I´ve been here about 24 hours, and I´ve already seen all there is to see ... or at least all that´s safe for me to see. I was transported to the one place it was apparently safe enough for me to tour solo. It was the Parque Historico, also known as the Loma de Tiscapa, high on a hill overlooking the city and Lake Managua. It´s also the former site of the Presidential Palace. I say former, because it was destroyed by the earthquake in 1972 (I think; here we go with dates again). There were a couple expositions to view, one of which was regarding "The Nights of Torture." It´s a horrifying story of men being tortured for being enemies of the state (i.e. political prisioners). I stood in the space that was the dungeon. I want to read the story in English (and can´t find it in short order on the Internet), because it´s one of those stories that defines a nation, I think, and so much of it was lost in translation.
I was guided through the story and the space by Ulises (his first name is Roger, and he prefers Ulises -- his spelling, not mine). He´s a college-educated tour guide who works for the mayor. He practiced his English, and I practiced my Spanish, and we did rather well. I lamented to him that the Lake of Managua and the ruins I could see from the Historical Park were too dangerous for a tourist, and he offered to show me around, which he did. We did that on foot, and he pointed out a lot of things. We walked through the Arboretum; there was shade! We saw construction in the works. Apparently, the government is building houses for the personnel who work for various government agencies.
We also saw something ... I don´t know the word to describe it. It´s a commune of sorts of abodes "constructed" of plastic bags and tarps -- nothing more solid -- in which live people who have been contaminated by the pesticides in the banana fields. It´s about one block wide and two blocks long, and there are barely paths that wide through it. The material for pictures was endless ... and entirely too intimate to capture digitally. I have photos from a distance (which I can´t post from this Internet place). The government doesn´t bother ... and doesn´t bother with ... the people who live there. I don´t know how long they´ve been there, and there are no signs that they´re leaving soon.
Ulises and I moved on toward the water. We saw a big theater -- Teatro Nacional Rubèn Darìo -- which is one of the few buildings to have survived the 1972 earthquake. We saw the new National Palace -- Palacio Nacional ... and children begging. Five children ran up to us begging ... and I mean begging ... for the water we had. We gave it to them. One of the children followed us a ways. Ulises didn´t respond to him for the longest time, and I followed Ulises´lead. Ulises eventually gave him 5 còrdobas (it´s about a quarter) for more water. I asked, then, about the best way to respond, and he told me that giving money was not the best idea. He then told the story the boy was telling: the boy´s mother sends children out in search of money or water or food ... the basics! ... because she´s sick and cannot work.
I´d been warned about this. It was the reason I was supposed to not go there alone. Lesson learned. It was really quite unnerving. It was the same kind of unnerving that greeted me last night. I arrived via the bus and was staying at the hotel 0perated by the bus line. I wanted to walk around and get my bearings. IMMEDIATELY upon exiting the building several taxi drivers asked if I wanted a cab. That is par. That happens every time I step outside or pause too long on the sidewalk. Taxi drivers beep in the hopes they can snag another fare. As I walked last night, I was informed that it was too dangerous. ("Peligroso" is becoming a frightfully familiar word.) One man called to me from across the street asking if I wanted a taxi or was looking for a hotel. I said no to both and continued walking. When I came around again to the hotel, he spoke to me in English about it being too dangerous and how helpful he was. He told me about his aunt´s restaurant and offered to show it to me. I declined and returned to my hotel. (He greeted me the next day -- Hey, there´s my friend, he said. And I was warned by someone else to be careful about him.) It´s dark here at 6, and it´s not okay to walk ANYWHERE after dark. I stopped somewhere for batteries for my camera (it´s been dead for two days, and I felt like I lost a limb!), and the woman at the store cautioned me, too. I appreciate people giving me that information, and it´s stifling not to be able to walk around when and where I want to.
Which is why I enjoyed the tour this a.m. with Ulises. We walked and walked. The Casa Presidencial is opposite the Palacio Nacional and next to the ruins I was drawn to -- Las Ruinas de la Catedral Vieja (the Ruins of the Old Cathedral). It was built in 1929 and destroyed by the earthquake n 1972. We found the lake shore. We couldn´t walk in the water -- more signs indicating danger -- but the view was incredible! We stopped for a beer -- more research! -- and exchanged e-mail information. Ulises also talked with me about things to see outside of the city, and we´ve planned a trip to a waterfall in Masaya (read Messiah) on Saturday. He´s volunteered his time! How fantastic is that?!
I´ll attend church services Sunday morning. There is an Episcopal Church one block from where I´m staying. How providential! I´m not crazy about the neighborhood, but it´s apparently among the safest in the city, and the Church is a good sign. I´m considering flying to Bluefields early next week. I don´t necessarily need to spend more time on the Carribean Coast, as too many people speak English. However, getting out of the city is not an easy thing to do. There is a bus that apparently goes to Leòn, Masaya, and Granada, but there are none that go elsewhere, apparently, only directly to destinations in Honduras and El Salvador. I may want to visit Granada, because the Lake of Nicaragua is there. There are also a couple volcanoes to visit, I think, and I´ll want to talk with Ulises about that. There is a growing Episcopal Church in Bluefields, so that would be good to see. From there, I may fly directly to San Salvador, as the bus ride between Managua and San Salvador is 12 hrs long. OY!
The views on the trip from the border of Costa Rica to Managua are FANTASTIC, and the views (from the high places) of the city are really quite breathtaking, too. It´s really quite sad that the place is so dangerous and the people so desperate. That desperation is what is so unsettling and disquieting. It´s difficult to be present to it -- perhaps because it heightens my own feelings of vulnerability and hints at my own sense of desperation-- and I´m not doing well with it. I´m embarrassed by my response, by my wanting to escape. That´s what I´m sitting with currently. I´m in a city that in several ways is not welcoming, and I´m trying ... trying ... not to judge the people by the circumstances in which they find themself and to which they are responding.
May God help me!
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Spanish ... or Not
As most of you know, I serve with two congregatations in Sparta, Wisconsin, one Anglo and one Hispanic. While my Hispanic brothers and sisters are very generous about my Spanish, they certainly deserve better than they get from me. That was the primary reason for my coming on this trip. There are other reasons, of course, and God has a way of making that quite clear every day. Learning, listening to, and speaking Spanish, though, really were the primary reasons for my taking this journey. And it´s coming. Despacio, pero esta viniendo! Aprendo y comprendo mas cada día. (Slowly, but it is coming. I learn and understand more every day.) However, I have found myself in the part of Central America where people generally speak English.
In Panamá, I landed in the Canal Zone, which was established by the Americans when we were there helping to build and manage the Canal. The church I first worshipped in, St. Luke´s Cathedral, was founded by a U.S. Army physician. The current Bishop, a black man from Panamá, offered his homily in Spanish and English, and there were more than a few people who looked and sounded like me. I met a woman who had been born and raised in Panamá, lived in the U. S. with her husband during their professional days and retired to the place she knows as home. There were others, though, who looked nothing like me and spoke English with the most beautiful cadence and accent.
These folks were my introduction to the West Indies´ influence here in Central America. West Indians provided the hard labor necessary for construction ... of the Canal in Panama and the railroad in Costa Rica. The people I was meeting were decendents of those men and woman who came to Central America to work and raise their families. Not all of them worked in construction. As communities of laborers built up, other services were needed, and people from back home came to provide those services and soon became businessmen and women -- professionals.
The West Indians were not allowed to worship in "white" churches. I don´t know when that changed, exactly, but I was told that the racial issue in Panamá followed the same pattern as in the United States.
It was curious to know who spoke English and who did not, and my own preconceived notions (prejudices, I´m sorry to say) were challenged. I met a priest 15 or 20 years older than I am who spoke no English and one of her parishioners who spoke it well. In fact, she interpreted for me and the priest. This parishioner was an 80-year-old black woman. Imagine my surprise -- and utter joy -- at hearing her say "okey-dokey." I´m not even sure my very WASP-y grandmother says "okey-dokey."
People of West Indian heritage are why English is so prevelant on the Carribean Coast of Central America. I´m aware of the town of Bluefields, Nicaragua, also on the Carribean Coast, for whom the primary language is English. (I´ll be visiting there sometime in the next couple weeks, as there is a growing Episcopal Church there, too.) However, English is fading. The newer generations, I´ve been told, seem to be denying their black heritage and want to be known / identified only as Spanish-speaking Costa Ricans -- Ticas!
Some families choose to send their children to "English schools" to insure that their children are bilingual, even if the parents themselves are not. Private schools teach English as core curriculuum; public schools do not. There is an Episcopal School in Panama -- St. Christopher´s -- from which children will graduate fluent in English and Spanish and conversational in French. Mandarin is also offered. The Episcopal Schools are the best in Panamá. Families register their children as infants in the hopes that there will be space available when the time comes. Costa Rica may very well be following in those footsteps, but that´s another blog post.
Most of the services I´ve attended have either been in English or have been bilingual ... and heavy on the English. I´m wondering if that´s going to have to change. There are a couple generations now for whom Spanish is their first and preferred language. They are generations not found in the churches here, and I have to wonder if the language issue is part of that. In all fairness, they are probably the same generations not found in the churches in the U.S., and language isn´t the issue there. Or is it? In order to listen to the reasons the generations are not in the church and to hear what they need and hunger for, language is the issue. In the U.S., we can´t speak of traditional worship when the generations are clamoring for justice and spiritual growth. In Central America -- and here´s hoping my Central American colleagues speak to this -- the church can´t speak English when the hearts of its people grieve and celebrate in Spanish. In our communities, we are called to love people where they are. And maybe ... just maybe ... we´re called to speak to them in the language their hearts best understand.
I´ve been grateful for the English that has allowed me to receive and absorb as many of the personal stories and as much of the history as I have in these few weeks. And I´ll be grateful, too, to move into those areas that will empower me to return home and speak to the hearts of my Hispanic brothers and sisters in the language their hearts best understand.
In Panamá, I landed in the Canal Zone, which was established by the Americans when we were there helping to build and manage the Canal. The church I first worshipped in, St. Luke´s Cathedral, was founded by a U.S. Army physician. The current Bishop, a black man from Panamá, offered his homily in Spanish and English, and there were more than a few people who looked and sounded like me. I met a woman who had been born and raised in Panamá, lived in the U. S. with her husband during their professional days and retired to the place she knows as home. There were others, though, who looked nothing like me and spoke English with the most beautiful cadence and accent.
These folks were my introduction to the West Indies´ influence here in Central America. West Indians provided the hard labor necessary for construction ... of the Canal in Panama and the railroad in Costa Rica. The people I was meeting were decendents of those men and woman who came to Central America to work and raise their families. Not all of them worked in construction. As communities of laborers built up, other services were needed, and people from back home came to provide those services and soon became businessmen and women -- professionals.
The West Indians were not allowed to worship in "white" churches. I don´t know when that changed, exactly, but I was told that the racial issue in Panamá followed the same pattern as in the United States.
It was curious to know who spoke English and who did not, and my own preconceived notions (prejudices, I´m sorry to say) were challenged. I met a priest 15 or 20 years older than I am who spoke no English and one of her parishioners who spoke it well. In fact, she interpreted for me and the priest. This parishioner was an 80-year-old black woman. Imagine my surprise -- and utter joy -- at hearing her say "okey-dokey." I´m not even sure my very WASP-y grandmother says "okey-dokey."
People of West Indian heritage are why English is so prevelant on the Carribean Coast of Central America. I´m aware of the town of Bluefields, Nicaragua, also on the Carribean Coast, for whom the primary language is English. (I´ll be visiting there sometime in the next couple weeks, as there is a growing Episcopal Church there, too.) However, English is fading. The newer generations, I´ve been told, seem to be denying their black heritage and want to be known / identified only as Spanish-speaking Costa Ricans -- Ticas!
Some families choose to send their children to "English schools" to insure that their children are bilingual, even if the parents themselves are not. Private schools teach English as core curriculuum; public schools do not. There is an Episcopal School in Panama -- St. Christopher´s -- from which children will graduate fluent in English and Spanish and conversational in French. Mandarin is also offered. The Episcopal Schools are the best in Panamá. Families register their children as infants in the hopes that there will be space available when the time comes. Costa Rica may very well be following in those footsteps, but that´s another blog post.
Most of the services I´ve attended have either been in English or have been bilingual ... and heavy on the English. I´m wondering if that´s going to have to change. There are a couple generations now for whom Spanish is their first and preferred language. They are generations not found in the churches here, and I have to wonder if the language issue is part of that. In all fairness, they are probably the same generations not found in the churches in the U.S., and language isn´t the issue there. Or is it? In order to listen to the reasons the generations are not in the church and to hear what they need and hunger for, language is the issue. In the U.S., we can´t speak of traditional worship when the generations are clamoring for justice and spiritual growth. In Central America -- and here´s hoping my Central American colleagues speak to this -- the church can´t speak English when the hearts of its people grieve and celebrate in Spanish. In our communities, we are called to love people where they are. And maybe ... just maybe ... we´re called to speak to them in the language their hearts best understand.
I´ve been grateful for the English that has allowed me to receive and absorb as many of the personal stories and as much of the history as I have in these few weeks. And I´ll be grateful, too, to move into those areas that will empower me to return home and speak to the hearts of my Hispanic brothers and sisters in the language their hearts best understand.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
She eats!
And she drinks. This is me drinking and eating a coconut, or in Spanish, una pipa. It doesn't have much of a taste, just enough of one to help me know that a little goes a long way. It tastes like "after-tastes" taste. Yet ... when in Costa Rica ...
You have to kind hack into a coconut to get to the little brown cup-like thing in order to be able to drink the water. That's what I couldn't resist. A woman on a corner had done that and then presented the coconut cups with straws. It was just too cute! After you drink the water, you hack off a tiny scoop-like thing so you can eat the meat of the cocunut. It all just tastes kind of like a bitter / flat taste. Very curious, and obviously difficult to describe.
It does bring to mind my father's question about whether or not I was taking a machete with me. I said no, mostly because I couldn't fathom why on earth I'd need one. Now I know. And Dad? So sorry to have doubted you.
You have to kind hack into a coconut to get to the little brown cup-like thing in order to be able to drink the water. That's what I couldn't resist. A woman on a corner had done that and then presented the coconut cups with straws. It was just too cute! After you drink the water, you hack off a tiny scoop-like thing so you can eat the meat of the cocunut. It all just tastes kind of like a bitter / flat taste. Very curious, and obviously difficult to describe.
It does bring to mind my father's question about whether or not I was taking a machete with me. I said no, mostly because I couldn't fathom why on earth I'd need one. Now I know. And Dad? So sorry to have doubted you.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Snippets
Costa Rica has no military. It was disbanded back in the day (I´m so not great w/ dates) when the President lost the election and didn´t want to give the reigns to the new guy and used the army to support his resistance. He lost, and the military was disbanded, so something like that could never happen again. The funds that were once upon a time for the military are now used for education.
Costa Rica´s main sources of income include tourism (I´m not doing my part in that!), coffee (took a tour today), bananas (I always do my part with bananas!), and plastic surgery (I´m saying nothing.).
There´s a statue here that was made from broken guns. People turn in their guns to churches and other organizations, and the police dismantle them.
There´s a driving restriction in parts of San Jose. Everyday, a portion of the registered vehicles are not allowed to be on the road. That´s determined by the last digit of the license plate (they have no letters here like they do in the States). For example, if your license plate ends in 1 or 2, you´re not allowed to drive on Mondays, 3 and 4 aren´t allowed to drive on Tuesdays, 5 and 6 on Wednesday, etc. I could have the numbers and days wrong, but that´s the gist of it. The restriction is an effort to manage the traffic (presa) and pollution. It´s a $60.00 fine per violation, and the money goes to health service, I think.
There´s a national social security program here that provides medical care for everyone. If you´re working, as 89% of people are in Costa Rica, you pay nothing. If you´re not working, you have the opportunity to pay $10.00 per month for the same services. This program also provides retirement pensions for workers.
There´s a national lottery, too. Winners have 60 days (I think; I´m so very bad with numbers!) to claim their prizes. If they don´t, that money goes into a fund that is distributed through grants to programs that benefit the people (education, arts, sports, social services, community development, etc.).
I´ve walked in places that look really quite desolate and have been informed that the government is providing housing to move people out of shacks made from whatever scrap material was available at the time into homes that have electricity and indoor plumbing. I have photos that illustrate the difference, and when I´m able, I will add those.
I may add more snippets to this as they occur to me. I also want to blog about the work of the Episcopal Church. I just need to know where to start, and I want to do that story justice.
Stay tuned.
Costa Rica´s main sources of income include tourism (I´m not doing my part in that!), coffee (took a tour today), bananas (I always do my part with bananas!), and plastic surgery (I´m saying nothing.).
There´s a statue here that was made from broken guns. People turn in their guns to churches and other organizations, and the police dismantle them.
There´s a driving restriction in parts of San Jose. Everyday, a portion of the registered vehicles are not allowed to be on the road. That´s determined by the last digit of the license plate (they have no letters here like they do in the States). For example, if your license plate ends in 1 or 2, you´re not allowed to drive on Mondays, 3 and 4 aren´t allowed to drive on Tuesdays, 5 and 6 on Wednesday, etc. I could have the numbers and days wrong, but that´s the gist of it. The restriction is an effort to manage the traffic (presa) and pollution. It´s a $60.00 fine per violation, and the money goes to health service, I think.
There´s a national social security program here that provides medical care for everyone. If you´re working, as 89% of people are in Costa Rica, you pay nothing. If you´re not working, you have the opportunity to pay $10.00 per month for the same services. This program also provides retirement pensions for workers.
There´s a national lottery, too. Winners have 60 days (I think; I´m so very bad with numbers!) to claim their prizes. If they don´t, that money goes into a fund that is distributed through grants to programs that benefit the people (education, arts, sports, social services, community development, etc.).
I´ve walked in places that look really quite desolate and have been informed that the government is providing housing to move people out of shacks made from whatever scrap material was available at the time into homes that have electricity and indoor plumbing. I have photos that illustrate the difference, and when I´m able, I will add those.
I may add more snippets to this as they occur to me. I also want to blog about the work of the Episcopal Church. I just need to know where to start, and I want to do that story justice.
Stay tuned.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Why the Gardens ...
This picture inspired the poem below. I was touring a rather innovative day care / day treatment program (Hogar Escuela -- Home School) that is the essential work the Episcopal Church in Costa Rica is doing, and a small garden was one of the projects that a youth group came to work on. One of the participants had said "Really, a garden? There´s nothing more crucial you need done?" The bishop, who was giving me the tour, told them that children who come to the school are at-risk children who tend to live in homes that have no earth or grass to which the children have access. The poem is born of a reflection of that conversation.
Why the Gardens ...
I asked her, “Why the gardens
In barrios such as these?”
She kind of smiled and said to me,
From down there on her knees …
“I know in a garden
There are places we can go,
And they change from day to day,
So we never know …
Where the night will find us,
Our companions on the way,
Or the wonderful words of wisdom
The Spirit may have to say.
Yes, it´s in a garden
We can know that God is real,
Where our hearts and minds can quiet
And our spirits best can heal.
Oh, it´s in a garden
Where life and death combine,
Where each of us can find within
A spark of the divine.
You asked me ´Why the gardens
In barrios such as these?´
Perhaps every life of burden
Needs a place of ease."
Humbled by her answer,
My soul deeply sighed.
With no more important work to do,
I joined her at her side.
I asked her, “Why the gardens
In barrios such as these?”
She kind of smiled and said to me,
From down there on her knees …
“I know in a garden
There are places we can go,
And they change from day to day,
So we never know …
Where the night will find us,
Our companions on the way,
Or the wonderful words of wisdom
The Spirit may have to say.
Yes, it´s in a garden
We can know that God is real,
Where our hearts and minds can quiet
And our spirits best can heal.
Oh, it´s in a garden
Where life and death combine,
Where each of us can find within
A spark of the divine.
You asked me ´Why the gardens
In barrios such as these?´
Perhaps every life of burden
Needs a place of ease."
Humbled by her answer,
My soul deeply sighed.
With no more important work to do,
I joined her at her side.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Con gratitud de Panamá
I love words. They´ve served me well in my formation and vocation, and I´ve been blessed with an ability to play with them. Imagine my dismay, then, when they fail me just when I want them most.
That´s the case as I attempt to express my gratitude for the folks in the Episcopal Diocese of Panamá. I´ll never be able to name them all, and I´m not likely to get the spellings right. I won´t even attempt everyone´s title and position. So, if someone from Panamá is reading this and notices something wrong, please please please correct me. The other issue is that I´ll fall short in reporting all that everyone has done for me, and in that I simply ask that you know that my heart remembers.
So, with no kind of poetry ... My deepest, heart-filled gratitude goes to ...
Reverenda Carmen -- for taking me to see Colón and for talking to me all the while in Spanish.
Cynthia -- for offering to share her room with me and for introducing me to folks.
Sue -- for sharing her apartment ... free of charge.
Roberto -- for good-naturedly helping me expand my Spanish vocabulary.
Reverenda Maize -- for sharng her story and the history of the church and for giving me a way to think about the mission field that helps me to know I can walk with anyone in it.
Walter -- for sharing his deacon heart, his story, his love for the Church, his passion for all things cross-cultural , and his parish.
Reverenda Glenda -- for so very much! For arranging my introduction to churches and the priests and who serve them, for sharing her story and her work, for feeding me, for making travel arrangements, for making sure I have what I need, and for her laughter! Oh, and for sharing some fun words with me!
Fr. Iladio -- for introducing me to ¨chicheme" (think sweetcorn smoothie!) and to "el campo" and for his patience with my Spanish.
Kelly -- for his transporting me to the beautiful countryside, for walking with me, and for his patience with my Spanish.
Patricia -- for her stewardship of the hope of the young people of Panamá.
There have been others who have shared with me the work they do in the diocese, some in formation for Holy Orders and some already ordained who donate their time and talents to the church. I´m grateful for their commitment to the Church and to God´s children in Panamá. Everyone has been a part of my continuing formation, and as those of you who know me well, know there are few things I value more.
Peace be to the Episcopal Diocese of Panamá!
That´s the case as I attempt to express my gratitude for the folks in the Episcopal Diocese of Panamá. I´ll never be able to name them all, and I´m not likely to get the spellings right. I won´t even attempt everyone´s title and position. So, if someone from Panamá is reading this and notices something wrong, please please please correct me. The other issue is that I´ll fall short in reporting all that everyone has done for me, and in that I simply ask that you know that my heart remembers.
So, with no kind of poetry ... My deepest, heart-filled gratitude goes to ...
Reverenda Carmen -- for taking me to see Colón and for talking to me all the while in Spanish.
Cynthia -- for offering to share her room with me and for introducing me to folks.
Sue -- for sharing her apartment ... free of charge.
Roberto -- for good-naturedly helping me expand my Spanish vocabulary.
Reverenda Maize -- for sharng her story and the history of the church and for giving me a way to think about the mission field that helps me to know I can walk with anyone in it.
Walter -- for sharing his deacon heart, his story, his love for the Church, his passion for all things cross-cultural , and his parish.
Reverenda Glenda -- for so very much! For arranging my introduction to churches and the priests and who serve them, for sharing her story and her work, for feeding me, for making travel arrangements, for making sure I have what I need, and for her laughter! Oh, and for sharing some fun words with me!
Fr. Iladio -- for introducing me to ¨chicheme" (think sweetcorn smoothie!) and to "el campo" and for his patience with my Spanish.
Kelly -- for his transporting me to the beautiful countryside, for walking with me, and for his patience with my Spanish.
Patricia -- for her stewardship of the hope of the young people of Panamá.
There have been others who have shared with me the work they do in the diocese, some in formation for Holy Orders and some already ordained who donate their time and talents to the church. I´m grateful for their commitment to the Church and to God´s children in Panamá. Everyone has been a part of my continuing formation, and as those of you who know me well, know there are few things I value more.
Peace be to the Episcopal Diocese of Panamá!
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Panama Canal
There is no way for the photos to do justice to the awesome event that is the Panama Canal. I was at Miraflores today as ships moved through it. ¡Muy impresionante! (Very impressive!) I´d been thinking that we have the Lock and Dam system on the Mississippi River. How much different could this be? I was prepared to be under-whelmed, thinking there was no way it could live up to its hype. I was mistaken! It was just brilliant. It may very well be the best example of America contributing to the Common Good! It was good that we helped build it, and it´s good that we gave control of it back to the Republic of Panama. That happened at noon on 12-31-99. There are plans to expand the canal, to add another lock on each side of it. Those are scheduled to be open for operation in 2014, which is 100 years after the inaugural crossing on 8-15-1914. 
The Pictures I Couldn´t Take
People have been commenting that the pictures I´ve posted really help to tell my stories. I noted that some stories come with pictures I can´t take. I´ll list a few of those:
A man with one leg on crutches walking in the middle of four lanes of traffic.
The man who sits in the same place on the sidewalk with his cap in his hand asking for money.
The Kuna women in beautifully colorful clothing ... carrying babies in blue jeans and t-shirts.
The boy walking with his hand on his mother´s shoulder.
The countryside, with rolling hills and exotic trees, different shades of green, changing, it seems with the falling rain.
The charming thatched-room home of the folks who live in those hills.
The faces that look peaceful, weary, wise, lost, numb, majestic, frantic, amused ...
Armed policemen in tan, green, or black ... on foot, bicycles, and four-wheelers.
The madness of the traffic -- tranque, it´s called.
The engaging and inviting smile of one particular busdriver.
Maximo, the Kuna who spoke to me on my birthday.
The cramped, dim, and disorganized mini-super corner stores that tend to have most of what you need.
The young men hanging from the doorways to busses announcing where the busses are going.
The men of all ages sleeping on corners, in doorways, and on park benches.
The young people in school uniforms.
The gigantic grocery stores and lines and lines and lines of people waiting to check out.
The sea of faces in the bus drivers´mirrors.
--- Oh, and imagine if I had audio! ---
I´ll update this as other images occur to me ... and I´m hoping you get a sense of what there is to ... well, experience, because it´s more than just seeing it or reading about it.
A man with one leg on crutches walking in the middle of four lanes of traffic.
The man who sits in the same place on the sidewalk with his cap in his hand asking for money.
The Kuna women in beautifully colorful clothing ... carrying babies in blue jeans and t-shirts.
The boy walking with his hand on his mother´s shoulder.
The countryside, with rolling hills and exotic trees, different shades of green, changing, it seems with the falling rain.
The charming thatched-room home of the folks who live in those hills.
The faces that look peaceful, weary, wise, lost, numb, majestic, frantic, amused ...
Armed policemen in tan, green, or black ... on foot, bicycles, and four-wheelers.
The madness of the traffic -- tranque, it´s called.
The engaging and inviting smile of one particular busdriver.
Maximo, the Kuna who spoke to me on my birthday.
The cramped, dim, and disorganized mini-super corner stores that tend to have most of what you need.
The young men hanging from the doorways to busses announcing where the busses are going.
The men of all ages sleeping on corners, in doorways, and on park benches.
The young people in school uniforms.
The gigantic grocery stores and lines and lines and lines of people waiting to check out.
The sea of faces in the bus drivers´mirrors.
--- Oh, and imagine if I had audio! ---
I´ll update this as other images occur to me ... and I´m hoping you get a sense of what there is to ... well, experience, because it´s more than just seeing it or reading about it.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Basura
It means garbage, and it´s everywhere. Pictures like this one could be taken on every other corner in the city. It´s quite the political issue. The mayor had control of it, and as with most other things, apparently, he´s been inefficient at addressing it. The president took over and funded an overhaul of the system, which included manpower and new equipment. That didn´t last long. The president eventually turned the issue back over to the mayor and withdrew the funding, and the issue is once again left in the hands of an inefficient administrator.There are a few signs that something´s being done about the problem. These folks dressed in yellow are spotted around town with brooms and dustpans.
The top right picture is of men scooping garbage into (well, my nephew used to call it) a scooper truck, which will dump it into the dumptruck. I don´t know where it´s taken after that. I´ve been assured that the problem isn´t about where to put it. The problem is that no one is taking responsibility for it.
There are other signs of good news, too, signs that someone is taking responsibility for it. I attended a presentation by designer Maria Gabriela Batista. It was part of a campaign to create awareness about the importance of eliminating plastic bags and using more durable ones. They presented a study showing that Panama, with a population of 3.5 million people, uses and throws away about 500 million plastic bags a year. In true servant leadership / social entrepreneurship fashion, the designer believes that taking a local approach that hopefully "catches fire and spread" is the best way to address a problem that seems too big. The artist designed very nice, trendy bags for shopping groceries, etc, in an attempt to make them "fashionable". For more information, you can contact the artist at therightbag@hotmail.com.
Recycling is being promoted in some parts of the city. I saw a couple of these bins. I also saw -- and sorry, no pics -- billboards saying, in Spanish, "Reduce. Reuse. Recycle." Sound familiar?The sight and smell -- the reality -- of so much garbage is disheartening. It´s a significant health risk. I was so excited to find access to the bay. Finally, a chance to walk in water. 
I hadn´t seen this sight when I first ventured in. I was told that the water was contaminated and was instructed to go home and wash my feet. I did that, and I scrubbed my sandals. I´d been told by someone living in Panama that the water was fine to drink. I chose to trust that. I was also told that Dr. Gorgas rid the Canal Zone, where I´m staying, of yellow fever. Some combination of the chicken I ate last Friday and the water resulted in by being sick, so I´ve avoided them both. I´m inclined to think, though, that it´s the water. I understand that people´s bodies get used to it. My question is: How do their spirits get used to it? I wonder, too, if issues like this one are related to increase in crime? Well, that´s another blog entry, I guess. For now, I just want to encourage us all to not take our drinking water for granted. Take care of our environment. We rely on it for more than you might think.
I hadn´t seen this sight when I first ventured in. I was told that the water was contaminated and was instructed to go home and wash my feet. I did that, and I scrubbed my sandals. I´d been told by someone living in Panama that the water was fine to drink. I chose to trust that. I was also told that Dr. Gorgas rid the Canal Zone, where I´m staying, of yellow fever. Some combination of the chicken I ate last Friday and the water resulted in by being sick, so I´ve avoided them both. I´m inclined to think, though, that it´s the water. I understand that people´s bodies get used to it. My question is: How do their spirits get used to it? I wonder, too, if issues like this one are related to increase in crime? Well, that´s another blog entry, I guess. For now, I just want to encourage us all to not take our drinking water for granted. Take care of our environment. We rely on it for more than you might think. Tuesday, August 3, 2010
The Riots
I´m not a great historian, so for really good information regarding what I´m going to share, I suggest you google the topic. For sometime, there had been some conversation about the sovereignty of the Canal Zone. We Americans had only ever been granted accommodations while we worked on the Canal. We were in no way given the land, yet we managed to establish
our own mini-government, complete with police and courts, etc. We even managed to practice the same discrimination here that we´d been practicing in the states. Anyway, in the early 1960´s, Panamanians wanted their flag to fly at the same status as the US flag, and President Kennedy had agreed to that. In January, 1964, American students at Balboa High School here in Panama protested that and flew only the American flag at their school. Panamanian students protested that, and in the course of that protest, a Panamanian flag was torn, and riots ensued. I could have this wrong, but I believe the riots 
lasted 3 days, at the end of which 20 Panamanian students and 4 US soldiers were dead. These riots took place on what the Americans call ¨Calle 4 de Julio¨ (4th of July St), and the Panamanians call Avenida de los Martires (Avenue of the Martyrs). These riots were the catalyst for opening negotiations that ultimately resulted in control of the Canal being returned to the Republic of Panama.The incident made the front page of Life Magazine.
The other photos are of statues representing the students who climbed flag poles during the riots to fly their flag and of a plaque that relates, in Spanish, some of what I´ve shared above. I´ve only seen the one pole but am told that there are others along this same street.
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