When visiting – or living in – a foreign country, it is always advisable to spend a bit of time simply observing. Being a gracious guest – or assimilating if that is your goal – requires that one avoid the assumption that just because it’s okay to do something where you come from, the same applies to where you are.
This can save you a lot of time and trouble and prevent people in your host country from seeing you as pompous, ignorant, self-important and narrow minded.
Or just plain dumb…
Before I get to the rest of my story, I would like to present a situation and pose a question. This is an interactive blog post so get ready to participate.
You are hiking up a trail in a locale where, as a foreigner, local wisdom is somewhat obfuscated (in this case Isla Taboga, Panama). And you come upon three tiny puppies, about six weeks at best guess, seemingly exhausted and clearly thirsty judging by the way they lap up the water you offer in your cupped hand. Three young men on the path tell you the puppies have followed them from the top of the mountain and they believe that the puppies have been abandoned by their mother….
WHAT WOULD YOU DO???
Here is what I did. I gave the puppies more water, chatted for a bit with the guys and then said goodbye and continued on my hike, hoping the guys would be unable to resist their new little amigos. Three puppies, three guys. Perfect, right?
OK – back to your part in the story. You turn around and the puppies are no longer following the guys who by now are leaving you in the dust. They are following you – up the hill – squeaking and mewling as hungry, desperate puppies do.
SO WHAT WOULD YOU DO???
Before you answer with something like,
“I would leave them there and let nature take its course.”
Or,
“Well, it’s not my country and I don’t know the custom here when it comes to abandoned little puppies alone on a hillside.”
Or,
“Maybe the mother is nearby and will be angry or sad if I take her babies.”
Just stop that. Because you and I both know none of those are the first things that would pop into your head.
But before you answer the question, here’s a little bit more information for you…
Get the idea?
Well, I don’t know what you would have done (I can guess), but what I did was stand on the hillside wrestling with my conscience and fighting my instincts to protect tiny innocents. I was near tears with indecision when I scooped those little babies up in my arms and carried them down the hill. When I got to our road, our caretaker, José, was there and he burst out laughing when he saw me, snapped a photo or two and then rolled his eyes (lovingly). I carried the puppies inside the gate to our complex.
My husband, Dan, and our neighbors had an immediate but brief “awwwww…” moment but we all knew that this couldn’t last. We gave them milk and watched them for a bit as they stumbled around outside our doors. Dan finally said what I knew he would, “We have to get rid of them.” José rounded up a box, we put them in there with some more milk and then walked the down to the Chu (store/bar/local gathering spot) where we figured they would have as good a chance as any of being found and taken in by some kids or islanders.
On the way to the Chu…
Thanks, Dan… 🙂
I was able to walk away knowing that they would most likely have died on the mountain and this at least gave them a chance. As the story got around, I received mixed reactions ranging from “You are so stupid, you could have been attacked by the mother and ripped to shreds…” to “I would have done the exact same thing.” The latter was the more common reaction – among the gringos, that is… So I’m not sure what that proves. Nothing, really.
But here is the end of the story. A day later, my neighbor saw the white puppy – the one peeking it’s head out of the box in the picture above – in the arms of a little boy who lives around the corner from her. “Where did you get the puppy?” she asked. “We found her! Her name is Bonita! We are keeping her!” When, a couple of days later, I saw the same kids with Bonita, she looked fatter, all cleaned up and quite happy with her new family.
The black and white one, too, has been taken in by a guy who works for the electric company. While on the island, he found her wandering down the street not far from the Chu, scooped her up and kept her. I later learned that his dog had just died and he really wanted a new one.
I don’t know what happened to the third, but he was very thin, missing an eye and I doubt he was long for this world no matter whether it was up on the mountain or with a family. So two out of three seemingly have made it.
But I learned a lesson. And I would not do the same thing next time. I would leave the puppies right there, hope their mother came for them, and, if not, know that it is not my place to interfere.
Definitely.
Maybe.
Probably not.
Oh the times I wish I had my camera…
I try to carry it with me at all times, mostly because when I don’t have it, I see something that I would love to photograph and include in a blog post.
Like the parakeet I saw the other day on my walk. Actually, I did have my camera for that one, but couldn’t get it on fast enough. The pretty bird was right in front of me, on a low branch. I saw it’s lovely green face and unmistakeable light yellow-orange parrot beak and said aloud, “No way!” I reached for my camera but it was gone.
The little guy looked a lot like this… (not my photo)
I have birder friends who are skeptical. But I did some research and learned that it was either an Orange Chinned Parakeet which is reported to be on Taboga or, as a friend suggested, a pet parakeet that escaped from its cage and has made its home in the jungle.
Since then I have looked for it every time I walk that way, camera at the ready, but no luck so far. Interesting fact: they make their homes in the abandoned mounds of termite colonies.
And there are plenty of these in the jungle for them to remodel and live in…
This one could be a multi-family abode.
~~~~
Then there was the day I was hiking along with Chili, my trusty doggie companion. She disappeared into the brush as she often does to chase a lizard or whatever it is we hear rustling in there. When I heard the rustling getting closer, I figured she would emerge per usual, looking at me as if to say, “Hey – you should have seen all the stuff I saw in there! Am I in trouble? Everything okay? Cool! What’s next? Let’s go!” and then sprint off in search of a new adventure. Instead, what appeared just ahead of me on the path was a panicked agouti (a small rodent commonly found in Panama), running across the path and into the brush on the other side.
Pretty cute for a rodent…
Now, I’ve seen these little guys in the city, in particular on Ancon Hill when hiking up to the top for a view of the city. But this was my first sighting on Taboga. I checked with Vidal, a local who works for a long-term resident of Taboga, a man with an impressive ranch which I pass each day on my walk and with whom we have become friendly, who confirmed that, yes, there are Agoutis on Taboga – muchos! But they are known here by their nickname which a friend told me to be something like: Nyecki. I have no idea how it is spelled in Spanish, but that’s the name that got him shaking his head affirmatively.
~~~~
Then, there are things that simply cannot be photographed. Things that happen that you want to record somehow. The Club Soda caper being one.
I really like Club Soda. It’s fizzy and refreshing and less filling (and fattening) than beer but with the same satisfying, thirst quenching result. Plus: Campari and Soda; Vodka and Soda… you get the idea. When we go shopping in the city, if I find some, I pick up a six pack or two and lug them back.
About a month ago I heard about a guy, Raul or Pépero (everyone here has nicknames), on the island who sells beer and soft drinks AND Club Soda to the local restaurants and to individuals. I got his number and called him asking if he would sell me a case. “Sure! I can do that. I’ll deliver it to you later this week.” I felt pretty proud of myself to have made this insider connection and told some friends – fellow Club Soda lovers – about it.
Nope. Didn’t happen. I called him again. A friend who wanted a case, too, and knows Raul, got involved. We both started calling him. Pestering him. Every time I ran into him on the street I would say, “Raul! Club Soda!” Which in Spanish sounds like, “Raul! Clooo Soda!”
“Si! Si! Mañana!” was the reply. Siempre. Always.
Walking home the other day from the pueblo, Dan & I passed a neighbor’s home. We glanced in to wave hello as we do, and there, sitting on the couch was Raul. I walked past and as it registered, I took three steps backward and said, “Hey! Raul! Cloo Soda!”
“Si!” he said. “I have it for you. Just jump in that golf cart with my amigo and go down to Popeye’s Restaurant and you will have your case of blue cans!”
Okay. In the golf cart, wild ride to the restaurant, case secured to the back of the cart. $20 to Raul and then I asked for a ride home in place of the promised delivery so we wouldn’t have to carry the case, sweating all the way.
It only took one month, ten or so phone calls and/or personal encounters, a ride in a golf cart and $20 and I got my case of Cloo Soda.
Gold in a Blue Can…
ahhhhh….
I ran into Raul a few days ago and he said that anytime I want more to just call him. I think I’ll call him today just to be sure!
A lot of people tried to talk us out of it. Most people, in fact. “Too hot!” “Too far away!” “Too dangerous!” These overly generic, not fully-informed response…
Source: Threshold Guardians, Step Aside!
A lot of people tried to talk us out of it. Most people, in fact.
“Too hot!” “Too far away!” “Too dangerous!”
These overly generic, not fully-informed responses, were offered to me by the “threshold guardians” in my life. Joseph Campbell talks about the phenomenon of the threshold guardian in his writings on the hero’s journey. In brief, threshold guardians are forces or people that stand in the way of your journey, keeping you from crossing over thresholds that they perceive as dangerous for any number of reasons. Threshold guardians can be jealous rivals – or friends, gatekeepers, or even one’s own personal fears and doubts.
We encountered more than a few when we made the decision to sell our house and move aboard our sailboat. And again when we decided to buy property on a small island in Panama. The resistance was effective in that it shook me up and created doubt and fear within myself. Most of the guardians in my life at the time were people who loved me. As well-intentioned as they may have been, they were ultimately unimaginative and fearful. I learned during both of those times, that my true friends were the ones who took the time to understand and to support our decisions. The ones who actually helped us to cross those thresholds into our next adventure.
With regards to our move to Panama, a widely agreed upon (and more informed) piece of advice was to rent something for a time before buying. Check it out for a while. Make sure we really liked it before sinking money into it.
I know we probably should have heeded that particular advice. But we didn’t. Had we listened, we would have saved ourselves a lot of trouble. But we would also have missed out on all the fun.
Dan had been looking at offshore retirement options for a while. Panama kept popping up to the top of his list for all sorts of reasons that made sense. Aside from the obvious – warm weather and lower cost of living – there were also the practical and very attractive incentives for expats such as:
- excellent and affordable health care;
- the U.S. dollar as currency;
- political stability;
- ability to own titled property
- ease of acquiring permanent residence status and all the benefits that go along with that.
Despite this, I spent a lot of time rolling my eyes and thinking that my husband – who was driving this particular bus – was completely out of his mind. (Hmmm… who was the threshold guardian then?!) We had fantasized about living on an island for many years. In my imaginings, though, it was in Washington State or Canada. Someplace with a fireplace. And pine scented woods all around. But Panama? No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t embrace the notion of someplace so far away, so tropical, so foreign and worried that if this idea didn’t go away soon, we’d be heading for a giant, miserable check mate.
In an attempt to mitigate the tension that was building, I suggested we go down there and look around, secretly believing that a brief trip would rule it out.
Ngobe Bugle women in Western Panama
With one caveat.
“This will NOT be a real estate trip,” I stated. “I won’t be able to tell if I like the place if all we do is look at houses.”
Dan resisted. “But we’re going to be there,” he reasoned. “It’s a long way to go and not see what’s for sale.” I folded my arms and stared him down. “Who knows when we will get back down there again?” he said, ever relentless. “We should take advantage and look at a few places.”
When he finally agreed to my conditions, I unfolded my tightly crossed arms and booked our tickets. We researched for months, planning our two week trip to be as efficient and informative as possible. Roughly the size of South Carolina, seeing a good chunk of the country is relatively easy to do but we kept things simple, dividing our time between Panama City, El Valle de Anton, Pedasi and the Azuero Peninsula and, finally, Isla Taboga.
We chose Isla Taboga, the Island of the Flowers, despite what the guide books said about there being nothing to do there. Usually we like places like that because they are more authentic. And this instinct proved correct. One needs to be someplace, to settle in, to build time for wandering, discovering, spontaneity. To allow the place to call to you and see what it has to say. 
Arriving on the island the first day, the ferry bounced off the dock a few times before the men tied off the lines and began helping to unload the boat. A cacophony of voices greeted one another and shouted instructions to the guys on the dock. Dogs barked and ran happily up and down the pier, happy to have their owners back after a day in the city. The island taxis – all three of them – circled around the area by the pier and people lined up to wait their turn. We ended up in Segundo’s truck, a rickety old thing with a sign on the door asking customers not to slam it. “No tire la puerta, por favor!” Flowers were blooming everywhere, kids were playing in the streets, one or two jumped on the back of the truck and rode with us for a bit. The place was completely and utterly charming. And so the adventure began.
We began to meet people immediately, some of whom invited us for a beer at their condo complex…
I think I knew from the minute I stepped in the gate that the no-real-estate agreement we had made was about to be broken. Especially after Dan started asking the manager/owner pointed, specific questions and then began poking around in the condos that were for sale.
There was no denying that they were well-constructed and so, so pretty. That the neighbors were lovely. That the island was sweet and relaxed and, a truly authentic, small Panamanian village. Roughly 1,000 folks live on the island, 30 of whom are expats.
See the place on the far, lower left? Red roofs? Blue awnings? That’s us!
Had we found our island home? No fireplaces, and no pine woods. But the price was right and this was one of those “meant to be” moments. The threshold guardians were nowhere to be found…
And so, here we are. Island dwellers for part of each year. In Panama. On Isla Taboga.
Island culture is unique. It must be experienced and felt to be understood. A friend who also lives on Taboga recently sent me this which, in part, explains it:
The specific of islands is not escape, but return. They are no longer so much a means of getting away from it all, as of getting back to it all, Of returning to man's natural measure, free from things Too big, Too fast, Too material. William Sanson Staniel Cay Yacht Club Exhuma, Bahamas 1988
The Threshold Guardians didn’t stand a chance on this one. Not even the one named Irene Panke Hopkins. Dang it.
Watch out threshold guardians. I’ve got my eye on you…
When we first moved to Isla Taboga, we were limited to 100 gallons per day for drinking, washing and cooking. The water came from a well up the mountain that was pumped into a huge tank. Every morning, Boris, whom we call “Water Boris” to differentiate him from the other Boris’ on the island (Taxi Boris, Little Boris, White Truck Boris), would drive up the hill and open the valve that allowed the water to flow out of the tank and run down into the pueblo, filling the individual tanks that service each home.
Our 100 gallon tanks. Cleaner inside than out! Promise!
Occasionally Water Boris would oversleep. Or have a hangover. Or just forget. And then we would be on uber conservation mode until some of the women in the pueblo got on his case and chased his butt up the hill.
For the past two years, however, a state of the art, Israeli built desalinization plant has provided unlimited water to the island so our tanks are always full (with the occasional malfunction). We continue to be mindful and conservative because having water is a luxury that only those who don’t have – or haven’t had – an unlimited supply can appreciate.
Giant desalinization plant provides water to Isla Taboga.
An impressive accomplishment for our tiny island!
Science lesson: Desalinization is a reverse osmosis process. Salt water is forced, at high pressure, through a membrane that will not let the salt molecules pass through. It also filters out the tiniest of potentially harmful particles. Only fresh water molecules are small enough to make it through. Many boats – including ours in Seattle – have similar systems to render sea water drinkable.
My husband, a systems expert / geek, has a TDS (Total Dissolved Solids) meter that measures water’s suitability for drinking. The water provided by the desalinization plant measures solidly in the range of good drinking water.
This year we learned that the water company is going to begin charging for the service and that every household must sign up for a contract and begin paying a monthly fee for the water utility.
Unlike where we come from, that information did not come in the mail with an account number and the option to pay the bill online. No. Not here. On Isla Taboga, we learn these things via word of mouth. Once we heard that we had to do this, we began asking around as to how.
“Doña Irene,” explained José, our caretaker, “You wait until the lady from the water company is on the island and then you go to the Casa Dimás and she will take care of it for you.”
“When is she here?” I asked logically. “No se (I don’t know),” came the response, also logical as I am beginning to learn more about life in certain Latin American countries.
Several days later, a man from the water company came to our gate and handed out bills to our neighbors. I called José. “A guy from the water company is here. Does that mean the lady is here, too?”
“¡Si! ¡Si!” (Yup.)
We gathered what we needed: proof of residence, copies of our passports, our Panamanian ID cards and money – cash – and began the journey to the Casa Dimás.
The journey begins!
“Go down to the Chu and turn left,” we were told.
There’s the Chu – straight ahead on the right.
“Walk up the hill past the empty lot. Go past the bright green house where we used to pay the electric bill, and then a slight jog to the left and there it is.”
Outside the house, under that triangular roofed structure to the left, were four or five old men in hammocks who told us that the water lady had just gone to the doctor but would be back in a half hour. We waited for forty five minutes.
Because this was someone’s home, I refrained from taking photos, but let me try to describe to you the room we were in.
Just inside the door we were in a partially enclosed porch or outer room. Straight ahead was a hallway leading to the rear of the house. A little to the left and through an open doorway was the kitchen, dishes piled in the dish drain, counters full to bursting with tools of the kitchen trade and a bowl of fruit on the plastic, floral tablecloth covering the dining table.
Inside the porch, were several chairs whose grimy cushions I could not bring myself to sit on. Rusty, dusty tools that had not been touched in a very long time were haphazardly placed on broken shelves and the floor, intermingled with yellowed books tossed and left where they had last been used.
A makeshift altar to the Virgin occupied a table just to the left of the kitchen door. Among the devotional objects were several broken statues, rosary beads glued onto the statues and the table, an empty bottle of Seco (Panama’s national liquor), fake yellow roses and someone’s cell phone attached to a plug dangling from a wire that disappeared up through some access in the ceiling.
Occupying the left side of the room was a large, round table covered in papers and miscellaneous paraphernalia. A broken multi-paned window leaned up against the wall behind the table on the left side of the room next to something covered in a dingy, dusty cloth. And beyond that an open cement stairway leading to the second level of the home.
Finally, parched and tired of waiting, we headed down to the pueblo for a cold drink, and returned an hour later. Now, a line of people waiting to pay their bills, stretched down the road. We waited our turn and then, at last, entered the room. Several people were sitting inside, on those chairs that I, in all my northern gringasity had snubbed.
We sat down at the round table, piled with forms, sheets of carbon paper (remember that?), thick, hand-written record books and a couple of cookie tins that contained a stapler, a stamp and money.
We explained what we were there for and the lady, a rotund, business-like but friendly woman with a quick smile began the process of finding our names in the big book. Page by page of handwritten names were painstakingly gone through. It would have been excruciating had it not been so fascinating. Or if I had taken time off from work or had another appointment to get to. But I didn’t. This was my day’s goal so I just sat back and enjoyed the ride.
People who lived in the house traipsed up and down the cement stairs, a backdrop of action to watch, while we waited. At last she said, “No. No tengo sus nombres (I don’t have your names).” So we had to show our proof of ownership, our identification and then she added our names to the book next to our neighbors’ names and commenced the process of writing out the contracts – by hand – in triplicate – with carbon papers between copies. Lucky for us, José happened by and helped a bit with translation.
At last, it was done. Everything stamped – they love their stamps down here! Bam! Bam! Bam! Then initials next to each stamp.There was laughter and it was all very friendly. Each contract cost $20 (we have two condos so two contracts) Then we paid for six months of last year ($17.25) and for the entirety of this year ($34.50). Times two. Final bill for two houses, for a year and a half of water: $143.50…..
I cannot express the sense of accomplishment I felt when we left. Our pockets were lighter but not too much. And we knew that until we return next year we are paid up.
The next week, Jose said. “Sorry – we didn’t get water today. Please conserve.”
Walking back to our place on January 20th, after having a beer down in the pueblo, trying not to watch inaugural coverage, Dan & I ran into a French Canadian couple taking photos in front of the island graveyard. We offered to take their photo in front of the historic graveyard that contains stones dating back to the early 1800’s. The dearly departed of Isla Taboga, fresh (or plastic) flowers always on their graves, have a beautiful view of the Bay of Panama.
“Congratulations on your new President?” one of the tourists said hesitantly. “NO!” we responded. “HE IS NOT OUR PRESIDENT!” They smiled at us in solidarity and we commenced a conversation about politics in general, the U.S. election, Canadian issues and what we think will happen in the world from here forward. They didn’t have much English and even less Spanish. Communication was a challenge but our mutual disgust with what has happened in the U.S. with this tragic election definitely came through.
On the day after the election, I walked on the beach near our boat in Seattle. I felt alone, scared, vulnerable, despondent. I held out hope that something would change, something would prevent this man from becoming president. It seemed like the end. The rolling back of history and of all the advances we have made over the years in terms of human rights.
Today, January 21, I spent entire day watching coverage of the Women’s March on Washington and the Sister Marches taking place all over the country and the world. I couldn’t stop! I was stunned to see the global response, the show of support, the coming together of the world over our election of a man who openly degraded women, handicapped people and minorities.
What a showing! The photos are astonishing. Millions of people all over the world saying “NO!”This is a global movement to be sure. We are in this together and we are not going to stop or be cowed. This movement, this resistance is not going to go away.
I am hopeful and empowered and unlike after the election, I feel strong and solid in my womanhood. I am proud to be female, proud of my brothers and sisters who marched yesterday all over this beautiful globe. I am energized and courageous and positive and I know that I, we can accomplish anything, overcome anything.
I may be in Panama right now, but I am also everywhere. And we are all together. And this feels really, really good.
Finally.
Be strong. Be brave. And remember, Silence is not an option. No excuse. We have the world behind us.
Happy New Year from Isla Taboga, Panama!
We arrived on the Isla in time to settle in, put our things away, set up our casitas and toast in the New Year with our south-of-the-border friends.
A fan is blowing on me as I write this to keep me cool and I’m contemplating a dip in the pool. It is a New Year after all. Time for a baptism of sorts. Time to wash away the old and start clean with the new.
One of the best things about this New Year so far is our friend, Okke’s, return from an ordeal that is the stuff of movies. I’ll spare you the story but suffice it to say that it was the best New Year’s gift of all to have him back among us. And to see his partner, Kimberlyn, smiling with joy and relief.
Welcome home Okke. Keep smiling Kimberlyn!
My brother in law who is from Brazil told me that the tradition in his home country is to eat fish on New Year’s Eve. “Because fish,” he explained, “swim only forward. They don’t go backward.” And the New Year is a time to look ahead. Hopefully to better times.
This will be an interesting year. Especially for citizens of the U.S but because of our global influence it will be an interesting time for the entire world. Hopefully (always hopeful, right?), people will realize how much is at stake right now, particularly with our precious climate. We can’t afford to go to sleep on that one. Stay awake. Look up and around. Be vigilante.
Returning to and living on this island during the winter months gives me a unique perspective. I notice the things that have changed. The children are bigger, new babies have been born, the beaches are cleaner, there are new, albeit small, enterprises and businesses popping up. But so much remains the same in a place like this. Familiar faces and activities such as:
Fishermen selling fresh fish to folks on the dock…
The sleepy tienditias (small shops) where locals buy their basic food supplies… and kids buy gum and candy…
The throngs of tourists arriving on the weekend to soak up the sun on the beach…
Ladies heading down the road to church every Sunday under their parasols.
Second oldest Catholic Church in the western hemisphere.
The inextricable link between old and new is profoundly obvious on Taboga. It’s comforting to have both. The familiar keeps us grounded and the new helps us look forward to better times.
Here’s hoping that 2017 brings good things to all. Change is definitely in the air. We have work to do, but as Dan always says, no matter what, “We’re STILL gonna have fun.”
Happy New Year.
