Mud on the Tires

I have decided that given the choice between a foot of snow or four inches of clay-like mud, I will choose snow. I have developed a new respect for Midwest US weather as the daily spat of rain has developed into a constant shower of moisture. In Bocas del Toro, people are still dying as a result of the heavy rains and flooding. Luckily, the Coclé province, while entirely soaked, is not nearly as affected.

As most people in the group were taking their free days atop volcanoes and in swank hotels (one friend´s trip was summed up in the phrase, "The octopus was a little overcooked"), five of us, along with our friends Pablo, Joel, and Julie, embarked on a mission to visit a shaman. While this trip had nothing to do with my project, I couldn´t pass up the opportunity to visit an actual medicine man. The car ride was six hours long, and after that we had to hike for four hours to get to his remote abode. The hike was intense, with the dramatic hills covered in a thick and saturated mud. Our guides were kind enough to promise that we were close to the shaman´s...that was a lie that quickly grew old.

After we finally managed to reach the shaman´s house, we were greeted by our extremely welcoming hosts. The shaman´s wives treated us to some delicious food and amazing tea. I became the group´s waste disposal when people had trouble finishing the large helpings of meat, yucca, and plantains. I worked as a quasi-translator as one of the wives described the medicinal uses of local plants to the group of Biology students. We stayed one night there, then we had lunch before one final hike.

This trip was easily one of the coolest, and most difficult, excursions of this program so far. Now that I have said that, allow me to describe our final jaunt. The thick mud was up to almost our knees, and losing my boots in the muck was not uncommon. Pablo and I shared our extreme distaste for the mud as we dreamt of being on a nice dry plane, en route to the States. After about an hour of mind-numbing frustration, we waded across waist-deep water before we were faced with our final obstacle: a near vertical climb up a path of the nastiest mud I´ve ever seen. Ever. A couple of us decided that instead of sacrificing our boots to the Panamanian mud gods, we´d go barefoot and climb/crawl/swim through the mud on all fours. Another six hours later, we arrived back in town. We walked through the cutting, chilly wind through a less disgusting and more familiar trail until we reached La Mica. As I told Pablo, "Your father´s family is very nice and generous, but I never want to return to that place."

Next time I may have to call in the Rescue Squad.