Another Quote of the Day

Co-worker exiting the office mens room, "Man, it stinks bad enough to chase a vulture off a gutwagon"

Quote of the Day

A co-worker, while looking at a set of architectural drawings of a church, looked up and said, "You can really do some worshippin' in that bitch."

The Jungle Trip Part IV

When we got across the river, it was more of the same jungle, but darker, and deeper and thicker somehow. The path was much narrower, and the jungle threatened to swallow it whole in some spots. We hiked an hour or so, and then we arrived at the village. This wasn’t like the first one with tin roofs and cokes. This was the real deal. The huts were made of logs and stood on stilts, they were wide open without true walls, the roofs were made of leaves and thatch. The men wore colorful beads around their necks and most wore loincloths, The women were painted with a black die and only wore skirts. There were no shoes, shirts, or cutoff pants. These were the truly indigenous people of the Darien rainforest, the Embera. It was beautiful, and the people were friendly and kind, untarnished by the ways of the modern world. When we first arrived, everyone was working. The women were making baskets and cooking. Men were chopping bamboo and building a new hut. The children were chasing chickens and playing. They approached without fear and made us instantly welcome. They were sincerely excited to see us and welcomed us wholeheartedly. I felt very humble and in the presence of something sacred while I was there. They showed us their huts, and allowed us to roam freely around the tiny village. The river that ran by was deep and relatively clear. We were told that it was safe to go in the water, so we took off our shoes and shirts and cooled off while a group of women scrubbed clothes and laughed while we splashed each other and skipped rocks. We didn’t get to stay very long, but it was one of the most memorable times of my life. The Embera people gathered as we left the village, and smiled and waved to us as we went back down the path towards home.

While I was writing this story, I did a little research and found some cool websites with lots of pictures, and descriptions of the Embera way of life. Check it out.


Embera pictures

Embera Drua

Time among the Embera

Panama Indigenous People

The Jungle Trip Part III

As we continued down the trail, the jungle opened up to reveal a small village. The tiny huts were wood with rusty tin roofs. Curious heads peeked through doors and windows as we walked down the main path. Chickens pecked and scurried freely. Women and children approached us and welcomed us to their village with happy gestures and native tongues. The men watched us sideways as they continued doing what they were doing.
A few of the women coaxed us down the street to a small hut with a window and a counter facing the street. A smiley young lady quickly placed a small cutting board with a tiny loaf of bread and an icy cold bottle of Coke on the counter. I handed her a dollar and she opened the coke and handed me the bread wrapped in a paper napkin. She gave me back 3 quarters. When I pushed the change back towards her and told her to keep it, she was ecstatic. She turned around clapping, and shared a moment of celebration with someone else in the hut.
An old woman approached me. She looked me in the eyes, and talked and talked, not so much to me, but to the other women. She felt my hair, and patted my shoulders. A few other women followed her lead and studied my hair politely until Tanya walked up. Her long blonde hair took the village by storm, and they fawned over her foreign radiance. Some stood there transfixed, while others ran to tell the others to come and look.
Me and a few guys broke from the group and wandered around the little village to see the sights. The whole village consisted of a few dozen whitewashed huts crammed side to side down the main path. The village was sitting on the banks of a wide brown river. We dodged kids playing ball and chickens pecking the ground. A group of girls about our age huddled together and giggled as we walked by. We found Rambo relaxing under a rusty old pavilion by the river and talking with a few older men from the village. He told us that we were waiting on a boat to take us across the river. I put my pack down and layed down on the cool concrete slab under the pavilion. Eventually, a man with cutoff pants and no shirt came down the river in a long canoe. He stood at the back of the canoe with a long pole that he used to push against the river bottom and steer the boat. The canoe was made from a giant hollowed out log. It was very narrow and about twenty feet long. As he neared the riverbank, he turned off the tiny motor and maneuvered the boat onshore with his pole. Rambo instructed us to put our packs back on, climb in and sit up straight as an arrow. He said that there were things in that river we wouldn’t want to swim with so we better be careful. We piled in and held on tight. When the boat was full, the boatman maneuvered the canoe into the river and cranked up the motor. The river was about 100 yards wide, and it was a short trip. As we crossed, I imagined Piranhas, snakes and leeches lurking below the swirling brown eddies on the surface of the deep brown river.

The Jungle Trip Part II

We dispersed to the vehicles and gathered our packs and canteens. We whispered about the badassitude of Rambo. He and Bob walked off and talked like old friends who hadn’t seen each other in years. We scraped mud from our boots by the pound with rocks and sticks and waited by the hole that Rambo appeared from. Precisely five minutes after he sent us off to get our packs, he turned around and walked into the jungle.
We awkwardly worked our way into the jungle behind him. His arm was constantly swinging as he carved a trail through the jungle with his machete. “We’ll hit the main trail in a few hundred yards.” He barked as he walked and chopped. “Stay together….you get lost out here, and no one will ever find you. If you spot an animal that scares you, holler at me and I’ll take care of it.” He stopped talking and kept chopping. We finally ran right into the main trail. It was a well traveled path with a floor of clay and roots worn down by thousands of feet. We walked and walked. We saw huge trees full of crazy colored birds. We crossed muddy streams. We wondered about the source of mysterious sounds. We wondered what was ahead.
Every now and then we would pass men on the trail. They were very short and smiley people. They mostly wore slacks cut off at the knee and t-shirts, others wore loin cloths and face paint. Most of them carried bags slung over their shoulders, and carried the dreaded blow-dart guns, which also served as walking sticks. The jungle started to thin as the old growth gave way to neat rows of corn and unfamiliar vegetables. We saw more and more people walking down the path and kneeling in the fields with baskets. We approached a group of men who were laughing and slapping their legs about something hilarious. They greeted Rambo, who was obviously a familiar sight, but as the rest of us came into view, they straightened up. Their laughter gave way to looks of guarded curiosity and alertness. Rambo, noticing their reaction, walked a few yards past them, then turned around and waited for the group to catch up.
The men smiled politely with tiny nods as they made eye contact with us. Rambo finally spoke up as the group reassembled. “Alright kids, we’re coming to this village so we can catch a boat across the river. You’ll never see another place like this, so walk around and smile and be nice to these folks, and no pictures.” Rambo pointed at me and Tanya and spoke up. “You two… Let them stare all they want, most of these folks have never seen blonde hair.”

The Jungle Trip Part I

When I was 16, I climbed into Major Bob’s VW bus with my backpack before the sun came up. He was taking a bunch of kids from the “Dungeon” on a little trip. The “Dungeon” was actually a concrete room in the officers barracks that the Base had donated to Major Bob. It was officially supposed to be for “Catholic Youth Organization” functions, but in reality it was just a hangout. Major Bob had a regular life as an officer in the Air Force, but after work he would come to the Dungeon, unlock the door and play cards or talk smack with anyone who came along. His son, Scott, was always there. The rest of us would show up whenever, and hang out until Bob kicked us out so he could go home. Every now and then, Bob would get a wild idea and take us somewhere cool. This time we were going into the Darien Province in eastern Panama. This area is known for having the densest jungles on earth.
There were about a dozen of us crammed into 2 vans. There were boys and girls from 14 to 18 years old. We headed out and drove east across the Bridge of the Americas, through Panama City, and finally out into the countryside. As we drove, the population got thinner and the jungle got thicker. Eventually the pavement gave way to gravel, and finally to mud. We drove until we got to the end of the road… There was an armada of huge earthmoving equipment parked in the mud nearby. We clomped about in the heavy mud and called each other names while we waited for our guide to arrive. We heard he was a Vietnam vet who moved into the jungles after the war. We also heard that the locals called him Rambo. Major Bob kept looking up the road, so I expected that the guide would arrive in an old jeep or something. We had a lot of ground to cover that day, and the clock was ticking.
The broad green leaves baked in the tropical sun, while the monkeys, birds and insects filled the air with complex jungle concertos. The acrid smell of jungle rot hovered over the steaming red mud. Bob stood akimbo by the van as a hole opened in the jungle behind him. A bearded camouflage man emerged from the hole with a machete in one hand, a machine gun hanging from one shoulder, and a pistol on his belt. There were random knives peeking from special pockets and sheaths strapped to his arms and legs. He walked into the middle of the group and immediately started talking to us like a drill sargeant, “They call me Rambo, we’ve got a lot of walking to do today. Stay with me and everything will be fine.” He paced authoritatively as he spoke. “Don’t leave the trail, don’t lag behind, and don’t giggle……I hate giggling. You better have water because you’ll need it. Plan on getting dirty….if you don’t wanna get dirty, you shoulda stayed home with your mamas. You can take pictures of the trees or the birds or the jungle, but don’t take pictures of people. The people out here think you’re taking their soul when you take their pictures. They will kill you to get their soul back. The sticks the men carry are blow dart guns. If you take their picture, you’ll have a poison arrow in your temple before you can blink. Now… get you’re packs on. In five minutes I’m turning around and walking into that jungle.”

Blog-a-rama-ding-dong

It appears that Google has done a number with blogger. All kinds of new features and good stuff. No time now, but soon I'll get into it and change stuff up a bit. cool........