If you’re ever chased by a crocodile on land, run in zig zags. That’s one of the lessons you learn growing up in a tropical country. Lush green and cloudy grey Panama. High-rise PTY, red diablos buses blasting raging plena. Spanglish spoken begrudgingly due to an American invasion in 1990 to protect its economic interests. A banana Republic that had severed its cultural and political ties with Colombia, because of foreign interests to build a canal – first French and then American.
Of course, I didn’t really perceive all of this when we moved to Panama when I was eight. As a kid of an affluent family, we were choffered to school, to karate class, to check out cds at Arrocha. You don’t really walk much in a country this close to the equator. You move from one air-conditioned room to another via a closed-windowed car. My bubble was both environmental and social. Perhaps all those closed windows, shunning neighborhoods that had been bombed in the invasion, never really having to learn the language to get by, all contributed to my seeking refuge in books.
I did most of my reading in a hammock we had on the porch of a weekend house in the surrounding hills of the capital. Laid at the edge of a lake, surrounded by rainforest, we always joked about sweet water crocodiles and anacondas, but everyone once in a while we did hear packs of howler monkeys in the close distance. Swarms of ants and other exotic insects were a frequent part of our habitat. Dehumidifiers and fans did little for when the clouds rolled in – my favorite time to take one of the kayaks out for a spin on the lake. Absolutely no visibility beyond a couple of feet, a real challenge to the nerves, and a complete delivery of trust to the lake.
We attended an International School, with friends from India, Chile, Taiwan, Japan – mostly diplomat kids – all finding commonality in English, MTV, Harry Potter, and occasional introductions to Panamanian culture, like arroz con pollo , field trips to the jungle, and art projects about tropical birds, whales and dolphins. In Middle School I was befriended by the cool kids – the Panameños – kids of the most affluent domestic families. Entitled, mostly quite snug, often riskier or more prone to mischief, because of parental neglect.
A crew of four, me polishing my Spanish – decided to enter a long-standing canoe competition. Begun by Boy Scouts, this race ran the entire length of the canal- from the Pacific to the Atlantic Ocean over a span of three days. For this intense three-day travesy, crews trained for months in advance. After school we’d head to the hangers just below the Bridge of the Americas, hitch the trailer with our cayuco and navigate it into the water. There were days we practiced capsizing, other were’d we goof around with other crews, jumping off the buoys that marked the path for the cargo ships and cruiser transversing the canal any given day. But the real challenge was training for the lake stretch.
The Gatun Lake lies between the two oceans and the locks-systems that make up for the different elevations. 33 km was paddled in just under 3 hours by the best crews. The only real way to advance properly in a cayuco is to coordinate balance and pace with your other three paddlers. The pacer, or first position, sets the rhythm and switches. 12-16 strokes per side, before switching. Power strokes to overhaul another cayuco or for a home stretch. Second in the dugout canoe: power house, strongest paddler, never stops. We’d stick tubes through cut out holes in gallons of water, so as not to have to stop paddling to hydrate. Bailer, has to bail out the water if too much has swept over the sides. And finally, the navigator corrected direction. Tape for blisters, foot rests to adjust for back pain.
Finishing a lake run has to be one of the most satisfying feelings there is. A successful test of gliding endurance. Of a youthful milestone of joint effort. A sporty reenactment of how our ancestors travelled waterways. Young men confronting the wild, skirting crocodiles and manatees. Facing the boiling sun, the hardships of saltwater, and growing biceps starting as young as fourteen. To finish one of these sessions meant to crash exhausted in the afternoon, cold fruit and frozen chocolate bars being a special delight.
When we finally finished the race, as a team of all-fourteen year olds, we were the youngest crew to have ever accomplished this feat. At one point it felt like the entire crowd, both on the shore and in the surrounding motorboats were only cheering us on. 7 hrs and 32 minutes to cross that lake. To this day, I stretch my shoulders out in pride at the memory. *
I have never stopped reading, but after this, I began to go to parties, to ask out girls, entering debate clubs and student councils. My childhood bubble was burst one paddle stroke at a time. The foreign feel of a tropical backdrop became my watery playground. The exotic Spanish became part of my vernacular. To become a master paddler became the dream. A broken dream, whose story, is for another time.