I don't mind the sun sometimes, the images it shows...

One word for the month of November: WET. It rains all the time. Everything I own is wet, wet from walking in the rain. The clothes I fall asleep in are damp, my clean clothes never dry after washing them, and everything in my house gets wet when the water comes in through the slats in the wall. I’m wet all the time, it’s getting obnoxious.

Well lobster season has ended but swordfish season has definitely arrived! I’m not sure which I like more and which I deserve less??!?! Boiled bananas included, I’m not complaining about the food here…not in the least.

On the weekends here, at the school, movies are shown. One comfortably warm and humid Saturday night I decided to join my host family in watching an Arnold Schwarzenegger Sci-Fi thriller about a robot alien that could disappear into the jungle and kill people with lasers that squirted out of its eyes…..I know…it was in English, without Spanish sub titles, yet about 30 Ngobes watched. I was the only one who could understand it. It might have been the worst movie I’ve ever seen, ever ever, yet with about ten minutes of the movie left, I could not pull myself away from this brush with technology, even though Brazilda (my host mom) was bugging me to go home before the rain started. No, I said, I need to see the climax of this poorly acted, circa 1995 thriller of California’s politician’s past. Well, as you will read on in more pieces of this blog, the RAIN HERE IS NO JOKE!

When we left, ten minutes later than Brazilda wanted, the two of us plus 5 year old Chi Chi got caught in a complete down pour. It was 200 yards down to her house, in complete darkness, barefoot with mud up to my knees and holding on to Brazilda’s hand for dear life. I was scared, and soaked instantly. Good thing I caught the end of that awesomely good movie to be stuck in this mess. I think the rain has a personality of its own. It’s so strong…..it’s like an animal. Standing on my porch I’m able to see it, and hear it coming across the ocean. A minute later is hits my zinc roof and I wonder how rocks are not falling from the sky with all the noise it makes.

Once inside I changed into my pjs. And by pjs I mean the skirt I wore the day before, a lax penny, and my under armor hoodie, my most worn item of clothing thus far minus sports bras and board shorts of course. I came out of my room and within some crazy mix of fast Spanish and Ngobere language thrown in, I’m 95% sure that Brazilda said to me…”hey asshole, way to make us wait ten more minutes” (to see the end of the stupidest movie ever and get caught in the rain). “ooopppss,” I replied. “My bad.”

For the election of our remarkable new Prez, Barak Obama, I went to David to see my friends, drink a beer, play poker and watch the election coverage in the casino. After the election, I returned to Punta Sirain to a very different housing setup that when I had left. Our home, and my bedroom, was now the birthing arena for the 20 year old very pregnant cousin to Brazilda. I was so pumped, I was gonna be there to witness childbirth….not in a hospital! That night was kinda ridiculous. They kicked all the men out of the house and made them sleep somewhere else, then all the women in our large family came over to hang out. We all lay around on the floor in the dark and they talk and gossip about god knows what because they do it in Ngobere. We, and by we I mean they, talked about kids and food and being preggers and the usual female discussion, by kerosene light that went on into the night. The women also love to touch me. They touch my skin and my hair, they look at my eyes and poke the freckles I have on my arms. They wonder why there is hair on my legs. The hair on my head does not go un-braided. It’s kind of funny hanging out with them cause they are genuinely fascinated with my body cause its so different from their short, chubby, dark hair and skinned physique. Liz, Kendall, and Pritch, remember all those women’s studies classes I took sophomore year(the best year ever, mmmm whatcha said)?? Well, in this house, I was living WOMS 101, there was so much estrogen and talk about babies in these final days of baby’s mama’s gestation that I think I developed hot flashes from being in the vicinity.

Anyways, two mornings later, at 5:45 am, the little angel pooped out into the world….and I slept through it!

I am NOT a heavy sleeper. Just when I arose out of bed at 7:30 am that morning, I was quickly rushed into the room of birth, pushed down onto the floor, and handed the beautiful, clean, smiley swished face of the 1.5 hour old baby Ngobe girl. It was nuts! And I’m soooooooo mad I missed the actual event. I know I was having some crazy dream that night from my Malaria medicine, but really, too sleep through a birth in the room next door that I can see through the cracks in the walls?!?! On the other hand, they don’t scream or yell like us wimpy Americans, they just birth their kids and move on with their lives, breastfeeding them like 38457938457389 times a day. So much breastfeeding, I had no idea it took that much feeding.

On to other adventures….

The finca, aka the banana farms that the families in my community all own and eat from, are a joyous little adventure that, when I’m bored and lucky, get to go too. Clad in my spandex under armor pants, a dirty sticky banana juice stained tee shirt, rubber booties and of course the pena-less braids, my host family let me accompany them to the finca one early Saturday morn. In Punta Sirain, this is no walk in the park. We loaded up in the dugout canoe with my host dad in back, then his wife, and her sister in front, then they put me in the middle on the bottom of the canoe, without a paddle, and we sailed off….

After an hour of paddling we arrived on the opposite side of the bay and among a shore of mangroves…..following the river we headed into the jungle on the mangrove river for about 15 minutes. I barley turned my head and the mangroves resided and a dark tropical jungle covered the banks. Vines, monkeys and flowers were everywhere. As my indigenous escorts paddled me through the Indiana Jones themed river excursion all I could think about was how we, in the United States do not reenact a Disney ride (or are the Disney rides reenacting THIS) to get our food. How boring we have it. A trip to the grocery store is not nearly as fun as this 1.5 hours canoe ride to the finca. The super market is ONLY fun, only a little bit fun, when blueberries are on sale, they carry all 16 varieties of Tribe humus, and there’s enough free samples around the store so that when you leave you’re not even hungry enough to make the sandwich you set out to furnish in said building of products. Here, on the water, I experienced something that no tour guide or travel book can provide. Simply going out to the family farm, in a canoe, to feed the mouths of their children.

The finca, as usual, was a fun time. Full of green and some yellow bananas and the native root vegetable, Nyame, kinda like a potato, we harvested and filled the string chakra bags till they were about to bust. I wear my spandex under armor, a high pony tail and a bandana to the finca, with my booties. Now this might sound strange, but the spandex keeps the bugs, critters, and spiky plants off my legs as well as allows me to hike around easily. As Jackson, past volunteer of the peninsula’s past put it so eloquently, “90s rock concert or the finca, you’d never know in that outfit.” Now, I consider myself a strong woman, always have. Physically, definitely. Mentally, yes. Emotionally, well not so much but I’m working on it. But this trip to the finca kicked my ass. After hiking, digging up Nyame, climbing up the slope of the finca while balancing a 60 lb. chakra on my head, and then paddling for an hour and half back to town, I was exhausted. Once home, a refreshing glass of cool Coco Listo was ready for me (think nestle Quick, but cold). After a day’s work all I can do is eat, drink water and go to bed at 7:30 pm. But it’s cool, that’s what they do too.

This is Franklin. He’s 11. And he is my best friend. Last Monday, I got him to take his grandfather’s boat and take me fishing. For about 2 hours we talked about fish, and about his favorite food, and how his mom is one year older than me, and how he forgot where his dad lives, you know the usual stuff. He taught me to fling the line way out far to get the pescados grandes…the big fish. We didn’t catch a damn thing and as the luck would have it the weather turned sour. We paddled for Playa Raya and made camp there, pulling the boat on to the bank. The waves were up and it was raining lightly and Franklin and I happily trekked back through the forest to town, leaving the boat behind on the beach…..back…back to a bunch of pissed off Ngobe women in their mid 40s. Whoa. I was scared. They all started yelling at Franklin, then at me, then at Franklin again….apparently Franklin can’t swim…who knew??!!? So apparently in our two hour adventure, while I was fishing but really just laying in the boat tanning, I neglected to notice how far out to sea my 11-year old tour guide was taking me…..which was indeed bastante lejos….or in our native tongue….too far out……ooooopppppss, my bad.

Then I got a lecture about how Franklin is “not your kid” and I think he got a spanking of sorts. In the end, Franklin and I aren’t allowed to play together anymore. Our fishing dates have been cut off. I’m like the bad kid who got the good kid in trouble. We’re still allowed to hang out and play dominos but no fishing. Like none. It sucks, I had so much fun that morning, not catching anything but just being out on the water. It just pisses me off cause they don’t understand what a phenomenal and capable swimmer I am, even if Franklin can’t….the whole swim team concept just doesn’t translate. None of them swim for pleasure; they’re scared of the water…its weird. And then they told me next time to go with an adult. And I was like, “yo, I’ve asked to go fishing a million times and nobody would take me….except Franklin!” Besides, fishing is a man’s job remember? …ohooooohhhhh no! Can’t break that mold. I think it’s so ridiculous that they would associate me wanting to fish with the men as some sort of sexual innuendo to seduce their husbands, however fishing is their job and livelihood….but think about it…what if some cute Latino chicky from another country blasted into town and after a week asked to go to the office with your husband to “learn how he does his work” you’d be pissed too, and jealous. It’s how they provide for their families. So no fishing with the men, no fishing with Franklin and no boat of my own….yet…..so, as of right now, I can’t fish and I’m SOOOOOO FREAKIN SALTY ABOUT IT!

Everyday I try to read a little and paint a little. I try to do something physical weather that be run, swim, paddle, work on the house or…go to the finca! I’m a happier girl when I get exercise – but I’ve always been that way. When it rains and I’m trapped inside is when I get a little low and don’t feel too great. But sometimes it’s nice to just veg and practice my Spanish.

I’ve successfully read 4 books in my first month. I’m gonna share the titles of these novels cause for the sake of humor in my blogg, it’s pathetically hilarious. Before you laugh out loud at my 6th grade reading ability, please allow me to remind you that 50% of my time at THE University of Delaware was spent in the grand engineering building of DuPont Hall, calculating endless numbers of feverishly long and tedious homework problems of the calculus 3 and differential equation sorts. Lets us take a moment to remember where my skills truly lie…in math, opposite of the rest of the liberal arts world where reading it where it’s at. That is not the case for the engineering clan of dorky math kids anonymous. The other 50% of the time was clearly spent binge drinking, bar hopping, tailgating, and watching football, that being said, this is the first time in a great long while I’ve had the time to read for pleasure. My list includes, Skinny Legs and All, Cowboys are my Weakness, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, annnnnnnnnd The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants – the Second Summer. Go ahead, laugh. I think I need another month of fluff until I’m mentally ready to conquer real books. You’re invited to send ones you think I can handle.

Out there where I live, there’s two other volunteers who live on the other side of the peninsula on the Caribbean side. I had tentative dinner plan with them on November 10th. Without the conformation of a text or cell phone conversation, I politely asked my counterpart Alfredo to take me to Kusapin, the larger town where they live. The day of the 10th came, as did the rain. Around 9 am Alf came to my house and told me he wouldn’t drive me around the peninsula directly to Kusapin, but to the other side of the bay to Ensenada where I could hike…..OK sure! Why not?....so we blasted off an hour later in his motor boat to this said town of Ensenada…a 45 min ride east with not one but two dolphin sightings on this grey and misty morning.

He lead me to the edge of the path and leading his hand out over a muddy, winding corridor into the jungle and more finca, he pointed and said, “that’s the way to Kusapin, Buena suerte”, or in American….good luck. “Go down the path for a half an hour, when you reach the ocean go left..playa playa playa, then another playa playa playa, then go over the mountain and you’ll be there” …..ummmmmmm okkkkkkkkk

So I awkwardly hugged the 4’8 Ngobe man who, like his people, is un-accustomed to such wild and crazy things like hugging. Thanked him for the boat ride and directions, and set off on my adventurous journey to Kusapin. After walking for 30 minutes on the trail, I saw the light at the end of the tunnel. The playa was close, real close. The beach that emerged in front of me as I climbed up the final slope of the path stretched for about a half a mile in each direction. All of 5 Ngobe houses scattered the last few hundred yards from the jungle to the sand. Pirate islands are off on the right while a gently curving arch of palm trees melts left into the sea. I am in my own paradise, my glory beach. I sat there for about 15 minutes lookin around to the desertedness of my beach at 10:30am that morning. The classic Peace Corps thoughts flooded my mind as I sat there…


Am I really living in Panama? Is this beach really across the bay from my casa? Have I really been out of the US since August? Can I work here? No one in the world except for Alfredo knows where I am right now!!! Just doing my thing, livin my life out there. As Mathew McConaughey put once in one of my generations’ fav cult flicks, “L-I-V-I-N.”

So after I quit being all poetic and nostalgic I got up off the sand, put my backpack back on, drank some water and started walking east, towards Kusapin. The other beach did show up 20 mins later, and it was equally stunning. I found the path and kept on truckin. Parts of it was like a paved sidewalk, parts of it was a running stream that I had to walk right through the middle of, a lot of it was slippery clay mud that I would literally slide through. Nevertheless, about an hour and a half after I left Alf in Ensenada I came to a clearing and Kusapin appeared before my eyes.

It took me a little while to find Jamie and Johanna since they were teaching in the school and I was wandering around aimlessly and unannounced asking random Ngobes in my shotty Spanish where these chicks lived.

Upon enjoying an ice cold Coca Cola and coconut bread from a little store, Johanna rolled up, I, or she was found, and we spend the next few days talkin about Peace Corps life, the peninsula, and just about everything else in the world, while cooking some good food and enjoying the last few days of sunshine before the storm came in…..

This is when tales from the Isthmus gets exciting…..

On Wednesday, November 19, 2008, it started to rain in the Caribbean coastal province of Bocas Del Toro and the Ni Kro region of Comarca Ngobe-Bugle, and it decided not to stop (I told you the rain has a personality). The wind was beyond strong and the amount of rain that fell from the sky that first couple of days was like nothing I had ever witnessed before. But, remembering back to culture week when Jack and Melissa warned me of the November/December weather, I thought nothing of it besides being pissed off that I was wet all the time and that my legs were getting worse and worse each day from bug bites that were turning towards infection since they couldn’t dry out. On Friday, I was able to wrap my house in a tarp that I bought and creatively waterproofed the sides. Now, the sheets of rain would quit getting the sheets on my bed completely, and obnoxiously saturated. On Saturday, with no cell service to be found I attempted to get in touch with my other group 62 Bocas volunteers to double check that our plan for Thanksgiving to rendezvous on the island with the Ex-Pats was still on. This failed cause service was down all weekend….weird….I wonder why? Sunday it rained, but I heard word (actually read text) that turkey would be served come Thursday… so things seemed good. Monday I packed and did more house waterproofing, preparing myself accordingly by plastic wrapping my mildew filled clothing. I was mentally ready to leave town for a delicious dinner. That evening, packed and ready to go to take the 6am boat outta there, my host family, radio in hand and rain pouring in through the pinka thatch roof, said to me “ummmmmm Edi, you’re not going anywhere near the islands tomorrow, there’s bad weather out there, like really bad.”

Whatever could you mean???? Oh I’ll be fine. No really I’ll be ok. I’m gonna go talk to the schoolteachers cause I can’t understand you crazy folks. This is when I get really pissed that my Spanish communication skills….for lack of better words, suck balls.

In the rain up to the school I venture to talk to the teachers. They pull me into the office, sit me down, and close the door and asked me what’s up. And I was like, “No, what is up around here? What is going on? I have no idea what is going on in the world. I just want to go to the island for Thanksgiving, and I want to leave tomorrow, why can’t I do that?”

“Well,” they said, “let’s start at the very beginning, a very good place to start.” And on they went explaining the series of unfortunate events that was happening in the province of Bocas which I am now about to describe….

A week before, around 1am, while asleep on the floor of Brazilda’s house I stared to sway and the house gently rumbled. I looked around in the dark and listened. Ohhhhhh I know what’s going on, I remember this from culture week, a little late night Ngobe booty shaking was going on in the next room. But then suddenly the house shook violently and unless I completely underestimated the libido of the Ngobe men, this could not be the doings of people. Sure enough, the tremors we felt were indeed not my host parents, again, but an earthquake, all the way across the isthmus on the pacific side in Chiriquí, doing its natural thing and shaking up the land all across eastern Panama and western Costa Rica. No big deal right?.. this happens all the time. But then the rain came two days later. Loose earth and heavy rains caused massive landslides all over the one road over the mountains that connects the Southern city of David to the Chiquita Banana underdeveloped land of Bocas del Toro. With the road out, gas, food, and supplies from David is out too, basically the central artery, the lifeblood of the province suffered 16 separate problem areas due to landslides. The rain didn’t stop. The rivers flooded destroying banana fincas on the west side of Bocas. There was water everywhere in the cities, so I’m told due to the poorly planned storm water drainage systems of the towns that only exist since Chiquita Banana exists. Ngobe communities including ones that other PCVs live and work in were in a state of disaster and emergency. It was a hot mess to say the least, I had no idea it was going on due to the lack of cell service where I live and my lack of Spanish comprehension. So after about 30 minutes of this conversation we concluded that I could not leave the peninsula on Tuesday for Thanksgiving. Bummer. Huge bummer. At this time I re-grouped, mentally put myself back into life amongst the Ngobes for another week or two, “Kaitlin, you’re staying put, this is Peace Corps, this is life, you can’t predict this kind of stuff and you can’t fight it. Stay another week, it’ll be fun and you can do it. Now go to bed,” says the little voices in my head.

Tuesday morning I woke up and miraculously cell service was back and I was able to get in touch with my boss who informed me the office was trying to get in touch with me for days. Kinda scary right? Kinda cool too. I was instructed to stay put and not try to leave and wait for future instructions when the severity of the situation east of me in Bocas was figured out. No prob, I was planning on that and I got over missing turkey day. So I went to the beach with Franklin, we did not get yelled at this time.

The next day, Wednesday now, at 10am I was instructed to leave…..”get out now!” The road is a disaster and there’s gonna be no food real quick. Even though my community was safe for the most part, with finca food and fish, there would be no gas, and soon….aka gas to run the boats. Timidly, I approached Alfredo asking him to take me off the peninsula. Now, this was awkward. He said to me, “well now aren’t you being difficult, first you said you were gonna leave Tuesday, then you were gonna leave this morning, now you missed the boat and now you want a special ride when the weathers bad.” Yeah it was awkward. When they finally agreed to take me to Chiriquí Grande so I could make my way up to my regional leader’s house in Changuinola, I burst into tears. I felt like such a jerk making them take me on a special trip in the bad weather. But that’s how it had to be, for my safely, I just hope they don’t all hate me now when I get back. We’ll see come Friday.

After a $40 boat ride that took 2 hours, the longest yet, in the slow dugout canoe in the biggest waves I’ve seen so far, I got a joint cab ride to Almirante, then a shot bus ride across the railroad bridge to Changuinola. Arriving at our Regional Leader’s house I kept thinking, a year ago today I was getting drunk at Scupper Jack’s with my friends from high school, a year later, today, I’m blasting out of my community to get out of this flood ridden disaster area, to the safety of the Chiriquían city of David, western Panama’s hubbub of culture and activity….kinda….at least equipped with water, food, a casino and a movie theater.

Thanksgiving Day came and the 15 of us or so were air evacuated from Changuinola to David in prop plans that held 2 pilots and 8 passengers. I think the plane was smaller than the one I went sky diving from in Australia. But over the mountains we went and it was fun. So how was your Thanksgiving? Was it nice? Who did you spend it? Ummmmm I was air- evacuated from a flood plain. We ate at TGIF’s that night. I’ve had better, but it was an exciting adventure none the less.

Now safe and sound in David, we remain in the hotel with hot water and internet until Friday, when they are busing us back to Bocas to return to our homes. We hope the road is fixed, and safe. Apparently it is, let’s pray. I’m not sure what I’m going to say to my community for leaving them such short notice for such a long periods of time. For us new volunteers this is a crucial time to be in site and be one with our people. This emergency will definitely disrupt that flow, but nothing I can’t work hard to gain back.

I certainly am lucky that my community did not suffer the damage like those close to Changuinola did. A huge shout out to Ray, Ben, and Nico who all live in communities that were devastated by the floods, and who also have done a tremendous amount of coordination and work already to assist their people with getting aid, food, and support from the disaster agencies here. I’m so impressed by my fellow volunteers whom were able to step up and be such admirable leaders in a scary situation like this. There are a lot of people without homes, without fincas and without food and water at the moment. During our time here in David we have formed some action plans on the reconstruction efforts we will be faced with upon our return. Our role as Peace Corps Volunteers will be altered after this tragedy. Instead of working on aqueducts and latrines, as planned, out efforts for at least a few months might be directed on aid distribution and home re-construction. And that’s why we’re all here right? To help in times of need. The vibe of the group is a solid and optimistic one. Not one of us is worried about returning, but excited to get back and assess damage and help. As nice as it is to sleep in a bed, instead of a wood floor in a room with 6 other people, I want to go back to my home.

So many experiences here are so unpredictable. Almost everything I imagined could or would happen has been altered or has been different in some way. Before I left, Tim told me to write down everything that I thought would be in Panama in a notebook, so that now, after adjusting, training and living in site, I could compare reality to my mathematical mind of predictions. Stupidly I did not do this. However, being air evacuated on Thanksgiving was something I could have never imagined happening within the first month of my Peace Corps service.

Crazy, crazy life I’m livin...