For centuries the Embera people have lived in the rainforest of Panama and Colombia. The majority still live in the eastern part of the Panamanian Isthmus, in the Darien Province, where the Chagres National Park is situated today.
To visit one of their out-of-the-way villages on the Pequini River, we set off early in the morning by tender and transferred to Fuerte Amador, where a bus took us on a ride through the hills around Panama City and into the back country of Panama to Salamanca, a small 'port' where a number of dugout canoes were laying on the muddy shore to take us up-river to the indigenous native settlement.
From the four lane highway, parallelling the Panama Canal, and through a number of police checkpoints we turned off first to a potholed - but paved - country road, then onto an even more potholed gravel road, which ended in said Salamanca at the Muelle en la calle Revolution. Not much of a muelle (dock), but a flat shore with a few poles, where life jackets were stacked for the visitors. A private dwelling allowed the needy to visit a private biffy. As the line-up was pretty long and would have delayed cast off into the wilderness, the locals opened a second biffy in a decrepit building on the 'muelle'. A brownish bowl, a floor that looked as if the rainy season had not yet officially finished, two holes in the wall where water WOULD have come out into a non existent sink. OK - we all have been trained by Holland America an NEVER travel without out private little HAL supplied sanitizer.
Now, here are about fifty mostly elderly white people, a couple with walking canes, being greeted by a few Embera gentlemen in their native costume, consisting of a loincloth and a string of beads around their necks. They dress us in lifejackets and encourage us to wear our dollar store ponchos (provided by the bus-people) although it was not raining.
We all climb into the dug-outs, about forty feet long, outfitted with 40 horsepower outboards, and fixed with of little crossbenches, and re-inforced with small metal strips or what looked like duct tape.
The Embera gentlemen started their outboards and their helpers wedged long poles under the bows to unstick the keels from the mud, and we got our cameras ready for a leisurely nature putter-around to see LOTS of animals.
Not quite....those outboards were a little faster than oars. We shot off into a beautiful waterway between verdant hills and lush shore greenery with a will and a bow wave and a respectable wake, in vessels made for about 2 knot rowing speed, but blasting along at about 15-20 knots. We quickly figured out ONE of the reasons for the ponchos, the low freeboard was just right for spray from the bow to drench everybody huddled on their bum killing benches. But is was warm, it was beautiful. Our helmsman cranked his outboard up and we soon overtook every other canoe loaded with visitors and led the charge. We cruised into a large lake surrounded by mountains, where the wind had whipped up a bit of a chop, and one could discern grass covered shallows, half submerged trees, a few rocks. However, we zipped through all that without the benefit of any GPS or navigational aids. By this time all our thin multihued plastic ponchos had blown up like immense spinnakers, all the cameras disappeared under cover and we peeked at the scenery flying by through a curtain of spray, until we entered the Pequeni River. Greenery closed in to form almost a tunnel through the rainforest, the water shallowed an allowed to get a glimpse at the bottom of the river, and all the 'spinnakers' collapsed. How our helmsman found his way between that field of rocks barely covered by water is beyond me. But, no still speed reduction, our dugout was just flying.
Soon there appeared what looked like people fishing standing in the river amongst a whole bunch of sticks planted into the river bottom. Those turned out to be 'the markers' for passage through a really shallow bit. The outboard motor tilted up, the barge poles came out, and the 'fishermen' took a hold of the canoe and pushed and pulled it through the fast running shallows. Another couple of hundred yards of speedy progress, when I espied what looked like a mini waterfall coming up. Well, there were no markers nor 'fishermen' to pilot our craft through this stuff, but we tickled through it with a few bumps on the numerous rocks at a somewhat saner speed.
An then, around a large gravelly bank, we saw the village perched up high over the mud cliffs along the river. Little huts, covered with palmfronds, and elevated above ground level on long wooden stilts. A canoe bringing softdrinks (a tourist can't live without that nessecity) had already beached, and the village women carried trays of fruit (also provided by the tour operators) up a mud stairway to the village level.
The village is located above the high-water, as rainy season here brings about 3 meters of rainfall - water that is also needed by the Panama Canal to operate the locks throughout the entire year. The Pequeni river turns into a torrent then, and would reach way up onto the shore line.
Coming closer, we noticed that the village women were bare breasted, but wore a wrap around skirt (concession to civilization I suppose). Some wore coin or bead necklaces. They helped us out of the canoes and welcomed us to the village. Apparently very few 'tourists' ever come here, albeit the village has a web site for anyone who wants to spend a few days fishing, take a medicine plant walk and live in a stilted wooden hut.
The entire village had congregated in a large thatched hall, where they displayed their beautully crafted woven baskets, masks, carvings etc. The sturdy built village elder gave a speech relating the history of his people. the art of dying the various grasses used in basket making, as well as the method of stitching them together in both traditional and more 'popular' designs. He explained the pricing of the items, which was 1 dollar per day of work, i.e. a little basket taking 45 days would be priced at 45 dollars - enough of a shock to ban the idea of bargaining altogether. He explained the way to ensure 'privacy' within the community. A notched treetrunk used as a ladder to get to the living space in the huts, is turned upside down, so the steps are inverted - ergo, making whoopee can be done in private. Kids are sent to school by canoe, but most return to the village to 'marry' there, which consists of a verbal agreement and moving into a common hut. The village women had prepared a meal for us, freshly caught and grilled fish, a couple of fried plantain and banana slices in a little purse made of a piece of banana leaf - delicious and very clean.
The women and girl children performed a circular sun dance for us, followed by a monkey dance. The men brought their instruments, and a band where one man played the turtle, and the others various other drums performed a couple of songs. Most of us, spent a few dollars on the truly remarcable crafts, and then came the time for the group photograph of the assembled villagers. No sooner were they all lined up in the village mud square, when the dry season seemed to end and tropiucal deluge started. Even the villager headed for cover, albeit they - not wearing to many clothes - would dry up within minutes, after the waterfall stopped. Not so lucky for the visitors.
Some of us were throrourhly drenched, before the ponchose were called back into service.
We slithered through mud rivers down the handrailed 'stairs' (especially made by the villagers for the occasional visitor) to the gravel bar to reboard our canoes, now having deeper water inside than the river carried outside. We bailed out the water and clambered in - pouring rain of course. Everyone waved soggy good byes and we shot towards the 'rapids' again, scraping along the bottom, and towards the
'marked' passage and then at racing dugout speed towards the lake. Pouring torrential rain.
Halfway through the lake one lady lost her 10 dollar hat, and the canoe performed a wheely which terrified the occupants, after all these are stone age designs; and someone scooped up the floating hat and we resumed the race with the other canoes. Bailing resumed as well, as the boats were filling up with rainwater again.
Made it back into the bus, dripping all over the seats. Every single one of those old fogies, including myself, had a marvellous visit...a rare opportunity to connect with a different world as yet untouched by 'progess' of the present modern world.
