It's All About the Beans

Just as the end of October in Indiana evokes images of colorful falling leaves and weekend football games, my new residence in the foothills of the Chiriquí highlands, has a distinct end-of-October feel. At the height of the rainy season, the community is vigorously working to plant beans in the recently fallow fields. It’s almost as if this year's bean harvest will bring prosperity to the humble agricultural community. It all begins with the annual siembra or sowing period.

Although Panama's climate allows for three harvests in a year’s time, it is more practical to rotate the traditional crops of corn and beans, allowing for two harvests a year with brief fallow periods in between. Indiana, too, has its fair share of corn and beans. The locals, surprised that mi lugar or my place has the same crops, commonly ask me the beginning to end agricultural process used in the United States. I envision combines working in the fields and answer in ignorance, “Pura maquina. Pure machine.”

Despite my ignorance to agricultural practices in the States, I am now well versed in Panama’s campo agriculture. It starts with a machete, gancho, and a fallow field. A gancho is a curved stick held in the opposite hand as the machete and used to clear the freshly cut monte or brush and grass. By tirando la mocha, literally throwing the machete, one must clear the overgrown pasture to a reasonable height. It’s a repetitive process of swinging the machete and removing the freshly cut grass with the gancho, slowly clearing the field one swift stroke at a time.

The dexterity and skill the local farmers use while clearing a brush-field plot are astonishing. The amount of land I clear in three or four strokes is equivalent to one of their proficient swings. Manuel, a good friend of mine and competent farmer, always jokes that Panamanians are given a machete at birth to cut their own umbilical cord. Of course he is exaggerating, but they do begin using machetes at an early age. Manuel’s three year-old son carries a dulled machete around the house, emulating his papá.

Shortly after clearing the plot of overgrown grasses and dried corn stalks, it’s time to sembrar or plant. To plant, one must tackle the land with a new tool, the coa. A coa resembles a javelin, a long stick with a small metal point at the end, and is used to make small holes in the ground. The process is tedious. With the beans in a small plastic bucket, called a coco, secured around the waist, one makes a hole in the ground with the coa and drops three beans into the hole. Move one small step forward and do it again. This is a straightforward yet laborious method of planting. Although the locals accomplish this task with grace, I can assure you that it’s not as simple as they make it look.

I’m now competent with a coa, but I vividly remember my first day planting beans. It was a work junta. Nine men, nine coas, a couple hundred pounds of seeds, and the common goal to plant the seeds. My hands, uncallused, were quick to blister with each puncture that I put into the ground. I quietly cursed the cattle that had recently feasted in this plot, compacting the ground. The morning sun was hot and the breeze stagnant. The beans stuck to my sweaty hands, making it nearly impossible to drop them three feet into the little hole. Even if I could have accurately dropped the beans, there were still grass and brush preventing a direct drop. In parts, the incline grew steep, making it difficult to walk, much less manage a coa. On top of this, I was trying to hold my end of the conversation in Spanish. It was a trying day, but with each day of planting, I became more adept to the task.

From October to March, porotos or beans are the economy of my new residence. Of course in an agricultural community, crops are a stronghold on the job force. Jobs include throwing a machete, planting beans, fertilizing, fumigating, harvesting, taking the beans to market, among others. On average, a day’s work will earn you $5 and lunch. Some pay $4 with three meals, others up to $7 without food. There isn’t a fixed rate, but by comparison in the States, it doesn’t amount to much. In the past year, I’ve learned to explain basic economic principles using beans as commodity instead of money. Farmers often give me a blank stare as I talk about the market in terms of dollars, but they’ll understand the same explanation in terms of beans.

Equally important as the economic significance of beans, is the camaraderie it generates. A misty afternoon in October, men sit around planning who’s going to help who. Many times money doesn’t trade hands; simply, I’ll help you sembrar Wednesday if you help me Thursday. As they work, the men salomar, a mix between a shout and a yodel, from one hillside to the next. The work is difficult, but often referred to as a juego or game. They joke and salomar throughout the day to help the time pass.

February comes around, men, women, and children will arrancar or pull the bean plants from the ground. Grouped together the plants are placed roots up, drying under the summer sun. Once dried and collected from the field, the dried pods, laying on a wire mesh, can now be hit with a stick in order to free the beans from the pods. The beans fall through the mesh into a saco or sack. After separating the basura or trash, they are ready to take to market. A good harvest will yield twenty beans for every one planted.

The magical process of turning one bean into many allows us to enjoy baked beans at a summer picnic or chili on a cool fall night. It’s easy to enjoy the end product, but we often forget the process that brings us the product. Beans are often more than a tasty meal, in some cases, they are a way of life.

Boca de Río Chiriquí

The turquoise water ebbs and swells as wave's energy mysteriously makes its way from the horizon toward the palm tree lined beaches. A pelican flies just inches over the breaking waves as if it were surfing on an invisible surfboard parallel to the shore. As the water crashes over itself, the pelican soars upward, preparing itself to surf the next wave or perhaps plunge pouched-beak first into the sea in hopes of catching lunch. The wave advances inland and retreats leaving sea foam to disappear into the tan sand. An occasional wave will steal a palm tree's fallen coconut and send it to a far off shore. Behind the line of palm trees, a forest stretches out and over the quickly rising mountains. The seemingly virgin expanse evokes my curiosity to know what's over the highest peak. Right now the highest peak is enshrouded with gray clouds confirming the highland's eminent October rains. As I look seaward, however, the clouds are white and fluffy. They only seem to be there to keep the colliding sea and sky from being too blue.

As we ride parallel to the shore, the boat's motor makes an incessant hum sedating any of my petty thought that may normally fill my mind with wonder or worry. Instead, a grin fills my face as if I can take in my surroundings with a smile.

The boat veers from its parallel course and turns towards a river mouth. At the mouth of the river, a group of people congregate on the beach and near the water's edge. A closer look reveals that they are fishing. The river drives bugs and other small critters towards the ocean as fish wait for a snack in brackish water. The fishing rig is simple: a nail bent in half and tied to a string. The deluxe edition has a glass soda bottle that you can use to reel in your catch.

The river mouth is not only a fresh fish market, but also a crossroads. Canoe-like boats are ubiquitous where the river meets the sea. These botecitos are hollowed out from a single tree trunk and an important part of transportation in this river and sea community. Kids are sent upriver to catch camarones or shrimp to use as bait. A young boy, sporting red briefs, stands up in the back of the botecito and paddles towards the river mouth where his dad awaits the bait. In the front, his younger brother, that can't be more than three years old, sits in the floor of the botecito and holds on tight as they bob over our boat's wake. Another man paddles across the river as he guides a swimming horse by the reigns.

Just past the beach and little ways up the river, the two banks couldn't look more different. As I look to the starboard side, I see a vast expanse of green, flat land. I can't help but envision it as a flood plain during the highland's wet months. Despite my apprehension of floods, stilted wooden houses are scattered about this expanse with penca or palm tree frond roofs. Extending from the houses are lines filled with drying clothes. The clothes are washed right there in the shallows of the river. Cattle grazes freely around the houses and steals an occasional drink from the river. There are no fences in this part of the world. Fences aren't used to keep cows in, but to keep them out.

Our boat doesn't follow my eyes and we begin to make our way to the opposite bank. If the floodplains were the suburbs, this side is downtown. This side has the school, tienda, and health center. The commuting students line the river's bank with botecitos. Outside the tienda students play bolitos or marbles in the sandy, shaded paths. The school is teeming with kids in blue or white uniform shirts and navy pants or skirts; shoes are optional.

The point of this trip is to educate the community on HIV/AIDS. The radio announcement proclaiming our arrival wasn't broadcasted to this community. We gather the student body to make known our presence and invite them to tomorrow's community-wide activity. Many people have warned me about giving charlas in the Comarca Ngäbe-Bugle. They say, ¨Be ready for blank stares.¨ They mean the predominant Ngäbere population of students, parents, etc. may listen attentively but is often bashful in groups. However, we find quite the contrary during our visit to the school. One boy says jokingly in Spanish, ¨We don't understand. Talk in the dialect.¨ The dialect being the native indigenous language. We know that he is kidding because the Latino teachers speak Spanish.

Our evening is free to scout out the community. The sound of waves is not far off and sitting on the beach does sound enticing. As we cross over a bridge, kids run and jump from the bridge into the shallow water below. A young boy already accustomed to our presence, runs up to me and stands with his hand on the top of his head. He backs away, his hand still on my hip, surprised that he's only as tall as my legs. His friends come and follow his example. We walk a little farther on a sandy path until we get to the beach where we meet a setting sun. We sit on a log with our toes in the sand. We have arrived. Tomorrow we give charlas, but tonight we listen to the waves as we eat Johnny cakes.

Mud House Junta

The long-standing Panamanian tradition of the junta brings people together. Everyone counts; everyone carries their weight. The men, women, and children all do what they must to achieve a common goal. Today's goal: make Kalli a house…of mud.

As we stroll from the neighboring town it is noted that we, four other gringos and I, come bearing gifts, most notably 2 chickens and a 5 gallon bucket of guarapo. This is our cooperación or contribution to today’s festivities. Guarapo also known as chicha is a corn drink made with sugar cane sugar. It comes in two varieties: dulce and fuerte. Dulce meaning sweet, is how it first begins, but wait a few days and it ferments and becomes fuerte or strong. This is the fuel for today’s work.

Just as most places in the Panamanian campo, we are warmly welcomed upon arrival. A group of about ten men have already broken ground, that is, they’ve started making the pila. The pila is a perfectly round pit about knee deep and six feet in diameter. Here we will mix dirt, water, and paja or grass to make the walls of the house.

The frame of the house is already in place. It is a simple yet intricate design of posts, sticks, smaller sticks, and vines. The posts or young, debranched tree trunks are attached to stakes, embedded solidly into the ground. The other vertical supports are inch thick sticks evenly spaced between posts. Horizontal support is given by long sticks of the sumba tree. They are attached to all vertical sticks by vines. Victorino explains, “All products are natural.” He continues, “The roof is zinc, that comes from afuera, but it used to be made of dried grass.

As the materials are being collected, we, the gringos, migrate towards a nearby house. In this highly polarized culture, women have assembled in the kitchen to do a different, albeit vital duty for today's junta. They will cook about fifty pounds of rice and 8 chickens worth of soup. Food is crucial to the success of any junta; that and chicha are your day's pay. The women explain, “Today is a small junta, so we will eat chicken. A pig or a cow is necessary for larger ones.”

The work near the house continues despite our absence. It is evident that each participant in today's junta will stake out a special task. Some will break up dirt, others will collect grass, others water, some will play in the pila. The jóvenes or young men bring water from nearby streams. Two teams are necessary. One team uses a 55 gallon drum roped on two long poles of cañaza or bamboo. The other uses agua de vaca, a large leather hide tied together like a big water balloon and carried by four-plus people. Those in the pila tend to be older men of the community and the gringos.

The pila is today's mixing bowl. The recipe is simple: a lot of water, add mud, and stir. Our feet, moving in a pendulum motion, are the mixers. This step is repeated to desired thickness (think brownie batter only less tasty). The paja is added and submersed to form bloques, a term used jokingly to compare to a house made of cement blocks, a rich person's material.

Today's pila is more than a mixing of ingredients, it's a mixing of cultures. The junta is the campesino's opportunity to describe their culture to the gringos. As we mix, they explain anything from how to make chicha fuerte to the juntas they had back in the day. As the mud mixers get to know each other, we begin to gritar or shout. Somebody shouts, “AOOOOH-AH.” We repeat. If often ends when the gritos get shorter until at once everybody just starts barking like dogs. To the outsider, it may appear that the gritadores are a bit crazy, but once you experience it, you realize that it's simply a way to keep oneself entertained as you work.

Once the pila is well mixed, we hand the amalgamation to the kids and jóvenes who carry it to the house. The kids, earning their day's pay; carry as much as they can. In the process, they cover themselves from head to toe in the mud-grass blend. Others wait at the house and slop it onto the already made frame. Although the house is relatively small, three pilas worth of mud isn't enough to cover all the walls. It will have to be finished another day.

As guests in Panamá, we are invited to eat first, our pay. We are each presented with a pile of rice with chicken and yucca in soup broth. The rest, men, women, and children, are then served. Everyone eats. Everyone counts.

Ngäbes' True Colors

The most beautiful feature of the Panamanian campo is the people. Don't get me wrong, the countryside is liberating, it shouts, "come, stay, enjoy." It welcomes you with blue skies and green mountains and surprises you with waterfalls and cliffs so high, you get apprehensive just looking towards the peak. You go for the scenery and stay for the people.

After a day of hiking, we come to a small Ngäbe village noted by conical shaped houses with thatched roofs. The Ngäbes are an indigenous group that live primarily in western Panamá. As we come over the hill, we're surprised to see hundreds of people congregated around the school. Women decorated in a colorful, yet simple dress called the nagua are distinguished by contrasting colors and dientes, over-lapping zig-zag patterns. Nagua-dressed women cover the scene like a field of wildflowers. Men gather telling stories and sharing jokes. The kids play and laugh. The sight brings to mind a park on a warm, spring, Sunday afternoon.

The day's hike has left our stomachs feeling empty. It's time to eat. We bring rice and sardines willing to share with the family that cooks for us. The proposition is warmly accepted and the family invites us to their home. Their home is a collection of unique, thatched houses. One hut is for cooking, the others are for sleeping. Although both parties speak in their second language, Spanish, we have no problem understanding eachother. The Ngäbes native language is Ngäbere.

Today is election day. People from all over the district have gathered here in hopes that their candidate will amass enough votes to win. They all long that the next five years will be politically fruitful, they wait for the final tally knowing it may not beat the rising sun. Luckily, the night is clear. After a week of torrential rains, we've been blessed with a cool, starry night.

The night is dark. The school is the only building for miles with light, as it has a solar panel and a TV. Many have rarely, if ever, seen TV. They flock to it like bugs to a light. Others, ill-prepared to camp, lay down on the grass to sleep. Not ready to make the cool ground our bed, we sit around a fire. My friend, Bhoj, has the idea to make coffee. Having a pound of coffee already in his bag, he collects a large pot and buys a pound of sugar. In less than 15 minutes, our coffee rivals the TV. A line forms and we instantly make 40 new friends. Sitting around the fire, we talk about eachothers' traditions and homelands. The rest of the evening is highlighted by stories, jokes, and my friend Nate's use of their native tongue.

In the city, Ngäbes appear shy, but here in their own land, you see their true colors. They have personalities as vibrant as their dresses. The people are the true beauty of this beautiful land.