Once we had a group of four European missionaries, two couples, who came to the house wanting to go upriver to visit the Indians. During the trip up the Rio Chico, a small river that is a branch off of the Chucunaque just north of Yaviza, the missionaries constantly commented about the Choco's lifestyle. They were horrified at how they lived and talked about how the Indians' souls were in danger of going to hell. I didn't pay much attention to this since we encountered missionaries all the time, and they all were fairly clueless about the indigenous people. Missionaries understand their own religion and seem to have good intentions, but they have little or no understanding of the people whom they are trying to help. After the trip up the Chico we returned to El Dorado and the next day the missionaries left, telling me that they would be back.
About three weeks later they returned. This time they brought two large boxes. I didn't question them about it. After all, they were the paying customer and I was happy for the charter business. Only when we got to the first Chocó village did I find out what was in the boxes.
They were filled with "bras!"
At each village they gave the women the bras, and showed them how to use them. As I stated earlier, the Chocó women are very polite and gracious, and they continually thanked the missionaries for such wonderful gifts. The scene repeated itself in each of the three villages going up the Chico River. The missionaries gave the women the bras, then they demonstrated how to put them on, and then the Chocó dutifully obeyed all the while thanking the missionaries profusely while smiling from behind their new white bras. The next day on our way back down the river, as we passed each village, all the women ran to the shore to wave to us, while showing off their new bras. When the missionaries left they were very proud of themselves for bringing ‘civilization’ to these poor backward people. I realized that the missionaries truly thought that by providing the women bras they were in the process of helping these people save their souls.
Approximately three weeks later the missionaries returned, and this time they brought only one large box. I had learned my lesson from the first experience, so I asked right away what was in the box. The box was filled with Bibles written in Spanish. It occurred to me just how much sense this made for a people who were largely illiterate, and had no written language, but again I kept my mouth shut.
We went back up the same river, the Rio Chico, and came to the first village. All the women and children came down to the river bank to meet us and ... not a woman had a bra on!
Now, at this time I could only speak about 30 words of Chocó, and most of the words I knew had to do with animals. I was still having trouble understanding what they were saying because they speak their native language so fast and tend to run their words together.
All I could get out of them when I asked them where the bras were was, "We love the gifts, and you have to bring us more!"
When we got to the second and third villages we found that the same thing had happened at each one. Not a woman had a bra on, and they kept telling me that they loved them and that we had to bring more.
We built our camp for the night in the third village. We were still puzzled as dusk set in and the men came marching back from the fields. To everyone's astonishment the men were wearing the bras. They had them fastened around their waists, and now they had a pouch for their tobacco, and their machete slipped easily into the side, etc. They had rigged the bras so that for the first time in their lives they had pockets.
The missionaries were trying to impose their own values and culture on another group of people, simply because they were different. It goes to show that generally speaking, it is almost impossible to change culture. The Chocó and their ancestors have lived in this manner for many centuries. A direct effort on the part of these missionaries to effectuate a change in their lifestyle was doomed from the start. This group of frustrated missionaries left and never came back. It is precisely because of this story that I believe that a road bridging the gap would create little or no change in the lives of the Chocó Indians.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Una Hora
The Chocó had a simple society and this was demonstrated by the fact that their spoken language only had the numbers from one to five, for anything larger than five they had a word that meant 'many.' When I was still trapping birds, I was visiting the Indians in the second village going upriver on the Tuira. It was a small village but I heard stories about another smaller village inland from there where all the community farms were. They told me that there were hundreds of parrots there. I asked them how far to walk to the other city and they told me 'una hora' (one hour).
It was just after lunch, and I figured that I could walk to the village, check out the birds in the afternoon and visit with the Indians there, then walk back before nightfall. So I set out along the trail ... alone!
The trail was well worn and easy to follow. There was only one trail, no branches and no side trails. The first part of the trail coming from the river snaked through corn and then platano fields. After leaving the fields the trail wandered through secondary growth bush for a long while. Then I reached a stretch of about a mile that traveled through primary growth rain forest. After emerging from the jungle the remainder of the walk was through secondary growth bush and then the communal Chocó platano fields until arriving at the small dale with about half a dozen Chocó huts.
After walking for over an hour and a half, I came across another Indian on the trail walking in the opposite direction toward the river, from where I had come.
I asked him how much farther to the village and he told me 'una hora.' (one hour).
How could that be? That's what they told me back at the river, and I had already been walking much more than an hour.
As I continued walking and thinking about this, it finally dawned on me what 'una hora' must mean to the Chocó. Their comprehension of time must be equal to their comprehension of numbers. When the distance was too far for them to be able to calculate an exact time, they simply used the term 'una hora.' I learned this lesson the hard way as I arrived at the inland village at about four o'clock, almost four hours since I had begun my journey. Knowing now the actual time it took me to get there, and also knowing the approximate time for nightfall, I was in serious trouble!
The trip back was hair-raising. I was completely unprepared. I had no light and only a partial book of matches. Here I was alone, encountering nightfall right as I came to the part of the trail that went through dense primary growth jungle. No moonlight or starlight makes it to the floor of the jungle due to the dense canopy.
Although the trail was well worn for the most part, when it came to following any trail in primary growth jungle it didn’t matter how worn it was. If I veered only slightly off course I knew I would miss a marker and lose the trail in a matter of seconds. There was also the possibility of accidentally walking into one of the giant spider web nets that occasionally bordered the trail. I had to start lighting matches to be able to see where the trail went. Very slowly and deliberately I would light a match and walk forward, trying my best to follow the trail, until the match burnt my fingers. Then I would stop and light another match and repeat the same thing.
Suddenly I heard the roar of a jaguar, not the kind of roar that comes from the distance, but the roar that is so close that you can swear that the big cat was watching you. I knew I would have no chance to defend myself against a jaguar in the middle of the jungle.
It is interesting what a motivating factor fear can become in a moment like this. I immediately lit a match and ran with my hand cupped around the match until it burnt my whole hand. My heart was racing as fast as my feet. I was barely touching the ground and making tracks through the jungle as if I had run on this trail a thousand times before. I slowed slightly only to light the next match.
All I could see in my mind was the jaguar chasing me, gaining on every stride. Then, suddenly, it was as if I had broken through a barrier, and I emerged from the jungle into the relative safety of a platano field and the security of a starlit night.
It was one of the stupidest things that I had done while I was in Panama, but I somehow managed to survive the ordeal.
The biggest fascination for the Chocó was blonde women. When we brought a blonde woman into a village, everyone would come up to her and want to touch her hair; Chocó women and children alike. I am sure that in many cases it was the first time any of these children had ever seen a Gringo other than me, much less a blonde woman. Kim was even more of an anomaly to the Chocó. The first time he arrived at a Chocó village produced one of the most extreme reactions I had seen by the children. Kim is over six feet tall, and has red hair and freckles. They called him 'el rojo' (the red one).
The standard trip with either the tourists or the bird watchers was two days. Each river had three Indian settlements on it, and was about a two hour ride in the dugout canoe from one village to the next. We would stop at each village for an hour or two on the way upriver and visit with the Indians. The tourists would buy baskets and wood carvings that the Indians began to make and sell after they were secure in the idea that we would be coming to their villages on a fairly regular basis. We would then set up camp at the last upriver village (tents and air mattresses), and set off for home down the river the next day. The children were always very friendly and curious about us. They would help us set up camp and then sit and visit with the tourists until their mothers came by to get them as it became dark out. When traveling back down the river the women and children of each village would come down to the shore and wave as we went by.
It was just after lunch, and I figured that I could walk to the village, check out the birds in the afternoon and visit with the Indians there, then walk back before nightfall. So I set out along the trail ... alone!
The trail was well worn and easy to follow. There was only one trail, no branches and no side trails. The first part of the trail coming from the river snaked through corn and then platano fields. After leaving the fields the trail wandered through secondary growth bush for a long while. Then I reached a stretch of about a mile that traveled through primary growth rain forest. After emerging from the jungle the remainder of the walk was through secondary growth bush and then the communal Chocó platano fields until arriving at the small dale with about half a dozen Chocó huts.
After walking for over an hour and a half, I came across another Indian on the trail walking in the opposite direction toward the river, from where I had come.
I asked him how much farther to the village and he told me 'una hora.' (one hour).
How could that be? That's what they told me back at the river, and I had already been walking much more than an hour.
As I continued walking and thinking about this, it finally dawned on me what 'una hora' must mean to the Chocó. Their comprehension of time must be equal to their comprehension of numbers. When the distance was too far for them to be able to calculate an exact time, they simply used the term 'una hora.' I learned this lesson the hard way as I arrived at the inland village at about four o'clock, almost four hours since I had begun my journey. Knowing now the actual time it took me to get there, and also knowing the approximate time for nightfall, I was in serious trouble!
The trip back was hair-raising. I was completely unprepared. I had no light and only a partial book of matches. Here I was alone, encountering nightfall right as I came to the part of the trail that went through dense primary growth jungle. No moonlight or starlight makes it to the floor of the jungle due to the dense canopy.
Although the trail was well worn for the most part, when it came to following any trail in primary growth jungle it didn’t matter how worn it was. If I veered only slightly off course I knew I would miss a marker and lose the trail in a matter of seconds. There was also the possibility of accidentally walking into one of the giant spider web nets that occasionally bordered the trail. I had to start lighting matches to be able to see where the trail went. Very slowly and deliberately I would light a match and walk forward, trying my best to follow the trail, until the match burnt my fingers. Then I would stop and light another match and repeat the same thing.
Suddenly I heard the roar of a jaguar, not the kind of roar that comes from the distance, but the roar that is so close that you can swear that the big cat was watching you. I knew I would have no chance to defend myself against a jaguar in the middle of the jungle.
It is interesting what a motivating factor fear can become in a moment like this. I immediately lit a match and ran with my hand cupped around the match until it burnt my whole hand. My heart was racing as fast as my feet. I was barely touching the ground and making tracks through the jungle as if I had run on this trail a thousand times before. I slowed slightly only to light the next match.
All I could see in my mind was the jaguar chasing me, gaining on every stride. Then, suddenly, it was as if I had broken through a barrier, and I emerged from the jungle into the relative safety of a platano field and the security of a starlit night.
It was one of the stupidest things that I had done while I was in Panama, but I somehow managed to survive the ordeal.
The biggest fascination for the Chocó was blonde women. When we brought a blonde woman into a village, everyone would come up to her and want to touch her hair; Chocó women and children alike. I am sure that in many cases it was the first time any of these children had ever seen a Gringo other than me, much less a blonde woman. Kim was even more of an anomaly to the Chocó. The first time he arrived at a Chocó village produced one of the most extreme reactions I had seen by the children. Kim is over six feet tall, and has red hair and freckles. They called him 'el rojo' (the red one).
The standard trip with either the tourists or the bird watchers was two days. Each river had three Indian settlements on it, and was about a two hour ride in the dugout canoe from one village to the next. We would stop at each village for an hour or two on the way upriver and visit with the Indians. The tourists would buy baskets and wood carvings that the Indians began to make and sell after they were secure in the idea that we would be coming to their villages on a fairly regular basis. We would then set up camp at the last upriver village (tents and air mattresses), and set off for home down the river the next day. The children were always very friendly and curious about us. They would help us set up camp and then sit and visit with the tourists until their mothers came by to get them as it became dark out. When traveling back down the river the women and children of each village would come down to the shore and wave as we went by.
Monday, March 14, 2011
The Healing
The Chocó believe that everyone's life is controlled by a spirit, and that one’s spirit is an animal. When a person is young the spirit lives on your back, and as the person gets older and wiser it moves up the back and ends up living on the top of your head when you are very old. The elderly were the most respected members of the Chocó family.
The Chocó had a Curandero (medicine man) in most of the villages. They believe that the Curandero has supernatural powers from birth, which gives him the ability to communicate with the spirits to determine the causes of a person’s illness. He would make medicine sticks (ethnographic art) that he would then use in the healing process. These were made from a very special hard dark wood, and many of these sticks looked like black ebony, all shiny and iridescent. The only thing that can create that effect on the wood is repeated exposure to the natural oils of the human hand. The medicine sticks had been used and handled so much by the Curandero that they eventually achieved that sheen. The Chocó also made wood carvings that they sold to the tourists, but they weren't the same as the authentic medicine sticks. Genuine medicine sticks had acquired that rich and earthy patina created by countless years, and in some cases generations, of use by the Curanderos.
I stated earlier that there was racial tension between the Mestizos and the Chocó. An example of this was that the Mestizos referred to the Curanderos as “Brujos” (witches). These people tended to be afraid of that which they did not understand.
The supernatural was always a natural part of the lives of the Choco. The Curanderos used their powers for the good of the community in healing the sick. It would never occur to a Curandero to use their skills to do damage to another person. This form of sorcery is practiced in South America and the Caribbean. People of these other cultures will hire a sorcerer to cast a spell doing harm to someone who was an enemy or a person who had wronged you. The sorcery of these cultures was completely foreign to the communal thought process of the Choco.
One day an Indian arrived at the house telling me that the Cacique needed to see me right away. It was late in the day, but I dutifully loaded up the dugout and took off for Union Chocó.
I arrived at nightfall and was met on the bank by the Cacique. While we walked up the hill together, and then across the village, he explained to me that one of the boys in the village had been bitten by a poisonous snake.
I was a little surprised because normally these kinds of things were kept very private and outsiders were never allowed to observe. I knew that I was viewed by the Chocó as an expert on snakes and snake bites, mainly because of my initial involvement in the animal business and the fact that I wasn't afraid of snakes, but what I observed on this day was way outside any of my areas of expertise.
I was led to a hut at the back end of the village. There was a group of five or six women with several children standing near the base of the ladder beside the hut. I smiled at them as I approached the hut, and they nodded in return, but no one said anything.
The Cacique motioned to me to go up the ladder. I scaled the log up into the house but the Cacique did not follow me up the ladder. I quietly stepped up into the hut and seated myself on the floor right by the top of the ladder to be able to observe from a quiet distance. I don’t think that anyone noticed me enter, and if they did they did not show it.
I was immediately struck by the sweet smell of a smoky aura that had settled under the thatched roof. I recognized the boy who was lying on a matt in the center of the floor of the Curandero's hut. I remember him from many of my previous trips to Union Chocó. He was conscious throughout the entire time I was there. He was constantly in a hot sweat all over his body as he stared blankly up at the roof. The Curandero sat beside the side of the mat and was also in a hot sweat. He seemed completely absorbed, as if he was in a trance.
There were two men sitting on the floor on the opposite side of the mat from where the Curandero was seated. One was probably the boy's father, someone who I had never met. The other I immediately recognized as the Cacique’s brother. I surmised that the boy on the mat was probably his grandson.
There was a ceremonial rhythm to what I was observing. Both the Curandero and the father were chanting. The smoke (and the smell) came from a small smoldering fire of what looked like dried grass in a gourd to the left of the Curandero. There were three small gourds to the right of the Curandero. One had a black pitch in it, one had a mashed red berry in it, and the third had a mixture of wet grasses.
The Curandero devoured an entire bottle of Seco during the time I was sitting with them. The Curandero was using two medicine sticks, first one, then the other, and then both. One stick was in the shape of two snakes twisted together and was a shiny dark black color. Perched on the end of the second stick was a carving of a small boy. There was a carved snake that curled up the handle of this stick and the head of the snake rested on the leg of the boy. I couldn't understand what that they were chanting, but I would guess that they were probably praying.
The boy had been bitten just above the ankle. The Curandero would chew up the mixture of the grasses and herbs which he kept applying to the spot on the leg where the boy had been bitten, and then he would massage the mixture into the bite using the black tar. Over the centuries the Curanderos had learned about those particular roots and herbs having medicinal qualities. This was passed down from father to son, as Curanderos tended to be a family business because they believed that the spirits that helped you to cure others were given to you at birth. The best and most powerful medicine sticks, with the most powerful spirits, were also passed along from one generation to the next. The combination of the roots and herbs, the saliva of the Curandero, and the Seco apparently has healing properties, given each different medical situation. However, it does seem like faith also plays a large part in the healing process as well. I would think that a study of these miracle cures coming straight from nature would be appropriate for some scientist to do someday, if it hasn't already been done.
I observed the ritual for about 15 or 20 minutes; chanting, more of the medicinal mixture, more of the Seco, and constant work with the medicine sticks, with the sweet smelling smoke filling the air of the small hut throughout. Finally, I quietly slipped out of the hut and back down the ladder. I explained to the Cacique that there was nothing I could do to be able to help. Even if I had anti-venom with me, it would have been dangerous to administer it without knowing the exact kind of snake that bit the boy. I reassured him that what they were doing was probably the right thing and gave the boy his best chance for survival.
He told me that the Curandero, and the boy's father, would be working with him until morning.
The boy survived and I brought him a pair of sandals from Panama City the next time I saw him some weeks later.
The Chocó had a Curandero (medicine man) in most of the villages. They believe that the Curandero has supernatural powers from birth, which gives him the ability to communicate with the spirits to determine the causes of a person’s illness. He would make medicine sticks (ethnographic art) that he would then use in the healing process. These were made from a very special hard dark wood, and many of these sticks looked like black ebony, all shiny and iridescent. The only thing that can create that effect on the wood is repeated exposure to the natural oils of the human hand. The medicine sticks had been used and handled so much by the Curandero that they eventually achieved that sheen. The Chocó also made wood carvings that they sold to the tourists, but they weren't the same as the authentic medicine sticks. Genuine medicine sticks had acquired that rich and earthy patina created by countless years, and in some cases generations, of use by the Curanderos.
I stated earlier that there was racial tension between the Mestizos and the Chocó. An example of this was that the Mestizos referred to the Curanderos as “Brujos” (witches). These people tended to be afraid of that which they did not understand.
The supernatural was always a natural part of the lives of the Choco. The Curanderos used their powers for the good of the community in healing the sick. It would never occur to a Curandero to use their skills to do damage to another person. This form of sorcery is practiced in South America and the Caribbean. People of these other cultures will hire a sorcerer to cast a spell doing harm to someone who was an enemy or a person who had wronged you. The sorcery of these cultures was completely foreign to the communal thought process of the Choco.
One day an Indian arrived at the house telling me that the Cacique needed to see me right away. It was late in the day, but I dutifully loaded up the dugout and took off for Union Chocó.
I arrived at nightfall and was met on the bank by the Cacique. While we walked up the hill together, and then across the village, he explained to me that one of the boys in the village had been bitten by a poisonous snake.
I was a little surprised because normally these kinds of things were kept very private and outsiders were never allowed to observe. I knew that I was viewed by the Chocó as an expert on snakes and snake bites, mainly because of my initial involvement in the animal business and the fact that I wasn't afraid of snakes, but what I observed on this day was way outside any of my areas of expertise.
I was led to a hut at the back end of the village. There was a group of five or six women with several children standing near the base of the ladder beside the hut. I smiled at them as I approached the hut, and they nodded in return, but no one said anything.
The Cacique motioned to me to go up the ladder. I scaled the log up into the house but the Cacique did not follow me up the ladder. I quietly stepped up into the hut and seated myself on the floor right by the top of the ladder to be able to observe from a quiet distance. I don’t think that anyone noticed me enter, and if they did they did not show it.
I was immediately struck by the sweet smell of a smoky aura that had settled under the thatched roof. I recognized the boy who was lying on a matt in the center of the floor of the Curandero's hut. I remember him from many of my previous trips to Union Chocó. He was conscious throughout the entire time I was there. He was constantly in a hot sweat all over his body as he stared blankly up at the roof. The Curandero sat beside the side of the mat and was also in a hot sweat. He seemed completely absorbed, as if he was in a trance.
There were two men sitting on the floor on the opposite side of the mat from where the Curandero was seated. One was probably the boy's father, someone who I had never met. The other I immediately recognized as the Cacique’s brother. I surmised that the boy on the mat was probably his grandson.
There was a ceremonial rhythm to what I was observing. Both the Curandero and the father were chanting. The smoke (and the smell) came from a small smoldering fire of what looked like dried grass in a gourd to the left of the Curandero. There were three small gourds to the right of the Curandero. One had a black pitch in it, one had a mashed red berry in it, and the third had a mixture of wet grasses.
The Curandero devoured an entire bottle of Seco during the time I was sitting with them. The Curandero was using two medicine sticks, first one, then the other, and then both. One stick was in the shape of two snakes twisted together and was a shiny dark black color. Perched on the end of the second stick was a carving of a small boy. There was a carved snake that curled up the handle of this stick and the head of the snake rested on the leg of the boy. I couldn't understand what that they were chanting, but I would guess that they were probably praying.
The boy had been bitten just above the ankle. The Curandero would chew up the mixture of the grasses and herbs which he kept applying to the spot on the leg where the boy had been bitten, and then he would massage the mixture into the bite using the black tar. Over the centuries the Curanderos had learned about those particular roots and herbs having medicinal qualities. This was passed down from father to son, as Curanderos tended to be a family business because they believed that the spirits that helped you to cure others were given to you at birth. The best and most powerful medicine sticks, with the most powerful spirits, were also passed along from one generation to the next. The combination of the roots and herbs, the saliva of the Curandero, and the Seco apparently has healing properties, given each different medical situation. However, it does seem like faith also plays a large part in the healing process as well. I would think that a study of these miracle cures coming straight from nature would be appropriate for some scientist to do someday, if it hasn't already been done.
I observed the ritual for about 15 or 20 minutes; chanting, more of the medicinal mixture, more of the Seco, and constant work with the medicine sticks, with the sweet smelling smoke filling the air of the small hut throughout. Finally, I quietly slipped out of the hut and back down the ladder. I explained to the Cacique that there was nothing I could do to be able to help. Even if I had anti-venom with me, it would have been dangerous to administer it without knowing the exact kind of snake that bit the boy. I reassured him that what they were doing was probably the right thing and gave the boy his best chance for survival.
He told me that the Curandero, and the boy's father, would be working with him until morning.
The boy survived and I brought him a pair of sandals from Panama City the next time I saw him some weeks later.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Cito and the NBC News Crew
We were out on a multi-day bird trapping trip upriver on the Tuira, about a half day's trip from the house. Around midday I heard a boat motor and went down to the river to see who it was, because boats with motors rarely came by. Surprise, surprise! It was Arnold (Cito) Talbot, a good friend of mine from Panama City who worked as a cameraman for NBC news in Central America. The word 'Cito' means 'little,' but Cito was anything but little. He was shorter than six feet tall and weighed over 250 pounds, and I don't think any of it was muscle. He was always quick with a joke. Cito was the kind of guy who was the life of the party.
Here was Cito, arriving in the middle of the jungle with a news crew (it must have been a real slow news day). The crew was in Panama to cover the Presidential visit of Jimmy Carter and the signing of the new treaty changing the terms of the management of the Panama Canal.
They took some footage of the jungle and the parrots and interviewed me. I think I said something romantic about the jungle, like how you could feel it because it had a heartbeat of its own. It was something highbrow and philosophical. The spot got picked up in the United States on national news. Cito told me later that when they ran the piece it was very well received, and they even got some letters. He told me about one letter from a waitress in St. Louis who wanted to come down to live with me. I got upset with him because he never got her number or address.
Years later at my 20th high school reunion, many of my old friends told me that they had seen the spot on television. They told me that they told their friends, "Did you see that crazy guy in the jungle on the news? I went to high school with him."
Cito had grown up in the Canal Zone and now lived in Panama City. He would come down to the house in El Real and just pop in, unannounced. He would bring with him a cheap bag of nondescript beads. The first time he brought them I asked him what they were for; he told me that he was going to trade them with the Indians for baskets and wood carvings. I thought he was nuts. When he pulled out the beads at Union Chocó I couldn't believe the reaction of the Chocó Indian women. They were willing to trade anything they had for Cito's beads. I learned the lesson that there were some things that were more important to a Chocó woman than money.
Here was Cito, arriving in the middle of the jungle with a news crew (it must have been a real slow news day). The crew was in Panama to cover the Presidential visit of Jimmy Carter and the signing of the new treaty changing the terms of the management of the Panama Canal.
They took some footage of the jungle and the parrots and interviewed me. I think I said something romantic about the jungle, like how you could feel it because it had a heartbeat of its own. It was something highbrow and philosophical. The spot got picked up in the United States on national news. Cito told me later that when they ran the piece it was very well received, and they even got some letters. He told me about one letter from a waitress in St. Louis who wanted to come down to live with me. I got upset with him because he never got her number or address.
Years later at my 20th high school reunion, many of my old friends told me that they had seen the spot on television. They told me that they told their friends, "Did you see that crazy guy in the jungle on the news? I went to high school with him."
Cito had grown up in the Canal Zone and now lived in Panama City. He would come down to the house in El Real and just pop in, unannounced. He would bring with him a cheap bag of nondescript beads. The first time he brought them I asked him what they were for; he told me that he was going to trade them with the Indians for baskets and wood carvings. I thought he was nuts. When he pulled out the beads at Union Chocó I couldn't believe the reaction of the Chocó Indian women. They were willing to trade anything they had for Cito's beads. I learned the lesson that there were some things that were more important to a Chocó woman than money.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Smart Parrots
Doing business in Panama was different than in the United States. It was all about whom you knew, not what you knew. Our contacts in the Darien, as well as Panama City, proved to be the key to our success.
We were working with a section of the Panamanian Department of Agriculture called RENARE (REcursos NAturales REnovables – Renewable Natural Resources) for our animal collection and shipment permits. Their offices were not in Panama City, but in a remote location about a half an hour outside of the city. It was a series of old block buildings that looked like old scattered homes, or an old elementary school, more than it did the hub of Panamanian forestry and agriculture. We had two contacts in RENARE, both in their twenties, and both liked to go out at night and have a good time. We took them to the local discos on several occasions and developed excellent working and social relationships. Although I had heard that you did business in Latin America based on greasing people’s palms, neither of our two RENARE contacts ever shook me down for money, and the only sums we paid were the legitimate costs of the permits and the duties for shipping the birds.
We had made arrangements with a group of doctors led by Doctor Pedro Galindo, from Gorgas Memorial Hospital in the Canal Zone, the largest and most modern hospital in Central America, who were studying Newcastle disease in exotic birds in the wild, to test all of our birds. We did buy some birds from the Indians, and we caught some as well, enough to make a couple of successful shipments. During the time that we tested and shipped birds we never had a single positive test for Newcastle disease in the wild Panamanian birds. But we soon found out something else about trapping parrots:
The parrots were much smarter than we were.
Wild parrots would come down into the corn fields to feed by the hundreds. We would set up large mist nets (thin, black monofilament nets, with each net about 12 feet high and 40 feet long) on bamboo poles along the perimeter of the corn field. We hid in a rancho, a small lean-to constructed from large sticks and palm fronds. The rancho was strategically located across from the net placements. When a large number of birds were in the field feeding we would jump out and scare them into the nets. At least that was the theory behind our plan.
We would set the nets on the right side of the field, and the parrots would fly to the left. Because of this we would spend all of the next day moving the nets to the left side of the cornfield. After all, that's where they flew yesterday. Here come the birds back again. We would execute our plan and jump out and scare them, but this time they flew to the right. There would be literally hundreds of parrots feeding in the corn field, and the best day out we would only catch a few.
Then one day something happened that changed my point of view regarding taking animals out of the wild, as well as the live animal business as a whole. We were trapping parrots at a corn field about a half an hour from the house. We caught three parrots that day and had them in a cage beside the nets. Another parrot from the flock did not fly away with the rest. It sat on a branch near the caged parrots, calling out to them. One of the caged parrots kept calling back to the one in the tree. We packed up all our gear and finished up closing down the net site for the evening, and then headed back toward home with the three caged parrots. The other bird followed us, calling as we walked along the trail to what was probably its mate in the cage. The scene touched me deeply, and made me realize that these animals have feelings of attachment and loyalty; emotions just like humans have. I stopped on the trail and let the caged parrots go. I watched the birds fly off together until they disappeared in the distance. I never trapped another animal after that day. If I was going to stay in the Darien and live this lifestyle, then I would have to find a different way of supporting myself.
I must admit that the work of trapping birds was very interesting. One of the first things we did at any bird trapping site was to construct the rancho. It would be built at the highest point of the farm, on a hill overlooking the corn field. We would hide in it and observe the movements of the parrots. Hiding in the rancho and observing the surroundings was very reminiscent of my childhood days, hiding in the underbrush of the Angeles National Forest and awaiting my friends coming up the ravine.
Sometimes I was alone in the rancho and sometimes with another person, but we never spoke or moved. While the observers sat quietly in the rancho we would see many things in addition to the birds. So much was happening around you that it was like being involved in a live movie:
There were parrots bouncing around from corn stalk to corn stalk, feeding.
About 100 feet down the hill to the right was a small rodent-like animal foraging for food.
Coming across the small clearing into the corn field from the left side was a small animal that had a body that looked like a fox with a long bushy tail, but it was grey in color.
Hanging from one of the palm fronds on the top of our rancho, not three feet from where we are seated, you notice a large praying-mantis-like insect that you have never seen before. It is four inches long and all jet black with some slight orange coloration.
You think for a moment, “I wonder how far that bug can leap and how much it would hurt if it bit me?”
We were working with a section of the Panamanian Department of Agriculture called RENARE (REcursos NAturales REnovables – Renewable Natural Resources) for our animal collection and shipment permits. Their offices were not in Panama City, but in a remote location about a half an hour outside of the city. It was a series of old block buildings that looked like old scattered homes, or an old elementary school, more than it did the hub of Panamanian forestry and agriculture. We had two contacts in RENARE, both in their twenties, and both liked to go out at night and have a good time. We took them to the local discos on several occasions and developed excellent working and social relationships. Although I had heard that you did business in Latin America based on greasing people’s palms, neither of our two RENARE contacts ever shook me down for money, and the only sums we paid were the legitimate costs of the permits and the duties for shipping the birds.
We had made arrangements with a group of doctors led by Doctor Pedro Galindo, from Gorgas Memorial Hospital in the Canal Zone, the largest and most modern hospital in Central America, who were studying Newcastle disease in exotic birds in the wild, to test all of our birds. We did buy some birds from the Indians, and we caught some as well, enough to make a couple of successful shipments. During the time that we tested and shipped birds we never had a single positive test for Newcastle disease in the wild Panamanian birds. But we soon found out something else about trapping parrots:
The parrots were much smarter than we were.
Wild parrots would come down into the corn fields to feed by the hundreds. We would set up large mist nets (thin, black monofilament nets, with each net about 12 feet high and 40 feet long) on bamboo poles along the perimeter of the corn field. We hid in a rancho, a small lean-to constructed from large sticks and palm fronds. The rancho was strategically located across from the net placements. When a large number of birds were in the field feeding we would jump out and scare them into the nets. At least that was the theory behind our plan.
We would set the nets on the right side of the field, and the parrots would fly to the left. Because of this we would spend all of the next day moving the nets to the left side of the cornfield. After all, that's where they flew yesterday. Here come the birds back again. We would execute our plan and jump out and scare them, but this time they flew to the right. There would be literally hundreds of parrots feeding in the corn field, and the best day out we would only catch a few.
Then one day something happened that changed my point of view regarding taking animals out of the wild, as well as the live animal business as a whole. We were trapping parrots at a corn field about a half an hour from the house. We caught three parrots that day and had them in a cage beside the nets. Another parrot from the flock did not fly away with the rest. It sat on a branch near the caged parrots, calling out to them. One of the caged parrots kept calling back to the one in the tree. We packed up all our gear and finished up closing down the net site for the evening, and then headed back toward home with the three caged parrots. The other bird followed us, calling as we walked along the trail to what was probably its mate in the cage. The scene touched me deeply, and made me realize that these animals have feelings of attachment and loyalty; emotions just like humans have. I stopped on the trail and let the caged parrots go. I watched the birds fly off together until they disappeared in the distance. I never trapped another animal after that day. If I was going to stay in the Darien and live this lifestyle, then I would have to find a different way of supporting myself.
I must admit that the work of trapping birds was very interesting. One of the first things we did at any bird trapping site was to construct the rancho. It would be built at the highest point of the farm, on a hill overlooking the corn field. We would hide in it and observe the movements of the parrots. Hiding in the rancho and observing the surroundings was very reminiscent of my childhood days, hiding in the underbrush of the Angeles National Forest and awaiting my friends coming up the ravine.
Sometimes I was alone in the rancho and sometimes with another person, but we never spoke or moved. While the observers sat quietly in the rancho we would see many things in addition to the birds. So much was happening around you that it was like being involved in a live movie:
There were parrots bouncing around from corn stalk to corn stalk, feeding.
About 100 feet down the hill to the right was a small rodent-like animal foraging for food.
Coming across the small clearing into the corn field from the left side was a small animal that had a body that looked like a fox with a long bushy tail, but it was grey in color.
Hanging from one of the palm fronds on the top of our rancho, not three feet from where we are seated, you notice a large praying-mantis-like insect that you have never seen before. It is four inches long and all jet black with some slight orange coloration.
You think for a moment, “I wonder how far that bug can leap and how much it would hurt if it bit me?”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)