If a picture were drawn from the collective dreams people have of paradise and landscaped from canvas to reality, the earth and water sketched into life would be the sand and palm trees of the San Blas Archipelago. It´s almost a caricature of paradise.
After a weekend with the San Blas’ inhabitants, the Kuna Indians, at their yearly independence festival, life in the islands was demystified. We ate in their huts-- hearty, piles of plantains in white broth, fried fish and lots of coffee. Their children pulled on the Beards’ beards, and we hung out in their hammocks. Even the most brawny of their men came up to our chests. By the end of it, we had friends and we had enemies.
The best part was the independence festival. The Kuna revolution from Panama was in 1925 and we relived nearly every second of it in a three-day reenactment ceremony. At one point, we were herded into a large gathering in one of the big huts. The men and women were split up, so I sat alone on the far side of the room, a literal foot taller than my neighbors. We did not share a common language, and thus had little to say to one another. However, though wrong I could be, I think I felt a bit accepted, maybe even liked by the end of it. I watched with respect and took pictures of them to show them on my camera. They laughed and handed me hand-rolled cigarettes which I accepted, but re-gifted.
Later, we returned to our friend and guide, Raul’s house. We paid him and bought him some drinks. Then he became rather friendly and made many joking comments about leaving his wife to go to Panama City. The neighbors threw breadfruit at our host’s house, presumably angry that he had made more money from us in a few days than they make in two or three months. Things seemed smooth by the time we left, as Raul and his wife embraced and Aaron told her not to worry, we’d ditch Raul and save her if necessary.
