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.