. Maybe.
Sleep came quickly.
Somehow, along the trail during the following two days I missed a village the Indians had told me about and finally dragged myself into the ancient community of Paya, a Cuna tribal cultural nexus, around dusk. I was hungry, worn out, drenched in sweat, and in need of human contact and comfort.
A narrow river flowed by the village of bamboo and palm-frond huts. The river was a tributary of the Tuira. If only my two Indian guides had kept on going to Paya as I originally thought they intended, I would have been saved almost three days of hard hiking.
It was the women I noticed first. Compared to the simply adorned and often bare-breasted Chocos I had met during the earlier part of the journey, the Cuna ladies strutted proudly in all their finery—bright red and yellow scarves framing heads liberally adorned in huge silver and gold earrings, nose rings, and necklaces of pearls and coral, all in a rich display of wealth and status. But most dramatic were their red mola blouses, hand-decorated in ornate geometric and animal patterns. Even in the dusky light the colors of their clothes and jewelry glowed and flashed in the light of cooking fires.
The men were far more modestly dressed—old jeans, rag-bottomed shorts, and loose shirts. As Paya was supposedly one of the most important mountain villages of the thirty-thousand-strong Cuna tribe, I thought at least the headman might come decorated in appropriate regal accoutrements. But he wasn’t even there. One of his sons explained that he had been called “off the mountain” to attend a council meeting with members of the tribe on the San Blas Islands, that scattering of miniature paradises off Panama’s Atlantic coast.
The son was not altogether unfamiliar with strangers entering his father’s domain in this condition. Since a National Geographic expedition attempted to cross the Darien by Jeep back in 1960, he has seen a handful of curious travelers like myself trying to accomplish the same feat by piragua and trek.
“You have come a long way.” He smiled and spoke slow, clear English while offering me a banana-frond plate heaped with succulent fried plantain. The women watched and giggled as I devoured slice after slice. I tried to be polite, but the food—any food—was so delicious that I’m sure I broke all the rules of protocol and munched away blissfully as the chief’s son talked to me about his father’s journey.
“He is trying to protect our homeland. It seems every year it becomes more and more threatened. There have been so many plans to take our trees, make our islands into places for tourists, build roads through our forest, and bring cattle into the lowland along the coast.”
“Yes, I have heard of many of these things,” I said. “But so far you seem to have been able to stop the government. Someone told me that tale of General Torrijos at your council meeting when you explained how precious the forest was to you.”
“Ah, yes. That was Rafael Harris, one of our leaders, who said those things to the general. And for a while things became quiet. But”—he shrugged—“now we have a different government.”
“What about all those organizations that are now working with you to keep the forest and the islands as permanent sanctuaries?”
“They have been very helpful and more people are joining them. But—well, we will have to wait.” Then he laughed. “I can see you are very hungry.”
I hadn’t realized that I’d eaten all the plantain slices.
He waved and another banana-frond platter appeared, brought by a young girl dressed in one of those finely embroidered mola blouses.
“You are very kind. I didn’t know I was so hungry. But now it’s my turn. I would like to give you a gift.”
I had noticed his eyes following my pen as I scribbled notes of our conversation. “May I give you this pen? I know your people are among the best-educated tribes in the Americas—I’m sure this may be useful.”
He smiled and pointed proudly to the school building across the clearing. It was in the process of being extended.
“We believe education is very important. The young people must be taught the ways of our tribe, but also we must und
erstand the ways of others. In that way we can survive.”
“Well—from what I’ve read, you’ve done pretty well so far. And you’ve still got your land.”
“Much less than we once had.”
“Yes, I know, but maybe you can show us how to solve some of the problems that the world is only just beginning to face.”
“There are many maybes,” he said, and smiled. “You see, our people—our culture—it is very ancient. Many things are hard to explain, maybe hard for you to understand. Preservation is a word you might use—a word many of the people who help us use. It suggests the possibility of alternatives…but to us, such alternatives do not really—truly—exist. You see—we are the people of the Golden Time. We believe in the Great Mother—the creator. We believe the forest is part of that Golden Time when the trees, when the houses, when the rivers—all were gold. Then that paradise—the place that was our place—became corrupted. It became a dangerous world of creatures—spirits that are dangerous to us. We call it ‘The time of the half man-half animal.’ A time when snakes had only to look at their victims to bring instant death. Poisonous plants appeared—trees grew thorns. The paradise was being lost…you understand me?”
“Yes, I think so.”
He laughed softly. “It is difficult to understand unless you are Cuna. You see, to us the spirit world and what you call the ‘real’ world are not different things…they exist together…one is a shadow of the other. Our legends have many uses—they teach us our history, morality, even what you might think of as ‘natural science’ but—more important—they tell of the central way, the way of the Great Mother…the balance of forces. For example…” He thought for a while. “All right—for example, the waters, the streams. When the rivers flood it is a sign of the guardians—the spirit guardians—of the whirlpool, releasing the power of water so that things will be brought into balance. When the waters—the streams—do not produce as they should, the guardians of the gates that lead from the spirit world to the earth world may act for us—they will open the gates and release the fish—whatever we need—into the waters for our use. We live in this—how you say?—a two—no, a dual world—where the spirits travel freely and can do much harm to us or protect us. It depends on how we treat them. Do you see?”
I nodded.
“Have you enough food?”
“Yes, I’m fine. I’m trying to understand.”
“Well, you see, when the people came after the Golden Time they had to accept many dangers. Some of the dangers have been reduced—but our earth—our place—it is still a difficult place and we must protect what we know—to keep the balance. In the forest we have places where there are many spirits—we call them Kalucanas—sacred places where only the wise men know how to enter and what things to say to the spirits. If someone who does not know these things comes too close to these places, he will feel as if a net has been thrown over him and he cannot get out. If he does not run away—if he goes on, he will face many dangers—an invisible door will open and the bad spirits will come out. He will be attacked by the man-animals—the jaguars, the snakes—they may kill him. Eat him. Anything.”
He paused and looked at me to see if I understood.
“So that is why the forest is so special to you.”
“Yes. You see, as Cuna, the spirits are part of our lives, every day. The sanctity of the Kalucanas has protected us ever since we were born. You are concerned with things like ‘environment’—‘ozone’—things like that. And that is good. You too are hoping to keep the balance of things. But to us it is different—it is part of the sacredness of our place, part of the Golden Time. And for this reason it must remain as it is. Forever. That is what Rafael Harris was trying to explain to Torrijos, but of course he had to use words the general could understand.”
“Well—I think I know what you’re saying. When I watch you speak I can feel how important this world is to you. Maybe the way I see it is a little different from you—but I think the result is the same. To understand the balance and keep the balance.”
“Yes. Keeping the balance. In that way we have our world. And you will keep the things that are precious to you too. So we all…win? We give to each other.”
“And you are giving many things to me. This is my fourth plate of plantains! That’s why I’d like you to have this pen,” I said. “It belonged to my father and I’m sure he—”
“It is your father’s pen?”
“Yes.”
“Then I cannot accept. And you should not offer it.”
He was right. I was reluctant to part with it, but gift giving, I knew, was an important part of Cuna tradition and I had so little else to give.
“May I see your notebook?”
I handed him the damp dog-eared pad in which I recorded the journey and kept sketches of people and places I’d seen.
“You did these drawings?”
“Yes. They’re only rough.”
“They are very good.” He flicked through the pages and paused at a sketch I’d done of one of my Cuna guides.
“You draw people well,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“And I thank you for your offer of a gift. I cannot accept the pen of your father, but I would like you to do a drawing of me.” (Memories of Juan in the Venezuelan Andes!)
“I’d be delighted.”
“Good. In the morning we will meet and you can do the drawing. And tonight I would like you to sleep in one of our houses. Many of our village have gone with my father and their houses are empty. This man will show you where to go.”
A young boy was beckoned. The chief’s son said something quietly and I was led across the clearing to a small bamboo and thatch hut on the edge of the village. Except for two crudely carved stools, a pile of wooden bowls in the corner, and a bamboo mat, the place was empty. The supports consisted of thick lengths of bamboo tied together with hemp rope and topped with an elaborate roof of folded palm leaves secured by more rope. The boy vanished and returned a few minutes later with yet another banana-leaf plate of fried plantains and chunks of fresh avocado.
I spread my tent as a groundsheet over the mat, used a pile of my sweat-stained clothes as a pillow, and proceeded to eat yet one more evening snack. Outside was dark and the jungle chorus began on schedule. People moved about, their shadows flickering against the huts behind the cooking fires.
But once again, sleep came too quickly. Possibly in midbite of a particularly succulent slice of plantain, because I woke briefly at one point during the night and discovered my arm smeared in squashed banana pulp.
The next morning, after a breakfast of—you got it—fried plantain I sketched the chief’s son, who wore a feathered headdress and long necklaces of monkey teeth.
“To the Cuna, these teeth are very important,” he told me as I sat cross-legged outside his house. “Like the Christian peoples, we believe that after death we enter another life. There are many levels in this life and one thing that helps a man reach a high level is the number of his necklaces. These are the teeth of what you call the white-faced monkey. These monkeys are quite fierce and to kill such a creature is considered brave. So—the more monkeys you kill, the longer becomes your necklace of teeth, and the more honor you will have in the next life.”
He smiled as he talked, as if he didn’t quite believe in such ideas.
I was pleased with the sketch and handed it to him. He stared at it for a long time and then laughed.
“Yes. This is a fine gift, my friend. I will keep this in my house.”
Other Cuna clustered about, but he shooed them away and held the sketch to his chest.
“And I have something for you.”
He took off his headdress, reached around his neck, and lifted one of the necklaces over his head.
“Come here. Take off your hat.”
I removed the soggy, tattered canvas remnant of what started as quite a smart bush hat back in Panama City.
He placed the necklace g
ently around my neck. “Now you too will have good life in the next place!”
“But I didn’t kill these monkeys.”
“Ah—that doesn’t matter. I gave it to you, so it is the same thing.”
He winked as if to reinforce again the idea that he didn’t take all these beliefs too seriously.
“This is a wonderful gift. I shall keep this always,” I said.
“And I will keep this too,” he replied, holding the sketch like a precious piece of porcelain.
I spent the day wandering around the village, talking with the people and visiting their carefully nurtured gardens of bananas, mangoes, papayas, and avocados. With the exception of a few chickens and peccaries, the Cuna seemed to depend on a largely vegetarian diet. They looked fit and happy, proud of themselves and their reputation as of one of the most advanced of all Latin American native people.
I had hoped to watch one of their community meetings, a centuries-old practice of equitable democracy in which all tribal issues and disputes, including the selection of the chief, are resolved by discussion and consensus. But, with the present chief and many of his associates away on the San Blas Islands, the sturdy bamboo and thatch community house remained empty.
His son outlined some of the strict protocols of these community meetings. “They can be very complex,” he said. “The number of these meetings in a village tell you how important that village is. There are two main types—the chanting and singing meetings, where all the villagers come. The men who know the correct chants and songs are very important. Usually we vote them to chiefs. And then we have the special meetings for only the men when the conversation and discussion is very—what do you say?—like a church ritual—yes, like a ritual. We discuss something and when no one has any more to say, we reach a decision without voting.”
“By consensus, you mean?”
