Embera Puru - a lesson in "Anything's possible"
The mud squelched into the holes in my rubber shoes as I slipped down the track towards the makeshift dock on the San Juan de Pequini river, from where we would take a dugout canoe to the Embera Puru
The mud squelched into the holes in my rubber shoes as I slipped down the track towards the makeshift dock on the San Juan de Pequini river, from where we would take a dugout canoe to the Embera Puru village. Travelling in Panama’s rainy season has its advantages, like cheaper rates for hotel rooms, but this was not one of them. I stepped into the boat, aided by Anselmo, the village medicine man, and settled on a damp perch. This wouldn’t be the most comfortable boat ride I’d ever taken, but it should surely be a memorable one.
My fellow travellers were an inspiration. Four years ago, Charlie, now 88 years old, broke his hip. His daughter, Becky, refused to allow him to stagnate in a Californian convalescent home and nursed him back to independence. Wheelchair-bound, Charlie announced that he had always wanted to go to Panama, so Becky said “Let’s do it!” Accompanied by Ernie and Charlie’s Mexican carer Lupi, we set off downriver, wheelchair and all.
Anne Gordon de Barrigon’s story was no less amazing. Previously, she worked as an animal trainer and met the Embera whilst working on a film called End of the Spear. Four years ago, she fell in love with the villagers, married one of them and now splits her time between Panama City and the village, accompanying groups of tourists to experience village life.
The canoe trip should have taken about an hour, but heavy rains the night before hampered our efforts to head upstream to the village. At first, we passed through clear waters strewn with reeds and watched the “policia” birds, so nicknamed because of their black and yellow colouring, as they darted about. Soon, though, the water turned a murky brown, carrying with it fallen tree branches and other storm detritus. As the load became larger, logs created fast running rapids; white water wouldn’t accurately describe the swirling terracotta water. The boat began to struggle, so Anselmo indicated that we would need to pull over to wait out the storm flow. With no indication as to how long this would be, we waited anxiously, roped to a tree in the shallows, and hoped for the best. Hitting a log could overturn the canoe and we would be swept downstream to an uncertain fate. After much discussion, Anselmo decided that the water level had receded a little (I couldn’t see the difference, but was happy to leave it to the experts) and indicated that we could try to complete the journey. Relieved to be away from the midges that were nibbling at my ankles, we eventually reached the river bank at Embera Puru. The gravel bank that served as a landing stage was under several feet of water, making disembarking a challenge, not least for Charlie in his wheelchair.
The whole village, attired in their traditional clothing of loin cloths for men, and brightly patterned skirts for women, had turned out to greet Anne and her guests. Picking our way up the mud steps to the village, we took in our surroundings. An absorbing mix of thatched huts and tree-framed river vistas, it was an idyllic setting, and I could see why Anne had been enticed away from her native Seattle. We were invited up to one of the huts, where two Embera women were cooking us a delicious lunch of fried plantain and spicy chicken, which would be served in an envelope of banana leaves. Children roamed freely, watched from afar by the older villagers. Their smiles were infectious, as they tumbled over each other and raced around barefoot. We marvelled at their sure-footedness as the rains came again to make the mud slippery.
In the main hut, the village chief, elected for a four-year term, explained about the Embera villagers and their culture. Based in the Chagres National Park, life had changed as the government imposed restrictions on what they could do. Originally from the Darien region of southern Panama, these Embera members had lived in this spot for thirty years or so, and the restrictions threatened their way of life. Turning to tourism was a lifeline, and Embera Puru had escaped possible exploitation and over-development by tour operators by working with Anne, who ensured that income was shared fairly amongst her fellow villagers.
I wandered around to peruse the wide variety of crafts that the villagers had for sale: baskets so tightly woven so as to be watertight, beautiful cocobolo or rosewood carvings, intricately carved tagua nuts in the shape of rainforest creatures - the difficulty was choosing what to buy, and from who, as each table represented a different family. I picked out a woven mask in the form of a bird, made out of plant fibres dyed using natural colourings found locally in the forest; its price told me it had taken about a month to manufacture.
Calling us all together, Anne told us that the villagers were about to perform their traditional dances for us. All the women of the village, arranged in height order right down to the smallest child, paraded in a ring and stamped their feet to a traditional Embera rhythm. As anywhere, the teenage boys laughed at the teenage girls, ribbing them as they took part, and leaving them blushing. Some of the men of the village played flutes, drums and other percussion instruments and we were encouraged to join in with the dancing. The real star of the show, however, had yet to be revealed. After the dancers had dispersed, a crowd of children gathered around Charlie in his wheelchair. Open mouthed, the youngest would whoop and turn away laughing, before hurrying back to his side. On closer inspection, I could see that Charlie was removing his false teeth to reveal a gummy grin...
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