All things come from Mother Earth. Nothing exists that is more necessary than she is. Our ancestors fought for her because they recognized her value. The jungle and the forests provide us with meat, as well as vines and poles, and medicinal plants. In them lie our history and our culture. Cacique General Carlos Lopez, Kuna Yala, (Plants and Animals in the Life of the Kuna)
I dreamed of visiting the Kuna, long before I ever decided to visit Panama. This fiercely territorial indigenous group won rights to their homeland in 1925 and have since prevented the destructive cattle and campesino invasions that plague the rest of Latin America. More than 90% of Kuna lands remains covered by forest.
The fires of 1998 sparked by El Niño in Central America were still fresh in my memory when I arrived in Panama. Denuded landscapes and skies turned orange by smoke were seared into my deepest consciousness. I was nursing Giardia-induced exhaustion, and a renewed bout of trauma from heartbreak, which I was determined to recover from. I had departed 6 weeks before on this trail of discovery to revive my spirit. My journey was to learn the meaning of sustaining our planet, from the heart not the mind, by simply being with local people who are helping to save Latin America's rain forests.
The Kuna Yala is a Caribbean landscape of hundreds of tiny islands hugging close to a verdant coastal forest that enshrouds the misty mountains known as the San Blas. After weeks of traveling in troubled, torched landscapes, I was more than ready to enter this refuge.
Flying on small aircraft is the only practical way to travel to the Kuna territory, and there is a regular flow of tourists who go primarily to visit its jewel box of islands and aqua seascape. Arriving early morning at Paitilla airstrip in Panama City, is the first stage of entry. Predawn travelers, mostly Kuna, were already crowding the counters when I arrived, with baskets of provisions and children in tow. The Kuna women travel quite independently, but unlike the men, they continue to dress traditionally in patchwork cloth blouses known as molas, bright red handkerchiefs on their heads, gold rings in their noses, and golden beads wrapped around their legs and arms forming hypnotic patterns. As I prepared to depart, I felt I had already crossed into a new country that was not part of Panama. Indeed, I was crossing the threshold into the Kuna kingdom.
I chose to avoid the little guesthouses and hotels that are found in the Golfo de San Blas. Cruise ships plying the Caribbean come to port here, and Kuna women sell tens of thousands of dollars of molas annually to eager tourists who want a quick fix of Kuna culture. The dollar value of molas, which can cost between $10 and $50, has not been lost on commercially astute Kuna families. Most women in this region are bringing in substantial income from the thriving mola trade, making them the envy of the Kuna region, and spurring discussions of other cruise ports in the archipelago.
I flew over the San Blas range viewing the mountainous 1000 sq. mile Kuna territory from above. The unbroken forest was a relief to behold. I went first to Nargana and worked my way on small planes southeast along the coast to Achutupo. The farther east I traveled along the 140-mile coastline toward the Colombia border, the closer I seemed to move to the heart of traditional Kuna culture. Away from the Golfo de San Blas, I found tourists are still largely an oddity, a source of cash revenue that the Kuna want to exploit but insist on keeping at a safe distance.
My first few days, I stayed at Kwadule Lodge in a simple thatched cabin perched on stilts over the Caribbean Sea. The island took 5 minutes to walk around, with just 6 simple cabins, a dining facility, hammocks, and service building. On arrival, the narcotic sea breeze and warm temperatures quickly slowed my pace. I moved from small plane, to small motor boat to hammock in short order.
Dark rain clouds spread in every direction from the high mountain ridges, turning an effervescent pink by day's end. I lay entranced in my hammock as an ethereal yellow light began to glow overhead, savoring the deep satisfaction of living out a long-held dream. Years back, I worked behind the scenes to help protect the Kuna highlands from invading colonists while at World Wildlife Fund. We supported the creation of a research station in the San Blas called Nusagandi and the Pemasky Reserve, places and names that I was still proud of, even though I had never visited before.
Because of Nusagandi, I was attracted to see the Kuna's life in the forest. The large majority of the 50,000 Kuna live on tiny islands, some with populations of over 5000. These urbanized village environments are the dominant reality of modern Kuna life. Narrow winding streets snake in random fashion through a beehive of houses, with extended families living in a complex of dwellings all tightly compacted with little space to spare. Sewage treatment and garbage landfills are not yet part of Kuna life and most waste and effluent goes straight into the sea. The need for more space seemed urgent to me, but the Kuna remain committed to island life and the mainland remains largely unoccupied.
Island life for the Kuna is still relatively new. They emigrated from the isthmus in the last several hundred years, to remove themselves from territorial battles with neighboring tribes and the influence of the Spaniards. All Kuna still use their mainland reserve, and their subsistence depends on it. Small farm plots dot the forest landscape, woven within existing forest in an intricate pattern that allows important native plants to be preserved. They grow corn, yucca, rice and sugarcane on their nainus, the Kuna name for their agricultural plots. Every day, men and young boys can be seen taking their cayucos or native canoes to the mainland where they tend to their small farms.
We arrived at a Kuna cemetery, which are readily visited by community members, but not always open or appropriate for foreigners. While permission must be sought before entering a cemetery, the Kuna have opened some to outsiders to give a view of their relationship to the afterlife. I was struck by the number of fruiting trees planted around the graves, including guanabana and cashew. These hearty fruits may attract the Kuna to visit their family's resting-place not only to mourn but also to celebrate the rich harvest of continuing life. Food remnants from recent burial celebrations were left behind in a small hut just below the graves. Ishmael expressed surprise when I commented about the amount of eating and harvest that takes place so close to dead people. In fact, he told me, the Kuna at one time buried their dead below their houses. But this was before they moved away from the mainland. Now, they return their dead to the forest and to the spirits of their ancestral home.
We departed the Rio Diablo with light hearts. I felt a closer connection to the traditional life of the Kuna people. As we pulled away from the coastal plain into the estuary of silt and vegetation at the river mouth, several small stingrays swam alongside our boat. We were able to watch their underwater flight through clear waters. I wondered if they were messengers from the underworld. They tracked our boat like dolphins for a time, before disappearing back into the depths of the river's mouth. We emerged from the shade of the forest and reentered the bright aqua world of the sea.
It began to rain, as it was May, the beginning of the rainy season. The rain became intense and I was forced into my cabin to wait it out, and can still see the warping of my wet journal pages and the bleeding blue ink where I was caught writing in a sudden storm. One day after lunch, a vivid blue sky was unveiled, and the prevailing winds blew all the humidity away, in a post storm high. As the afternoon wore on, the breeze disappeared and the ocean stood flat and black as a deep Canadian lake. All of the Kuna men and some women headed to their nainus. The tranquil ocean filled with tiny canoes, many of which popped up simple white triangle sails. The San Blas Mountains formed a vibrant emerald backdrop and every canoe formed a perfect silhouette as the late afternoon light struck at its deepest angle. The self-sufficiency the Kuna had forged with their land was painted on this live canvas before me, and I felt healed from the trauma of the burning forests of Central America, knowing that this entire mountain range was safe within this magical kingdom.
But it would be foolish to suggest that the Kuna have achieved true sustainability within their domain. It is easy to be entranced, but I was not to avoid learning more of the truth of daily life among the Kuna. My host Jeronimo de la Ossa at Dolphin Lodge in Achitupo was intent on educating me. He loved the word "mentida", which means lie in Spanish. He was insistent that I had not seen a community that was even remotely traditional. He assigned his daughter-in-law Zobeida de la Ossa to be my guide and educate me about genuine Kuna life. It happened to be the first day of the "corte de pelo" ceremony, an important moment in community life, when a young girl's hair is cut for the first time. A large community celebration takes place to mark this moment, which Jeronimo asserted is a fundamental ceremony in all Kuna life.
We visited some of Jeronimo's relatives on opening day of the corte de pelo. Many women were occupied preparing special foods, while the men were already gathered in the community hall to prepare the chicha fuerte - a strong cane juice brew that must be fermented for 15 days. I was allowed to visit households and take pictures of cane juice pressing, mola sewing, and cooking - all part of Jeronimo's scheme to allow foreigner's to get a glimpse of true Kuna life. Most Kuna villagers do not allow pictures and demand payment for a shot of any woman or even a village street. Kuna generally feel exploited by foreign photographers, having seen their images in magazines and posters without payment for years. But the atmosphere created by women insistently selling molas, villagers demanding payment for photographs, school children begging for money for their schools, and island officials demanding entry fees, has given the Kuna a negative reputation among travelers. Genuine communication has been replaced by a demand for payment up front. I found natural interactions with local people were frequently stilted, if not impossible.
Trying to get more off the beaten path, I traveled with Zobeida to Ailigandi and Ustupo, both very traditional islands with little evidence of tourism corrupting local values. I sat in local Kuna Congress Halls that are the center of community organization and talked with several sailas, who are the high chiefs, who run the show on each island. The sailas rest in hammocks at the center of the thatched congress halls in the cool shade, often whiling away the hours there, even when meetings are not taking place. These important men often wear felt hats and button down shirts, giving them the look of 1940s gangsters. They seemed curious but suspicious of me, and hung in their hammocks staring at the ceiling for long periods without responding to my questions. I had not cleared my visit through the Kuna Congress coming simply as a tourist trying to learn.
I was able to discover something of the Kuna's deep fears for the future of their islands. Terrible submarine exploitation is stripping Kuna waters of valuable fish and crustacean species. Most Kuna over thirty years old remember when they ate lobster three times a week. In just 10 years, lobster became the biggest source of cash for local families. Kuna lobstermen now comb the reefs and dive repeatedly to harvest just four to eight lobsters a day, searching farther and deeper with every passing year.
The growing population is fueling the thirst for cash. Many women have 8-12 children in the Kuna Yala leaving it up to God to care for them. As we were returning to Achitupo from Ailigandi, Zobeida joked with me on the boat. She has four children and recently told her husband that, "the factory is closed." Her clever remark made us both laugh out loud, but her knowing eyes made it clear that she knew that she was a savvy woman. Zobeida was quite well-to-do compared with other Kuna women, and she seemed to enjoy flaunting her prosperity as she escorted me from island to island, wearing elaborate blouses, and paying neighbors to make her molas. She bought jewelry and bolts of cloth at each island we visited, like a prosperous farm wife on a shopping spree. I was well aware that I was a source of her prosperity. At times, I felt that I was just an excuse for Zobeida to go shopping! Kuna still barter food and assistance extensively. Money is without doubt changing this traditional social system. But if women like Zobeida are concluding that too many babies do not contribute to their future - I thought good, this an influence I am glad to be responsible for.
The Kuna may yet adapt to and conserve their marine environment. But, their forefathers lived on the banks of rivers long before they came to know the sea.
On my last two days in Panama, I went to Nusagandi. The field station was built more than ten years ago. It lies on a dirt road, which that was built as a thoroughfare to the coast through Kuna territory by the Panamanian government in the 1980s. The Kuna fought hard to prevent this road, and it remains completely washed out and virtually impassible in their territory. Teak plantations and cattle farms extend on a well-tended road to the borderline of the Kuna reserve, testament to the sometimes violently contrasting visions of mestizo and indigenous land managers
The field station now smells of mold, and the once busy dormitories are deserted. Lopez, the Kuna caretaker, was nursing a fever for 4 days before I arrived. Alone, he was forced to wait for the other caretaker to return and relieve him from his duties. We traveled together by trail to a high waterfall and I jumped into the clear waters of the river, bathing in the forceful waters of the falls. Lopez told me his father was a well-known shaman who knew the healing plants of the forest. He showed me the plants growing on the rocks by the river and explained why they are collected by the Kuna. "They can hear the plants singing and believe their roots will bring song to their throats," Lopez told me. He continued, "Kuna children are bathed in waterfalls to open their minds and make them more intelligent." His own father's knowledge had never been written down, and the use of medicinal plants is slowly disappearing in the Kuna Yala.
The forest remains alive in Kuna hearts bringing song to their throats and strength to their minds. But the cultural memory of the importance of forest life is decaying, turning to mold. While Kuna sailas endlessly debate the future of their islands, Nusagandi is abandoned and the Pemasky forest reserve is left virtually unguarded.
That night, I hung in Nusagandi's sole hammock by candlelight, my mind drifting with the mist over the dark tropical canopy. The moist, cool air soothed me. The Kuna have adapted with the changing times for centuries, and their chiefs are clearly in charge of their territory and their future. I was content to be in this mystical place, and my fears for the future of the Kuna kingdom dissipated. All the beautiful dreams of protecting life and all the traumatic feelings of loss I had experienced seemed nothing but temporary episodes there, passing with the clouds and gone.
Megan Epler Wood is President of The Ecotourism Society. She is on a one-year sabbatical to investigate ecotourism projects in the tropical forests of Latin America. You can contact the author via email: MEGAN@together.net.
Quotations taken from Plants and Animals in the Life of the Kuna, by Jorge Ventocilla, Heraclio Herrera, and Valerio Nunez, University of Texas Press, Austin, TX, US.
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