Learning a foreign language at age 55 is no joke! The famous holistic health doctor, Andrew Weil, has said that the three best ways to keep one’s mind agile are: 1) learn a new computer operating system; 2) learn a new language, and 3) …well, I can’t remember the third. I am only 55, and my goal is more about learning to communicate with the increasing number of Spanish speakers in the US than staving off dementia. Still, if I ever do really “get” the reflexive verbs in Spanish, it will probably scare off Alzheimer’s for awhile longer.
I have been in Panama for one year, minus a few trips back home. When we arrived, I had been studying Spanish in the U.S. for only a few months, on my own, using tapes and textbooks. Hardly an all-out effort, as I was also working full time and wrapping up my life in preparation for this two-year hiatus. When we arrived in August 2008 I had only one full week with my Spanish-speaking husband along to translate and handle transactions, after which he started work. I was on my own and I was terrified.
My task was straightforward: set up an entire household from scratch; from buying and installing appliances and furniture to assembling a barbecue from 300 little pieces, using directions in Spanish. I carried a little electronic dictionary with me at all times, and wore it out in 6 months. At that point I discovered the on-line translators and began to read books and newspapers with the computer at my elbow.
Since I didn’t know anyone at first, my experience with live speech was limited to what I could overhear while doing errands, or struggle through in direct transactions. I did a lot of eavesdropping, taking walks while listening to my downloaded Pimsleur lessons, and watching TV while ironing. TV was frustrating, as much of the Spanish was too fast and too colloquial for me to follow. It was a major victory to even identify the main topic of the newscaster’s breathless story. The “telenovelas” (Spanish soap operas) were too ridiculous to bear, even for the sake of learning.
After the first few months, I began twice weekly lessons with Angela Curtis, my wonderful Spanish teacher. I have described those in an earlier blog posting. Angela saved me from complete isolation and frustration! I worked hard to prepare for each hour we spent together, coming up with a full typed page of questions in Spanish and written descriptions of my daily experiences. As time went on, we spoke more and more Spanish, with less reversion to English for explanations.
When I ran low on taped Spanish drills, it occurred to me that I could try to find some Panamanian radio stations to listen to. I fished out my ancient portable cassette player/radio, found some earphones, and set out on a walk. Twirling the dial, I hit the motherlode! The first station I came upon was a call-in show, and I even recognized the topic – treating illnesses with natural substances! Much of the conversation was a blur, but I could catch just enough words to keep me listening. Moving the dial further, I came upon a show about show business and the lives of the stars (even in a Spanish accent, I could catch “Angelina Jolie and Bradd Pitt”!) Further up the FM dial was a religious station, recognizable by its chanted Hail Marys. Advertising jingles for products were interspersed with the signature tunes for each of the political candidates for the May 2009 elections. I was hooked.
From then on, I have listened to talk radio for at least 3 hours per day, whenever I take walks and while doing chores around the house. I have come to know the talk show hosts, their attitudes and personalities, and the topics they like to discuss. I have learned a great deal about Panamanian politics, culture, cuisine, and the beliefs of everyday Panamanians. It’s kind of like eavesdropping on a national conversation; this little country of 3+ million is full of hope and ambition and good intentions, which helps offset some of the inevitable frustrations I have felt with Panamanian bureaucracy and inefficiency. I am touched by the civic-mindedness of the callers, and the massive response that is mobilized whenever neighbors are in trouble.
Last week I wrote an email to my favorite 4 talk-show hosts, thanking them for all I have learned from their shows, and for easing my inevitable loneliness as a foreigner. The host whose show is called “Contact with the Community”, Gisela Vergara, sent me a very nice email in return, and read my letter on the air.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Is ESOL really my calling?
8/25/09
I have no idea what just happened! I got up a bit earlier than usual, straightened the house, and took Rich to school. Then, as agreed, I drove to Body Flow, the local gym owned by Juanita. She had invited me when we met last Wednesday with an imperative tone that Panamanian women of a certain age use, and which doesn’t brook refusal. It was clear that she wanted to exchange something in return for the English practice I agreed to provide.
Now I don’t really like gyms. I prefer natural exercise, walking and working on the house, and I always feel foolish running or gyrating in place on a machine. Still, gotta be polite. We had agreed that I would come at 7 am, exercise for an hour, take her pilates class, and then we would go to my house to talk. I was mildly anxious about the state of our house (never completely clean) and had baked some oatmeal bars so we could snack when we got back. I also made some iced tea, although I have never seen a Panamanian drink it.
I approached the front door of Body Flow and was buzzed in by the receptionist. I said (in Spanish) that I had been invited by Juanita (la Senora). She nodded as if she had been told of my visit and buzzed me in the next set of doors. Inside, several men and women exercised on treadmills and elliptical trainers. I sat down on a bench at the entrance and busied myself changing into my tennis shoes. After about 10 minutes, a bleached blond, buff, athletic young man came to get me, leading me to the elliptical trainers. He motioned for me to get on, gave me some instructions which I mostly did not catch, and started the machine. Great. He had set it on a low setting, but my legs ached within five minutes. Only fifteen more to go! Of course, it got easier, so I finished the set and went to the water fountain for a drink. After a few minutes, he looked at me and said, “Ya?” which meant, “Ready?” I then followed him to a treadmill, on which I walked for another 20 minutes. After the cooldown, I stepped off and got another drink. No sign of Juanita. My “trainer” said something about “10 minutes” and motioned for me to go upstairs to the classroom. I spent the next 20 minutes up there alone, stretching on a mat. Finally, he came up, and said something about “not today. Can you tomorrow?” Was he talking about Juanita? I said not tomorrow, but Thursday, in order to stick with our tentative plan. After a little while he left me, and I figured it was time to leave. I walked downstairs, got my bag, and said to the receptionist, “Please tell the Senora she can call me, if she wants to.”
No idea what just happened… Was Juanita sidetracked by traffic? Family? Or was she nervous about coming to my house or about speaking English? QUE PASO??? I was ridiculously relieved to get home, take a shower, and do some chores. It’s just totally AMAZING how much emotional “juice” I have to summon for these encounters!
Now to prepare for my little 8 year old neighbor’s English lesson this afternoon!
I have no idea what just happened! I got up a bit earlier than usual, straightened the house, and took Rich to school. Then, as agreed, I drove to Body Flow, the local gym owned by Juanita. She had invited me when we met last Wednesday with an imperative tone that Panamanian women of a certain age use, and which doesn’t brook refusal. It was clear that she wanted to exchange something in return for the English practice I agreed to provide.
Now I don’t really like gyms. I prefer natural exercise, walking and working on the house, and I always feel foolish running or gyrating in place on a machine. Still, gotta be polite. We had agreed that I would come at 7 am, exercise for an hour, take her pilates class, and then we would go to my house to talk. I was mildly anxious about the state of our house (never completely clean) and had baked some oatmeal bars so we could snack when we got back. I also made some iced tea, although I have never seen a Panamanian drink it.
I approached the front door of Body Flow and was buzzed in by the receptionist. I said (in Spanish) that I had been invited by Juanita (la Senora). She nodded as if she had been told of my visit and buzzed me in the next set of doors. Inside, several men and women exercised on treadmills and elliptical trainers. I sat down on a bench at the entrance and busied myself changing into my tennis shoes. After about 10 minutes, a bleached blond, buff, athletic young man came to get me, leading me to the elliptical trainers. He motioned for me to get on, gave me some instructions which I mostly did not catch, and started the machine. Great. He had set it on a low setting, but my legs ached within five minutes. Only fifteen more to go! Of course, it got easier, so I finished the set and went to the water fountain for a drink. After a few minutes, he looked at me and said, “Ya?” which meant, “Ready?” I then followed him to a treadmill, on which I walked for another 20 minutes. After the cooldown, I stepped off and got another drink. No sign of Juanita. My “trainer” said something about “10 minutes” and motioned for me to go upstairs to the classroom. I spent the next 20 minutes up there alone, stretching on a mat. Finally, he came up, and said something about “not today. Can you tomorrow?” Was he talking about Juanita? I said not tomorrow, but Thursday, in order to stick with our tentative plan. After a little while he left me, and I figured it was time to leave. I walked downstairs, got my bag, and said to the receptionist, “Please tell the Senora she can call me, if she wants to.”
No idea what just happened… Was Juanita sidetracked by traffic? Family? Or was she nervous about coming to my house or about speaking English? QUE PASO??? I was ridiculously relieved to get home, take a shower, and do some chores. It’s just totally AMAZING how much emotional “juice” I have to summon for these encounters!
Now to prepare for my little 8 year old neighbor’s English lesson this afternoon!
About Birds - Year 2
8/6/09
The day dawned delightfully cool. Seventy eight degrees! I was so pleased. Then, a bird crashed into my head.
After dropping Rich off at school, I headed for an unknown part of our neighborhood to take in some new sights on my morning walk. I parked opposite a shuttered elementary school building, took my umbrella and water bottle, and set out through a quiet residential part of Cerro Viento, then turned onto a main drag. Dry cleaners and corner stores with makeshift parking in front made the walk an obstacle course. Suddenly, THWAP!! Something hit my right ear, grazing my head with sharp scratches. I spun around, thinking someone was attacking me from behind, but…no one. A few seconds later, another WHOOSH by my head, and I saw the bird, alighting on a nearby rooftop. I yelled and waved my hands around my head as I walked on, cinching the suspicion of Panamanian passers-by that Americans are loco.
Another bird here in Panama has more pleasant associations. Soon after we moved in we were chatting with our French neighbors in their yard and noticed a large buzzard, hopping around in their yard. It clearly felt at home there as it pecked at bugs in the soil. Suddenly a car motor started, alarming the bird, but it gave a huge leap without ascending into flight. Jacques explained that the bird had a damaged wing or leg and could not fly. They had become fond of the poor gimpy bird and regularly fed it and talked to it. In time, we did, too.
A few weeks later, we heard our Panamanian next door neighbor arguing loudly in the street with our French neighbor. Juan had a rock in his hand and for a moment we thought he was going to throw it at Jacques! “No, no! Please, don’t hurt it” Jacques was saying. Juan said, “He’s a nuisance. He gets into our garbage – let me kill him.” “No, please.” “OK, but if he gets into my garbage again, that’s it.” The gimpy buzzard had long since quit the scene… hopping maniacally over the crest of the hill.
So here we are… North Americans (Panama canal builders) living between the French (failed Panama canal builders) and the Panamanians (current Panama canal owners) facing off in a diplomatic incident.
The day dawned delightfully cool. Seventy eight degrees! I was so pleased. Then, a bird crashed into my head.
After dropping Rich off at school, I headed for an unknown part of our neighborhood to take in some new sights on my morning walk. I parked opposite a shuttered elementary school building, took my umbrella and water bottle, and set out through a quiet residential part of Cerro Viento, then turned onto a main drag. Dry cleaners and corner stores with makeshift parking in front made the walk an obstacle course. Suddenly, THWAP!! Something hit my right ear, grazing my head with sharp scratches. I spun around, thinking someone was attacking me from behind, but…no one. A few seconds later, another WHOOSH by my head, and I saw the bird, alighting on a nearby rooftop. I yelled and waved my hands around my head as I walked on, cinching the suspicion of Panamanian passers-by that Americans are loco.
Another bird here in Panama has more pleasant associations. Soon after we moved in we were chatting with our French neighbors in their yard and noticed a large buzzard, hopping around in their yard. It clearly felt at home there as it pecked at bugs in the soil. Suddenly a car motor started, alarming the bird, but it gave a huge leap without ascending into flight. Jacques explained that the bird had a damaged wing or leg and could not fly. They had become fond of the poor gimpy bird and regularly fed it and talked to it. In time, we did, too.
A few weeks later, we heard our Panamanian next door neighbor arguing loudly in the street with our French neighbor. Juan had a rock in his hand and for a moment we thought he was going to throw it at Jacques! “No, no! Please, don’t hurt it” Jacques was saying. Juan said, “He’s a nuisance. He gets into our garbage – let me kill him.” “No, please.” “OK, but if he gets into my garbage again, that’s it.” The gimpy buzzard had long since quit the scene… hopping maniacally over the crest of the hill.
So here we are… North Americans (Panama canal builders) living between the French (failed Panama canal builders) and the Panamanians (current Panama canal owners) facing off in a diplomatic incident.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
My New Friends
After six months in Panama, I have friends! Some are blind, most are hard of hearing, and they speak a wide range of dialects. Some have scars on their arms and legs, some have more spaces than teeth in their smiles. Some can walk, others cannot. They are the residents of the Hogar de Ancianos (Home of the Aged) in the San Antonio neighborhood of Panama City.
During the past few months as I went from speaking no Spanish to speaking simple sentences, I began to long for more conversation. Listening to Panamanian talk-radio while doing the chores was very helpful in tuning my ear, but it didn't make me practice saying stuff back. I had brief, halting exchanges in the grocery store or the hardware store, but people there were definitely more patient than happy to see me. I looked into volunteering at a local public school, but the concept of volunteerism is not well developed or understood in the public sector in Panama, so I didn't get far. Besides, I discovered while hanging out in our local park and striking up conversations with children and their moms that I found the moms much easier to understand than the kids, making me doubt that working with children was a workable way to learn the language. Possibly their Spanish, too, is still in too formative a stage....
One day, as I was driving home from the local shopping center (dubbed by Rich the "Chopping for Chit Nightmare") I noticed a large, two-story building with a long front porch in the middle of a residential neighborhood. Several people sat on the porch, and the sign above the front gate says, "Hogar de Ancianos" with a Biblical quotation underneath. It clicked. I should go visit the elderly! Who better. in terms of having plenty of time, probably lacking for company, and likely speaking more slowly than our young Panamanian neighbors?
I first had the thought just before we went home to the US for the Christmas holidays. After we got back, in mid-January, it took a week to re-stock the fridge, adjust to the heat, and resume our daily routines. OK. Done with that, and still three weeks before our kids were to arrive for a visit. I asked around about the Home, but even people who lived in the neighborhood didn't seem to know of it! The secretary to the director of Rich's school lives in San Antonio, but she just made a face when I mentioned my idea, and my Spanish teacher, who lives in the adjoining neighborhood thought it was a good idea, but she didn't know the institution. (I had to take into account that, typical of many Panamanians, she does not know the most basic directions within Panama City, and confessed to me that only after four years had she become aware that there is a MUCH shorter way to get to school than the route she had been driving for years...) Looked like I was on my own.
The most encouragement came from an unlikely source. I had an appointment with a Panamanian gynecologist downtown and when I happened to mention my idea to him, he said, "Do it! That is a wonderful idea!" I said I was a little wary about how I would be received, and he said, "Just go and knock on the door! I am sure they would welcome you."
Here is something I have learned about myself since living in Panama. One can have a certain personality in one's native language, and an entirely different one in a fledgling language. How is it that such an extrovert as I am in the US can have SO much trouble reaching out to people here? I am linguistically about 8 years old, and suddenly as shy as I was at 8! Maybe that's it. I only became an extrovert in the US as I grew up and gained confidence...
I began thinking through a self-introduction, rehearsing it with my Spanish teacher, stalling for another few days. I printed out my resume and made a copy of my passport and my Panamanian residency visa, thinking how many hoops I'd have to jump through in the US to set foot in any institution. Would I need to get fingerprinted? And in what godforsaken, impossible-to-reach corner of Panama City would THAT be?
I drove over to the home on a Friday. I had rehearsed how to explain, in Spanish, who I was and what I was doing there, so when I found a nurse's aide on the front porch with a patient, I launched right in... "My name is Anne Walker. I live close to here in Brisas del Golf and I am learning Spanish. My husband s a teacher at The International School of Panama, so we are here for at least 2 years. I enjoy talking to elderly people and need to speak more in order to learn Spanish. May I visit with residents here several times a week?"
She was sweet, but bemused. She unlocked the gate and let me in, clearly not sure what to do next. I asked if there was someone in charge I could speak to. She agreed, and went off to fetch the charge nurse, who sized me up briefly and said to come back one morning, about 9 am, as that would be the most convenient time. I agreed, thanked her, and skedaddled out of there.
It has now been several weeks and I am so enjoying the people I have met there. The employees don't know what to make of me - I think they think I'm a missionary, but the "ancianos" (elderly) like me just fine. There's Roy Williams, who was born in Panama, but spent most of his life working in hotels in New York. My son's girlfriend, Krystal, brought me some postcards of New York for him, which he treasures. There's Victoria, a retired domestic from the Darien, the eastern jungly part of Panama. She is from Puerto Piña, which she says must be reached by boat or by plane. Then there are the Jamaican sisters, Ivey and Inez, who keep up a running dialog with each other in neither English nor Spanish. But my favorite is Lucia, a former elementary school custodian from the mountains of western Panama. She is uncomplaining, despite being in a wheelchair and having bad arthritis in her knees. She laughs at my jokes and encourages my Spanish. She sometimes searches for a word in vain, tapping her head and saying "I have forgotten the word!" to which I reply, "Yes, but I never even knew it!" Her face, usually drawn in pain, crinkles into laughter and she reaches for my hand.
A few stories...
Cecelia is from Betania, in Panama City and has three sisters (at least I think she used the present tense...). Also a brother and parents who have died. She did not work outside the home and says sadly that she had a husband whom she "loved dearly, but he died", as if loving someone should suffice to keep them alive. She made a point of telling me that her mother was blond, with blue eyes ("como usted" - like you). She is thin and very spry, and helps mind the other residents (sometimes to their annoyance). She called out for help once when a feeble resident tried to get up and walk on her own, prompting me to go and fetch an aide, trusting Cecelia's instinct in the matter. Thin as a rail, she loves to talk about food, and sings the praises of "tortilla changa", made with new corn. She loves avena (an oat drink) and sancocho (Panamanian chicken soup) but does not drink coffee. I told her it is probably healthier NOT to drink coffee, and she now repeats this to me every time I see her. I tell her I am a coffee addict, and she hoots with laughter.
Lucia is from David in the western province of Chiriqui. Chiriqui is known worldwide for the gourmet coffee that grows there. Lucia's mother picked and processed coffee. Her father died when she was only a few months old, leaving her older brothers, her mother, and her. She told me that her mother was "blanco" (white) like me, not "negro" (dark) like her. Her mother was Italian and her father, Panamanian. I said that in Panama it is better to have darker skin because the sun is so intense and my skin burns easily. She gazed at me dubiously. On a hunch I asked her about race relations in Chiriqui and she said that in the old days there was much interracial tension, but it is better now. She clearly suffered discrimination, and saw how differently her mother was received.
Ivey and Inez are sisters, of Jamaican parents. Their skin is as black as coal and they are very thin. All day they sit side by side on the porch and chat in low voices together. They were born in Panama and lived in the canal zone, and because their parents spoke English, it is their first language. I have asked each of them whether they "think in English or in Spanish" (so I would know how to best communicate with them) at which they each laughed and said, "English!" I replied, "Me, too." The staff tell me that they are in and out of mental clarity, suffering from Alzheimers, but I usually find Inez to be quite communicative. Ivey speaks her own language - maybe a dialect? - and other residents aren't able to communicate with them easily, so I think they are quite isolated. I start my day with them each time, as they are usually sitting on the porch when I arrive. I read a lifetime of discrimination in their eyes when other residents express frustration over trying to communicate with them. Their father immigrated to Panama to work on the canal, and must have experienced much of the same.
Victoria is from the Darien, the impenetrable jungly eastern part of Panama, toward Colombia. Her part of Panama is characterized by the only gap (about 300 miles) in the Pan-American highway, which extends from Alaska to Argentina. She has an explosive laugh, and is tickled by random things that people say. It is fun to hear her laugh and one hopes she feels as well as sounds mirthful. Victoria grew up in Puerto Piña, a town on an island which can only be reached by boat or plane. She has a granddaughter in Virginia, USA, who is a "maestra de kinder" (a kindergarten teacher) of whom she speaks proudly.
Roy Williams is 82, born in Panama, but lived for over 40 years in New York. His parents were born in St. Lucia (West Indies) and moved to Panama to work on the canal. He is fine when he's telling stories about the past, but gets upset and angry when talking about the present. He doesn't want to be in the nursing home and says he could afford to live at home but his wife won't let him. The staff tells me that the rest of the story is that he refuses to do any of the rehabilitation that would enable him to go home.
Ana carries a perpetual look of worry on her face, but she brightens the minute one speaks to her. The first time I spoke with her, we conversed in Spanish, but when I asked her a question about the past, she suddenly responded in English! Her father was from Barbados and he worked on the Panama Canal, so she grew up in the Canal Zone. She seems to speak English or Spanish depending on the decade of her life one asks her about.
I am gradually getting to know the staff, who are also fascinating and have their own stories, so I will write about them another time. I feel grateful to have found a way to be engaged, possibly useful, in Panama. But now the evening air has finally cooled and it's time to sleep.
After six months in Panama, I have friends! Some are blind, most are hard of hearing, and they speak a wide range of dialects. Some have scars on their arms and legs, some have more spaces than teeth in their smiles. Some can walk, others cannot. They are the residents of the Hogar de Ancianos (Home of the Aged) in the San Antonio neighborhood of Panama City.
During the past few months as I went from speaking no Spanish to speaking simple sentences, I began to long for more conversation. Listening to Panamanian talk-radio while doing the chores was very helpful in tuning my ear, but it didn't make me practice saying stuff back. I had brief, halting exchanges in the grocery store or the hardware store, but people there were definitely more patient than happy to see me. I looked into volunteering at a local public school, but the concept of volunteerism is not well developed or understood in the public sector in Panama, so I didn't get far. Besides, I discovered while hanging out in our local park and striking up conversations with children and their moms that I found the moms much easier to understand than the kids, making me doubt that working with children was a workable way to learn the language. Possibly their Spanish, too, is still in too formative a stage....
One day, as I was driving home from the local shopping center (dubbed by Rich the "Chopping for Chit Nightmare") I noticed a large, two-story building with a long front porch in the middle of a residential neighborhood. Several people sat on the porch, and the sign above the front gate says, "Hogar de Ancianos" with a Biblical quotation underneath. It clicked. I should go visit the elderly! Who better. in terms of having plenty of time, probably lacking for company, and likely speaking more slowly than our young Panamanian neighbors?
I first had the thought just before we went home to the US for the Christmas holidays. After we got back, in mid-January, it took a week to re-stock the fridge, adjust to the heat, and resume our daily routines. OK. Done with that, and still three weeks before our kids were to arrive for a visit. I asked around about the Home, but even people who lived in the neighborhood didn't seem to know of it! The secretary to the director of Rich's school lives in San Antonio, but she just made a face when I mentioned my idea, and my Spanish teacher, who lives in the adjoining neighborhood thought it was a good idea, but she didn't know the institution. (I had to take into account that, typical of many Panamanians, she does not know the most basic directions within Panama City, and confessed to me that only after four years had she become aware that there is a MUCH shorter way to get to school than the route she had been driving for years...) Looked like I was on my own.
The most encouragement came from an unlikely source. I had an appointment with a Panamanian gynecologist downtown and when I happened to mention my idea to him, he said, "Do it! That is a wonderful idea!" I said I was a little wary about how I would be received, and he said, "Just go and knock on the door! I am sure they would welcome you."
Here is something I have learned about myself since living in Panama. One can have a certain personality in one's native language, and an entirely different one in a fledgling language. How is it that such an extrovert as I am in the US can have SO much trouble reaching out to people here? I am linguistically about 8 years old, and suddenly as shy as I was at 8! Maybe that's it. I only became an extrovert in the US as I grew up and gained confidence...
I began thinking through a self-introduction, rehearsing it with my Spanish teacher, stalling for another few days. I printed out my resume and made a copy of my passport and my Panamanian residency visa, thinking how many hoops I'd have to jump through in the US to set foot in any institution. Would I need to get fingerprinted? And in what godforsaken, impossible-to-reach corner of Panama City would THAT be?
I drove over to the home on a Friday. I had rehearsed how to explain, in Spanish, who I was and what I was doing there, so when I found a nurse's aide on the front porch with a patient, I launched right in... "My name is Anne Walker. I live close to here in Brisas del Golf and I am learning Spanish. My husband s a teacher at The International School of Panama, so we are here for at least 2 years. I enjoy talking to elderly people and need to speak more in order to learn Spanish. May I visit with residents here several times a week?"
She was sweet, but bemused. She unlocked the gate and let me in, clearly not sure what to do next. I asked if there was someone in charge I could speak to. She agreed, and went off to fetch the charge nurse, who sized me up briefly and said to come back one morning, about 9 am, as that would be the most convenient time. I agreed, thanked her, and skedaddled out of there.
It has now been several weeks and I am so enjoying the people I have met there. The employees don't know what to make of me - I think they think I'm a missionary, but the "ancianos" (elderly) like me just fine. There's Roy Williams, who was born in Panama, but spent most of his life working in hotels in New York. My son's girlfriend, Krystal, brought me some postcards of New York for him, which he treasures. There's Victoria, a retired domestic from the Darien, the eastern jungly part of Panama. She is from Puerto Piña, which she says must be reached by boat or by plane. Then there are the Jamaican sisters, Ivey and Inez, who keep up a running dialog with each other in neither English nor Spanish. But my favorite is Lucia, a former elementary school custodian from the mountains of western Panama. She is uncomplaining, despite being in a wheelchair and having bad arthritis in her knees. She laughs at my jokes and encourages my Spanish. She sometimes searches for a word in vain, tapping her head and saying "I have forgotten the word!" to which I reply, "Yes, but I never even knew it!" Her face, usually drawn in pain, crinkles into laughter and she reaches for my hand.
A few stories...
Cecelia is from Betania, in Panama City and has three sisters (at least I think she used the present tense...). Also a brother and parents who have died. She did not work outside the home and says sadly that she had a husband whom she "loved dearly, but he died", as if loving someone should suffice to keep them alive. She made a point of telling me that her mother was blond, with blue eyes ("como usted" - like you). She is thin and very spry, and helps mind the other residents (sometimes to their annoyance). She called out for help once when a feeble resident tried to get up and walk on her own, prompting me to go and fetch an aide, trusting Cecelia's instinct in the matter. Thin as a rail, she loves to talk about food, and sings the praises of "tortilla changa", made with new corn. She loves avena (an oat drink) and sancocho (Panamanian chicken soup) but does not drink coffee. I told her it is probably healthier NOT to drink coffee, and she now repeats this to me every time I see her. I tell her I am a coffee addict, and she hoots with laughter.
Lucia is from David in the western province of Chiriqui. Chiriqui is known worldwide for the gourmet coffee that grows there. Lucia's mother picked and processed coffee. Her father died when she was only a few months old, leaving her older brothers, her mother, and her. She told me that her mother was "blanco" (white) like me, not "negro" (dark) like her. Her mother was Italian and her father, Panamanian. I said that in Panama it is better to have darker skin because the sun is so intense and my skin burns easily. She gazed at me dubiously. On a hunch I asked her about race relations in Chiriqui and she said that in the old days there was much interracial tension, but it is better now. She clearly suffered discrimination, and saw how differently her mother was received.
Ivey and Inez are sisters, of Jamaican parents. Their skin is as black as coal and they are very thin. All day they sit side by side on the porch and chat in low voices together. They were born in Panama and lived in the canal zone, and because their parents spoke English, it is their first language. I have asked each of them whether they "think in English or in Spanish" (so I would know how to best communicate with them) at which they each laughed and said, "English!" I replied, "Me, too." The staff tell me that they are in and out of mental clarity, suffering from Alzheimers, but I usually find Inez to be quite communicative. Ivey speaks her own language - maybe a dialect? - and other residents aren't able to communicate with them easily, so I think they are quite isolated. I start my day with them each time, as they are usually sitting on the porch when I arrive. I read a lifetime of discrimination in their eyes when other residents express frustration over trying to communicate with them. Their father immigrated to Panama to work on the canal, and must have experienced much of the same.
Victoria is from the Darien, the impenetrable jungly eastern part of Panama, toward Colombia. Her part of Panama is characterized by the only gap (about 300 miles) in the Pan-American highway, which extends from Alaska to Argentina. She has an explosive laugh, and is tickled by random things that people say. It is fun to hear her laugh and one hopes she feels as well as sounds mirthful. Victoria grew up in Puerto Piña, a town on an island which can only be reached by boat or plane. She has a granddaughter in Virginia, USA, who is a "maestra de kinder" (a kindergarten teacher) of whom she speaks proudly.
Roy Williams is 82, born in Panama, but lived for over 40 years in New York. His parents were born in St. Lucia (West Indies) and moved to Panama to work on the canal. He is fine when he's telling stories about the past, but gets upset and angry when talking about the present. He doesn't want to be in the nursing home and says he could afford to live at home but his wife won't let him. The staff tells me that the rest of the story is that he refuses to do any of the rehabilitation that would enable him to go home.
Ana carries a perpetual look of worry on her face, but she brightens the minute one speaks to her. The first time I spoke with her, we conversed in Spanish, but when I asked her a question about the past, she suddenly responded in English! Her father was from Barbados and he worked on the Panama Canal, so she grew up in the Canal Zone. She seems to speak English or Spanish depending on the decade of her life one asks her about.
I am gradually getting to know the staff, who are also fascinating and have their own stories, so I will write about them another time. I feel grateful to have found a way to be engaged, possibly useful, in Panama. But now the evening air has finally cooled and it's time to sleep.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Anne and Rich finally skip town!
November 5, 2008
The U.S. election safely (and triumphantly!) concluded the night before, we threw a few clothes into a bag, loaded Rich’s bicycle into our Nissan, and set off on Wednesday morning for a three-day adventure into the Azuero Peninsula of Panama. We were high from Obama’s victory, and felt like we were on a celebratory pilgrimage. Our goal was to reach the town of Chitré the first night, Pedasí the second, and drive back home on the third. And in between Chitré and Pedasí, to stop in the little town of La Palma where Rich served in the Peace Corps in 1970.
Driving west through Panama City (we live on the eastern edge) we said a fond farewell to the polluted, chaotic cityscape that is the main east-west road through town. It is aptly called Tomba Muerto… (Tomb of the Dead). The traffic is always nuts, ignoring traffic lights and stop signs, and entering and exiting the roadway at illegal points, but Rich has really learned how to flow with it. He jokes about making money hawking bumper stickers for Panamanians asking How’s My Driving?
In half an hour we reached the new (northern) bridge over the Panama Canal, built to lighten traffic congestion over the original Bridge of the Americas going out of the city to western Panama. (Note to my mom, who was with me in Panama in 2004 and remembers the Centenario bridge when it was under construction: Mama, it looks a LOT like your new bridge in Bucksport! Suspended by two elegant sail-like triangles of cables – very pretty – but without the classy lights and lookout post that your bridge has.)
The land mass of Panama is most closely equivalent in area to the U.S. state of South Carolina, but it is shaped like a long, east-west tilde with the Azuero Peninsula jutting southward from the middle-western part of the country. The Azuero peninsula is famous for its sandy beaches, which don’t exist in the eastern half of the country. All the other foreign teachers at Rich’s school have been making weekend trips to the beaches since August, but we hadn’t trusted our car to make it there until recent repairs, so this was our first foray.
The first half of our trip was on the Pan-American Highway, which extends through the Americas all the way from Alaska to Argentina with only a brief gap in the Darien jungle of eastern Panama, but don’t let the fancy name fool you! In Panama, at least, it is NOT a smooth, highly engineered road. In many places it is two-lanes, and it slows WAY down to go through busy little towns, kind of like old US route 40. Very picturesque, though – not sterile, like our interstates. Our total 3-day round trip was about 500 miles, which is nothing on US interstates, but Panamanian potholes and periodic torrential rains make efficient travel impossible.
Our first stop was at a roadside open-air bakery/restaurant for breakfast, where we ordered omelets, resisting the sweet pastries and fried corn tortillas that Panamanians love. The place was hopping on a Wednesday morning, with workers, couples, and families pulling in for a 10:00 am meal.
After a two hour drive through countryside and small towns we stopped at the beach in Santa Clara. The public beach charges $2 per person for parking, but the beach, itself, is free, as are bathrooms and changing rooms. A little restaurant/bar has a captive audience. We strolled up the beach to a quiet spot and spread our towels. Hot sand, warm breezes, blue and green surf, and families playing. Rich put on some sunscreen to mollify me, and baked on his towel while I walked along the edge of the surf under my umbrella. (White Girl does the Tropics...)
We next stopped in the town of Penonomé, capital of Coclé Province (like a county seat) and walked around the town center. Rich had been yearning for a “pueblo típico” (typical small town) with a central plaza and bustling commerce, and Penonomé satisfies. Panamanian flags flew everywhere, celebrating the November holidays of Independence Day (November 3, for independence from Colombia in 1903), Flag Day (November 4), and Independence from Spain (November 28 , achieved in 1821).
From Penonomé, it’s another hour to the turn-off southward onto the "Carretera Nacional" (National Highway) from the Pan-American Highway. The countryside grows more and more lovely and agrarian. It looks somewhat like the American south. Contented cows and horses graze in hayfields interspersed with corn and sugar cane fields, tree-lined country roads, coconut palms, and flowering plants. Little shrines appear along the highway at odd intervals. Angela, my Spanish teacher, says they are actual graves, usually for someone who died at or near that place, buried there rather than in a distant cemetery so their soul will rest.
Chitre is a town of about 48,000 people and the capital of Herrerra Province. It has the prettiest town square of anyplace we’ve seen in Panama! A central, elevated gazebo looks out upon lush plantings and the walkways are designed to entice people through this little oasis of greenery on their way to the cathedral at one edge or the candy kiosk at the other. Around the edges of the square are restaurants, hotels, and shops. We stayed at the Hotel Rex, an old and simple, but comfortable, hotel which sits right on the town square. A beautiful 2nd floor terrace lets you sit and watch the world go by below in dry comfort (in rainy season). You don’t have to be a church-goer to enjoy the lovely old cathedral (La Catédral de San Juan Bautista). I liked most that its huge doors are wide open all day, and late into the evening. There is no preoccupation in Panama with keeping the homeless out. As we walked back to the hotel after our $12 (for both) dinner, Rich spotted a street vendor selling strips of tender, marinated grilled meat on skewers, the taste of which brought him back vivid memories of 1970 Panama.
Thursday morning we set out from Chitré for the town of Las Tablas, a bustling commercial center of 25,000 people. It was HOT by 11 am, and we were happy to duck into a shop that sells the handmade leather chairs Rich had been looking for. We talked with the shopkeepers and said we would come back the next day, on our way home, to buy two rocking chairs and 4 straight chairs for our still-sparse house. Then we stopped for lunch in a local restaurante for the traditional Panamanian "sopa" (soup) called Sancocho; a hearty chicken soup with tropical root vegetables (yucca, taro, and yam). It's an acquired taste, but it certainly has grown on me! I am now trying to make it at home.
By 1 pm we reached La Palma, the village where Rich had lived for 8 months as a Peace Corps member. He exclaimed in nostalgic recognition when we reached the turn-off, a soccer field at the edge of town. We turned northwestward and drove through a picturesque little town, built into rolling hillsides. "Why didn't you tell me it was this pretty?!" I asked. He had always portrayed La Palma as extremely poor and simple, but it looked lovely to me. Houses were painted in pastels, flowers were everywhere, and there was no trash to be seen (in stark contrast to Panama City).
We parked in front of the hut where Rich had lived - a simple, adobe house, on one edge of the town square, now turned into a hardware store. No one was around as we got out of the car and started walking around the town. Rich wanted to look for a man who had been his assigned contact in his Peace Corps days. Benigno had been designated because he had considerable education (to the 8th grade level or so). When we reached a street Rich thought was close to Benigno's house, he asked a friendly, elderly passerby, who directed us to a nearby store. We went in. It was simple and stark beyond all recognition in the States - lots of bare shelves, a few cans of sardines and tomato paste, but mostly empty shelves and jars that perhaps held wares in better days. A middle-aged woman and a young woman were in the shop, and they politely answered Rich's queries. The young woman then made ready to leave her post and take us to where we could find Benigno. It turns out she was his 31-year old daughter, Rosalina! She was friendly and companionable on the walk through town, but shy until later in our visit.
When we reached Benigno's home, he was sitting on the front porch with an elderly neighbor woman, and a young woman and her little girl. Rosalina preceded us, and gestured to Rich as she greeted her father. Benigno, 65, with impaired eyesight and a lame leg, peered at Rich. Rich said, (in Spanish), "I don't know if you recognize me? It's Ricardo." Benigno said, "Of course! Don Ricardo! Please sit down!" Rosalina had told us that her father had spoken often of Rich, and we proceeded to have a lively hour of conversation with the family and neighbor about Benigno's health, local happenings (including a bizarre story about a local wild-but-beloved monkey that had been mysteriously poisoned), and family news. We were treated to photos on Rosalina/s cell phone of recent local events, and the elderly neighbor hobbled into the house to fetch a framed photo to show us of her beloved daughter, who lives and works in Panama City. Rich was charming and entertaining, and I blundered along in my elementary Spanish; it was a delightful hour. Finally, we took our leave, promising to come back in the spring to witness sugar cane processing.
Rich was transported for the rest of the day. Peace Corps had been such an important chapter in his life, and this visit brought it all back. We arrived in the little seaside town of Pedasí in late afternoon. We checked into Dim's Hostal, a lovely, funky big old inn with five guest rooms and a large garden. The focal point of the yard was a huge mango tree with a roof built into its branches covering a patio filled with inviting chairs and tables and hammocks. We spent quite a few hours on that patio in the next 24 hours, and despite the heat there was always a breeze. Breakfast, included in the room price, was served there, made to order. Rosa, the assistant to the owner, and the one who did everything, was a charming Panamanian woman who chatted with us amiably whenever we crossed paths. We could have stayed there happily for a week.
On Friday morning after breakfast we set off for one of the town's two beaches. The sand was so hot we couldn't go barefoot except at the water's edge! Rich sunbathed and I walked. It is a beautiful setting, with a dark-colored sandy beach, wooded shores, and huge rocks sticking out of the water. Did I mention that it was HOT? After an hour we surrendered and went back to the hostel, showered, packed our bags, said good-bye to Rosa, and started home. We stopped in La Tablas to arrange for delivery to Panama City of the leather chairs. Our only other stop on the 6 hour drive home was in the little town of La Arena, famous for its pottery. There we bought lovely - and cheap - pots for our fledgling tropical garden and had lunch. It rained a bit on the way home, but that is Panama. The only thing that marred our great adventure was that we reached Panama City in rush hour, and spent a frustrating 80 minutes crawling the last 15 miles! We''re hoping that among Panama's concessions to development and modernity it will recruit a few good traffic engineers.
For photos from our trip, go to http://picasaweb.google.com/anneew
The U.S. election safely (and triumphantly!) concluded the night before, we threw a few clothes into a bag, loaded Rich’s bicycle into our Nissan, and set off on Wednesday morning for a three-day adventure into the Azuero Peninsula of Panama. We were high from Obama’s victory, and felt like we were on a celebratory pilgrimage. Our goal was to reach the town of Chitré the first night, Pedasí the second, and drive back home on the third. And in between Chitré and Pedasí, to stop in the little town of La Palma where Rich served in the Peace Corps in 1970.
Driving west through Panama City (we live on the eastern edge) we said a fond farewell to the polluted, chaotic cityscape that is the main east-west road through town. It is aptly called Tomba Muerto… (Tomb of the Dead). The traffic is always nuts, ignoring traffic lights and stop signs, and entering and exiting the roadway at illegal points, but Rich has really learned how to flow with it. He jokes about making money hawking bumper stickers for Panamanians asking How’s My Driving?
In half an hour we reached the new (northern) bridge over the Panama Canal, built to lighten traffic congestion over the original Bridge of the Americas going out of the city to western Panama. (Note to my mom, who was with me in Panama in 2004 and remembers the Centenario bridge when it was under construction: Mama, it looks a LOT like your new bridge in Bucksport! Suspended by two elegant sail-like triangles of cables – very pretty – but without the classy lights and lookout post that your bridge has.)
The land mass of Panama is most closely equivalent in area to the U.S. state of South Carolina, but it is shaped like a long, east-west tilde with the Azuero Peninsula jutting southward from the middle-western part of the country. The Azuero peninsula is famous for its sandy beaches, which don’t exist in the eastern half of the country. All the other foreign teachers at Rich’s school have been making weekend trips to the beaches since August, but we hadn’t trusted our car to make it there until recent repairs, so this was our first foray.
The first half of our trip was on the Pan-American Highway, which extends through the Americas all the way from Alaska to Argentina with only a brief gap in the Darien jungle of eastern Panama, but don’t let the fancy name fool you! In Panama, at least, it is NOT a smooth, highly engineered road. In many places it is two-lanes, and it slows WAY down to go through busy little towns, kind of like old US route 40. Very picturesque, though – not sterile, like our interstates. Our total 3-day round trip was about 500 miles, which is nothing on US interstates, but Panamanian potholes and periodic torrential rains make efficient travel impossible.
Our first stop was at a roadside open-air bakery/restaurant for breakfast, where we ordered omelets, resisting the sweet pastries and fried corn tortillas that Panamanians love. The place was hopping on a Wednesday morning, with workers, couples, and families pulling in for a 10:00 am meal.
After a two hour drive through countryside and small towns we stopped at the beach in Santa Clara. The public beach charges $2 per person for parking, but the beach, itself, is free, as are bathrooms and changing rooms. A little restaurant/bar has a captive audience. We strolled up the beach to a quiet spot and spread our towels. Hot sand, warm breezes, blue and green surf, and families playing. Rich put on some sunscreen to mollify me, and baked on his towel while I walked along the edge of the surf under my umbrella. (White Girl does the Tropics...)
We next stopped in the town of Penonomé, capital of Coclé Province (like a county seat) and walked around the town center. Rich had been yearning for a “pueblo típico” (typical small town) with a central plaza and bustling commerce, and Penonomé satisfies. Panamanian flags flew everywhere, celebrating the November holidays of Independence Day (November 3, for independence from Colombia in 1903), Flag Day (November 4), and Independence from Spain (November 28 , achieved in 1821).
From Penonomé, it’s another hour to the turn-off southward onto the "Carretera Nacional" (National Highway) from the Pan-American Highway. The countryside grows more and more lovely and agrarian. It looks somewhat like the American south. Contented cows and horses graze in hayfields interspersed with corn and sugar cane fields, tree-lined country roads, coconut palms, and flowering plants. Little shrines appear along the highway at odd intervals. Angela, my Spanish teacher, says they are actual graves, usually for someone who died at or near that place, buried there rather than in a distant cemetery so their soul will rest.
Chitre is a town of about 48,000 people and the capital of Herrerra Province. It has the prettiest town square of anyplace we’ve seen in Panama! A central, elevated gazebo looks out upon lush plantings and the walkways are designed to entice people through this little oasis of greenery on their way to the cathedral at one edge or the candy kiosk at the other. Around the edges of the square are restaurants, hotels, and shops. We stayed at the Hotel Rex, an old and simple, but comfortable, hotel which sits right on the town square. A beautiful 2nd floor terrace lets you sit and watch the world go by below in dry comfort (in rainy season). You don’t have to be a church-goer to enjoy the lovely old cathedral (La Catédral de San Juan Bautista). I liked most that its huge doors are wide open all day, and late into the evening. There is no preoccupation in Panama with keeping the homeless out. As we walked back to the hotel after our $12 (for both) dinner, Rich spotted a street vendor selling strips of tender, marinated grilled meat on skewers, the taste of which brought him back vivid memories of 1970 Panama.
Thursday morning we set out from Chitré for the town of Las Tablas, a bustling commercial center of 25,000 people. It was HOT by 11 am, and we were happy to duck into a shop that sells the handmade leather chairs Rich had been looking for. We talked with the shopkeepers and said we would come back the next day, on our way home, to buy two rocking chairs and 4 straight chairs for our still-sparse house. Then we stopped for lunch in a local restaurante for the traditional Panamanian "sopa" (soup) called Sancocho; a hearty chicken soup with tropical root vegetables (yucca, taro, and yam). It's an acquired taste, but it certainly has grown on me! I am now trying to make it at home.
By 1 pm we reached La Palma, the village where Rich had lived for 8 months as a Peace Corps member. He exclaimed in nostalgic recognition when we reached the turn-off, a soccer field at the edge of town. We turned northwestward and drove through a picturesque little town, built into rolling hillsides. "Why didn't you tell me it was this pretty?!" I asked. He had always portrayed La Palma as extremely poor and simple, but it looked lovely to me. Houses were painted in pastels, flowers were everywhere, and there was no trash to be seen (in stark contrast to Panama City).
We parked in front of the hut where Rich had lived - a simple, adobe house, on one edge of the town square, now turned into a hardware store. No one was around as we got out of the car and started walking around the town. Rich wanted to look for a man who had been his assigned contact in his Peace Corps days. Benigno had been designated because he had considerable education (to the 8th grade level or so). When we reached a street Rich thought was close to Benigno's house, he asked a friendly, elderly passerby, who directed us to a nearby store. We went in. It was simple and stark beyond all recognition in the States - lots of bare shelves, a few cans of sardines and tomato paste, but mostly empty shelves and jars that perhaps held wares in better days. A middle-aged woman and a young woman were in the shop, and they politely answered Rich's queries. The young woman then made ready to leave her post and take us to where we could find Benigno. It turns out she was his 31-year old daughter, Rosalina! She was friendly and companionable on the walk through town, but shy until later in our visit.
When we reached Benigno's home, he was sitting on the front porch with an elderly neighbor woman, and a young woman and her little girl. Rosalina preceded us, and gestured to Rich as she greeted her father. Benigno, 65, with impaired eyesight and a lame leg, peered at Rich. Rich said, (in Spanish), "I don't know if you recognize me? It's Ricardo." Benigno said, "Of course! Don Ricardo! Please sit down!" Rosalina had told us that her father had spoken often of Rich, and we proceeded to have a lively hour of conversation with the family and neighbor about Benigno's health, local happenings (including a bizarre story about a local wild-but-beloved monkey that had been mysteriously poisoned), and family news. We were treated to photos on Rosalina/s cell phone of recent local events, and the elderly neighbor hobbled into the house to fetch a framed photo to show us of her beloved daughter, who lives and works in Panama City. Rich was charming and entertaining, and I blundered along in my elementary Spanish; it was a delightful hour. Finally, we took our leave, promising to come back in the spring to witness sugar cane processing.
Rich was transported for the rest of the day. Peace Corps had been such an important chapter in his life, and this visit brought it all back. We arrived in the little seaside town of Pedasí in late afternoon. We checked into Dim's Hostal, a lovely, funky big old inn with five guest rooms and a large garden. The focal point of the yard was a huge mango tree with a roof built into its branches covering a patio filled with inviting chairs and tables and hammocks. We spent quite a few hours on that patio in the next 24 hours, and despite the heat there was always a breeze. Breakfast, included in the room price, was served there, made to order. Rosa, the assistant to the owner, and the one who did everything, was a charming Panamanian woman who chatted with us amiably whenever we crossed paths. We could have stayed there happily for a week.
On Friday morning after breakfast we set off for one of the town's two beaches. The sand was so hot we couldn't go barefoot except at the water's edge! Rich sunbathed and I walked. It is a beautiful setting, with a dark-colored sandy beach, wooded shores, and huge rocks sticking out of the water. Did I mention that it was HOT? After an hour we surrendered and went back to the hostel, showered, packed our bags, said good-bye to Rosa, and started home. We stopped in La Tablas to arrange for delivery to Panama City of the leather chairs. Our only other stop on the 6 hour drive home was in the little town of La Arena, famous for its pottery. There we bought lovely - and cheap - pots for our fledgling tropical garden and had lunch. It rained a bit on the way home, but that is Panama. The only thing that marred our great adventure was that we reached Panama City in rush hour, and spent a frustrating 80 minutes crawling the last 15 miles! We''re hoping that among Panama's concessions to development and modernity it will recruit a few good traffic engineers.
For photos from our trip, go to http://picasaweb.google.com/anneew
Saturday, November 1, 2008
On Being An American in Panama During the 2008 Presidential Election
November 1, 2008
I am so nervous, I can hardly sit still. Yesterday I made 15 super-extra-long distance phone calls from our house in Panama City to voters in Ohio and Pennsylvania to encourage them to vote next Tuesday or before. Between each call, I got up and paced around the room, adjusting the fan and the curtains to minimize the breathtaking humidity in the house. When I got back to Panama a week ago from my two-week trip to the cool, temperate U.S. Mid-Atlantic, I walked from the air-conditioned plane into the air-conditioned airport, and from there, outdoors, into a blanket of warm, wet wool. I could have swept some of the air into a jar, put it in the fridge,. and had a full drink of water from the condensation. My skin, which had resumed its normal fine-pored, dry texture in the US, was back to sticky within minutes. The climate here is like a big, panting dog that follows on your heels, even into the bathroom.
We want Obama to win so badly that we can't concentrate on anything. Even that. I have abandoned my usual Spanish language TV channels in favor of madly flipping from CNN to the BBC and back again to parse the news from the commercials and gain reassurance that Obama is still the favorite to win. CNN plays his (and McCain's) campaign speeches wherever they go, and I could recite both mens' by now, but I can't stop watching. I can't imagine a greater contrast between two men, and two visions of America. That's a good thing, I hope. The more stark the contrast, the more accurate a referendum this election is on Americans' view of the world and our place in it.
I have asked a number of Panamanians about their views of our election. They range from the predictable to the bizarre, but all the neighbors and teachers at Rich's school with whom I have spoken favor Obama. Panamanians know firsthand what it's like to have America boss them around, and they take a dim view of our war in (on) Iraq. They also have long experience of American racism, both the overtly hostile kind, and the subtly condescending kind. My Spanish teacher favors Obama because he seems like a reasonable man who might have a clue how the world's brown-skinned peoples experience the world. Our next-door neighbor, a truck driver for his wife's home-based customs business, believes that George Bush coordinated the 9/11 attack with Bin Laden... Needless to say, he doesn't trust McCain.
On the other side are some of the students at Rich's school (and presumably, their parents). Most of the kids are indifferent or uninformed about the U.S election, having no connection with North America, but the more sophisticated and older students have taken an interest. The International School of Panama (ISP) draws from a broad community of educated Panamanian and foreign families. Most of the students have Latin American parents; and about half of them have lived in Panama most of their lives. Many of the parents are businesspeople or professionals in law, medicine, or politics. The Mayor of Panama City sends his children to ISP.
In Rich's economics class an argument erupted this week between the Obama supporters and two McCain supporters. Rich said it was fascinating to watch, and watch-only he did, to stifle his impusle to flatten the McCain advocates. "They were my two weakest students in that class, and their peers made short work of dismantling their arguments in support of McCain." I guess if introductory econ students can see that our emperors have no clothes and that Obama has done his homework (a concept they understand) it bodes well for the upcoming generation.
This coming week is Rich's first week off since starting the school year on August 11th. Most teachers immediately leave town, to go to the beach or to other countries for a vacation. We will travel a bit in western Panama... after the election. Until next Tuesday night, we are glued to the news from the country it turns out we really do love.
I am so nervous, I can hardly sit still. Yesterday I made 15 super-extra-long distance phone calls from our house in Panama City to voters in Ohio and Pennsylvania to encourage them to vote next Tuesday or before. Between each call, I got up and paced around the room, adjusting the fan and the curtains to minimize the breathtaking humidity in the house. When I got back to Panama a week ago from my two-week trip to the cool, temperate U.S. Mid-Atlantic, I walked from the air-conditioned plane into the air-conditioned airport, and from there, outdoors, into a blanket of warm, wet wool. I could have swept some of the air into a jar, put it in the fridge,. and had a full drink of water from the condensation. My skin, which had resumed its normal fine-pored, dry texture in the US, was back to sticky within minutes. The climate here is like a big, panting dog that follows on your heels, even into the bathroom.
We want Obama to win so badly that we can't concentrate on anything. Even that. I have abandoned my usual Spanish language TV channels in favor of madly flipping from CNN to the BBC and back again to parse the news from the commercials and gain reassurance that Obama is still the favorite to win. CNN plays his (and McCain's) campaign speeches wherever they go, and I could recite both mens' by now, but I can't stop watching. I can't imagine a greater contrast between two men, and two visions of America. That's a good thing, I hope. The more stark the contrast, the more accurate a referendum this election is on Americans' view of the world and our place in it.
I have asked a number of Panamanians about their views of our election. They range from the predictable to the bizarre, but all the neighbors and teachers at Rich's school with whom I have spoken favor Obama. Panamanians know firsthand what it's like to have America boss them around, and they take a dim view of our war in (on) Iraq. They also have long experience of American racism, both the overtly hostile kind, and the subtly condescending kind. My Spanish teacher favors Obama because he seems like a reasonable man who might have a clue how the world's brown-skinned peoples experience the world. Our next-door neighbor, a truck driver for his wife's home-based customs business, believes that George Bush coordinated the 9/11 attack with Bin Laden... Needless to say, he doesn't trust McCain.
On the other side are some of the students at Rich's school (and presumably, their parents). Most of the kids are indifferent or uninformed about the U.S election, having no connection with North America, but the more sophisticated and older students have taken an interest. The International School of Panama (ISP) draws from a broad community of educated Panamanian and foreign families. Most of the students have Latin American parents; and about half of them have lived in Panama most of their lives. Many of the parents are businesspeople or professionals in law, medicine, or politics. The Mayor of Panama City sends his children to ISP.
In Rich's economics class an argument erupted this week between the Obama supporters and two McCain supporters. Rich said it was fascinating to watch, and watch-only he did, to stifle his impusle to flatten the McCain advocates. "They were my two weakest students in that class, and their peers made short work of dismantling their arguments in support of McCain." I guess if introductory econ students can see that our emperors have no clothes and that Obama has done his homework (a concept they understand) it bodes well for the upcoming generation.
This coming week is Rich's first week off since starting the school year on August 11th. Most teachers immediately leave town, to go to the beach or to other countries for a vacation. We will travel a bit in western Panama... after the election. Until next Tuesday night, we are glued to the news from the country it turns out we really do love.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
My Spanish Teacher
Angela is a dream-come-true for a would-be anthropologist trying to learn a new language. Every Tuesday and Thursday at 3:15 pm I arrive at her middle school classroom at the International School of Panama (ISP) for my one-hour session. There are usually 2 or 3 young students in the room, being tutored by another teacher. It is a warm, welcoming, and colorfully decorated room. Angela greets me warmly and we sit down to begin.
I might be the most non-traditional student she has ever had. We never do any drills or standard language training. I figure, she does that all day with middle schoolers, and I can (and do) work with textbooks to learn the grammar. What I need is practical instruction in how to get around town, how to shop for groceries, how to talk to shopkeepers, and how to understand cultural nuances. So I prepare a lesson each time based on my needs. I think she is enjoying it because not only does she not have to prepare a boring lesson, but she gets to expound upon Panamanian culture and customs to an eager audience.
Angela is a very attractive, fit woman in her late forties; the mother of two daughters (one a senior at the school and the other a freshman in college). I know she is divorced from their father, but I don’t know if she has remarried. I wait for her confidences rather than asking many personal questions, although she is very forthcoming with stories and examples from her own experience. I know she adored her father, who died some years ago, and that she spends every Thursday evening with her 82 year old mother, who loves to go to the casino. Her daughters both live at home with her in a neighborhood near our own. The younger one is a tall basketball-playing senior at ISP whom my husband says is “a great kid”.
I arrive with a page of notes and questions from my preceding few days of adventures and misadventures, and after a few minutes of polite pleasantries, she asks, (in Spanish) “What’s on for today?”
Here are the topics we have discussed so far: politics and the current Panamanian elections, public and private education in
Here’s to teachers everywhere!
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