Despite the comparative luxuries I live with (electricity,
water and cell phone signal – usually), my Peace Corps site is uniquely
difficult to get to. Between the
terrible road, finicky bus drivers and the tides, leaving my site is always an
adventure. An adventure I love,
but sometimes, I wish I didn’t have to constantly bring a “just in case” change
of clothes.
The first time I arrived in my site, the tide was halfway
between high and low. I asked my
community guide, Pompo, if this was high or low, and he said low. Little did I realize was “low” meant it
was getting lower – with all my bags, we had timed my arrival perfectly. The little fishing boat wove in and out
of the mangrove forest, until it opened into an estuary. Mangroves covered each side, from the
mainland out from our inlet, and a forest on the inland side of the
island. For a girl from California
– where our rocky coast doesn’t encourage mangrove populations and our cooler
climate makes it impossible for them – this site took my breath away. Pompo turned to me and laughed.
“¿Impresionante, no?”
He asked.
Oblivious (until recently when he pointed it out to me) that
he was making fun of me, my jaw was on the bottom of the boat and I could
barely nod. “California es
hermosa, pero no tenemos cosas – y vistas – asÃ.” It wasn’t until I showed him pictures of California’s flora
and fauna that he believed me. Our
trees grow up, mangroves grow out, expanding until they take over
everything. Every few years, he
told me, ANAM goes through and trims back the overgrowth to let boats continue
to pass through.
A few weeks later, I prepared to go home for the briefest of
trips. With my big blue backpack
on my back, I got in the boat, ready to catch the 7:30 bus to Las Tablas, the
9:30 bus to Panama, and a cab to the airport. At the dock at 6:50 on a Sunday seemed like enough time,
right? Until I looked at the water
level. The tide was out – I
realized I’d have to walk. Lucky
for me, I wore my big jeans. The
taxista drove me until he couldn’t anymore and I looked at him. I still knew no one’s name, but
everyone knew mine. “Ana, tiene
que caminar,” he laughed at me.
Oh. Well, shit.
I took off my shoes and rolled up my pants, slowly stepping
into the mud. My foot sank. One of the things they don’t tell you
about mangroves, in all the beautiful stories they tell you, is that they are
integral to building new land.
When land is new, however, it’s weak. You sink deep or not at all, just depending on where you
step and where the long, thin branch-like-roots extend. Not knowing the pathways, I sank. I was laughed at a lot when I first got
to site.
Months later, I arrived back to the dock after grocery
shopping in the local town, and water was no where to be seen. I rolled up my pants, I repositioned my
bags, and I began to walk. By this
time, I was beginning to get the hang of things – I knew where to step, I knew
how to carry my bags so the plastic wouldn’t stretch and break. Fifteen, twenty minutes passed, and
there was still not enough water to support a boat. Finally, I was at the end of our stream. I waved across the estuary at the boats
and immediately, they came to pick me up.
I was hot and sweaty – and back at my host family’s house, there was no
water. That’s always the way of
things, isn’t it? No shower for
Annie, I guess.
I finally fell into the groove. When I got my own house, I downloaded tide tables, checking
when high tides coincided with busses and planned my trips around them. Recently, we had a meeting with local
government authorities. The
meetings began at 10:00 am or so, and a few days before, I checked my
table. -0.6 feet at 8:00. My bus left at 7:30. Would I bring a change of clothes or
leave early. I opted to leave a
day early, at the highest of high tides, catch a ride from a friend to the
local town and spend the night with the Volunteer there. And in the height of irony, the agency
I was meeting with cancelled the morning of the meeting. I didn’t have to over plan after all.
Ask anyone with a hike in site, and they’ll say it’s a mixed
blessing – though some like it more than others. I wouldn’t change my site for anything, hiking through the
mangroves at low tide, with the chitra biting all your exposed skin, I might
hesitate before saying that I loved it.
I can’t impulsively decide to go to a baile in town, or randomly visit friends in nearby towns. Yet, I never get drop by guests. My space is my own. I’m the only gringa on the island, and I like it that way. The challenges of getting in and out
discourage the weaker expatriates, so despite a periodic tourist or four, I’m
completely immersed in Panamanian culture. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.
And I have my own beach. How can I ever complain?
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