ONE DAY

My experience in the mountain town of Lechuza last weekend is something I’ll never forget. Lechuza is a small village of people from the Ngöbe (Noe-bay) indigenous group. It is the most numerous, poorest, and least reached of the 7 native groups in Panama. YWAM teams from our base have led multiple medical outreach teams and other trips to this area in the past years.

The Identity Restored (click here for more info) documentary production team had planned on going to Lechuza for some more footage and interviews. 10 degrees colder than where we live in Panama, Lechuza is literally situated on the ridge of a high hill. Beautiful scenery and amazing interviews with the people there.

Documentary
My day started with a short hike to the house of one of the members of the church in Lechuza. I asked a few questions for our documentary. This led to some conversations with this elderly man who gave his life to God after being miraculously healed. He also uses a combination of prayer and traditional remedies. His kind of an indigenous healer for Jesus!

Sinner’s prayer-baby dedication
This man then, introduced me to his son, who’s wife gave birth to their first child at 2:30 in the morning that very same day, right there in the little shack shared by at least 4 other people. They brought me this precious, tiny little girl, Nola, and asked me to dedicate her to the Lord. But before that, the baby’s father wanted to give his life to Christ. So he repeated a sinner’s prayer with me, I then dedicated baby Nola to God (all of this is so new to me). What a privilege! Sol, a young YWAM missionary woman who has worked extensively with this group in Lechuza, informed me what an honor it is that they asked me to do such a thing. How amazing!

“Preach it brother”
Later, that chilly evening, during the nightly church service, I was asked on the spot to give a message from the Word (this is very typical of indigenous churches, it reminds me to “be prepared in season and out of season”). I preached a short message on worshipping God with our lives and not just our words. I was filled with boldness as preaching is not part of my personal missionary activities.

We then met with the small church leadership team. The pastor is a grassroots local who got saved and wanted to spread the Gospel to the whole valley that he lives in. He is not part of any denomination. My friends and I can vouch for the messages we heard preached in the services, they are the most right-on doctrinally than we have ever heard in any other indigenous community! He has started 5 other small outreach congregations, many a 3 and 4 day hike away.

These outreach congregations didn’t just come of out of nowhere. His wife, baby, and he spent many cold, rainy nights outside of the village, rejected by the villagers themselves. They spent days, hungry, with no food until they returned home. They are still about this mission to “Go into all the world”, preaching the Gospel. Everything about this church reminds me of something straight out of the book of Acts.

The leadership team thought up a strategy to fund their “mission trips” (ie. food for the mission journeys). This is a self-sustaining enterprise comprised made up of a tomato patch, raising chickens, and a snack shop. With the profits of these ideas, they will continue to raise up new leaders and new works for the Kingdom of God in their mountainous corner of the world.

Song-writing workshop
Out of our conversations with the pastor, he agreed that an evangelistic outreach to the community, where they would play music that was written in the traditional Ngöbe style, with the traditional Ngöbe dances, and with some traditional Ngöbe food and drink would be a great idea! We planned a song-writing workshop for the beginning of December. What a great opportunity for Project Sounds of The Jungle! We will try and record many different traditional Ngöbe songs, written to praise the True God of the Bible. These songs will then be performed for the community some time after that! Praise the Lord!

The Henry’s

Click here for pictures of the trip.

Leishmania

Yes it is Leishmania here on John Henry’s epidermis. Two months ago while on the trip to the Buglere people group, I got bitten by what is known as a sand fly, but more resembles a tiny mosquito. It carries with it a bacteria called Leishmaniasis (Lesh-man-AI-a-sis).
It took about two months for me to realize what it really was. It started out looking like a rash, then like little open sores. About 25 of the 30 bites on my arms and back healed up with tiny scars. The other 5 began to open, eventually becoming painful, open ulcers… I know gross.  This one was the most painful... right on the end of my elbow.

The good news is, there are two other types of Leishmaniasis, one affecting the nasal cavity and the other the spleen, and other internal organs, the ladder being viciously deadly but more prominent in the Amazon area of Brazil.

It was first diagnosed in a clinic I went to as an allergy, and then, weeks later as a skin infection. After many drugs and antibiotics, I started searching the internet for the symptoms I had. Then I found it, described exactly as it looked and felt.

I then when to an doctor of infectious diseases who took one look at it and knew exactly what it was. Treatment, however, was a bothersome and lengthy process. It required me to get an AKG test, liver test, kidney test, and a sample of the actual sore for the department of tropical disease research. I had to receive 2 muscular (backside) injections a day for twenty days. I am now on day 18 and they have almost completely healed up, more than 2 months after I was bitten.

They will be my jungle missionary scars. Just part of the job, I guess.

Day 4

Monday, Day 4: I awake to see the marmalade colored sun begin to rise over the mountain peak we crossed the night before. My body aches, but in a good way, the way it does when you know the worst is over. It’s a satisfying feeling. Alex and I eat a couple of oranges that Silvania’s siblings pick for us and then some “patio” chicken soup. “Pollo de patio” or “mountain free-range chicken” is not like chicken at all. It’s more like leather. I got a giant piece stuck deep between my back molars and I joked with my new friends that I would be taking a piece of San Soleadad with me all the way back to Panama City.

We met with the pastor of the church in San Soledad. He told us that not many missionaries have ever made that hike, the one that the Buglere people make as part of their daily life. He said most missionaries take a boat or the small plane. He said that it speaks much to him that we made that trip. That one sentence made it all worth it.

We talked and shared our heart to redeem the culture of the Buglere people through their music, and our desire to do a teaching and song-writing workshop at his church in the near future. He loved the idea, and said he would begin promoting it and telling the people to start making their traditional instruments by hand.

I learned so much in that short conversation. Before this, I thought that the Bugleres traditionally did not use instruments in their music. After talking with the pastor, I found out that they have many diverse and interesting instruments that I have never even heard of before! They just have not used them commonly for years. We also learned that most of the dresses that the Buglere women use are really from the Ngobes, a neighboring people group. He explained how their traditional dress was much different, but the new clothes that the Ngobe had adopted were much more comfortable. I thought about it, I guess I would rather wear cotton blend than palm bark. Ha!

We then headed down the mountain to the coast, the town of Santa Catalina. It was a two hour hike, but I think it turned out to be three hours. After yesterday, though, nothing seems bad. This was all downhill!

We finally used up all of the purified water we carried with us. One of Silvania’s aunts had boiled us some of the creek water, but the smoke from the coals that boiled the water made it taste like wet cigarette juice. It was everything I could do to not gag. 

I saw my first multi-colored poisonous dart frog on the trail, tried to get a good picture but failed. Oh well. Speaking of poison. Silvania’s dad decided now was a good time to tell me about something that had happened the night before on our hike. He said that right on the side of the trail, the whole line of us hikers had passed a highly venomous viper. The only person to see it was the last in the line. They told each other but decided to wait until the next day to tell the Gringo. They also told me that the nighttime was the worst time to hike if you want to avoid snakes. Thanks guys. Also, Alex said that he was glad that I got to experience an indigenous person’s reality in their daily life.

We arrive Santa Catalina around noon. Seconds after getting to the New Tribes Mission base, Silvania asks if I want to go swimming in the ocean.  “It’s right over there”, she says. Now remember, dear reader, that “right over there” means what? Yes, a few miles. She says there’s a store that has cold sodas. “Alright, where is it?” “close”... Why don’t I learn? 

We get almost to the store and I realize that my money is back at the mission base. So we decided to swim at this part of the beach. I go to change behind a tree, as I squat down to hide myself from being seen, I fail to realize that the branch brushing up against me is full of biting ants! I ran into the ocean so fast, you wouldn’t believe!

Now this whole trip I had been praying that God would help us get in and out as fast a possible, both to be at the YWAM base to prepare for the new Discipleship Training School and to be with our families. Earlier, at the New Tribes Mission base some of the locals had laughed at us when we asked if any boats were leaving today so that we could take a bus from the Caribbean port near Costa Rica. They said those boats are few and far between and you’ll be lucky if you can get one in about 5 days! “Lord please”, we prayed! 

Now remember the different modes of transportation I was telling you about at the beginning of this letter? I decided to start asking around after my time swimming in the ocean, if anyone was leaving this afternoon. I stopped by the clinic and asked an elderly gentlemen playing dominoes. He said he thinks the doctor is leaving today and I could ask him. He is a young latino man, and I see him trying to use the community’s only pay-phone. I introduce myself and ask if he would be willing to take two people with him on his way to Chiriqui Grande, the port. He hesitantly asks whom we know here in Santa Catalina. We told them we were friends with the mission and his face lit up. He told us how he and the mission have a very good relationship and would love to take us. How much? Nothing. PRAISE GOD! “But we’re leaving in 20 minutes, I have two emergency patients that have an ambulance waiting for them at the port”. 

My body, still aching but pumped with adrenaline found the strength to run back the few miles back to the mission to get Alex and tell him the news. I arrive, completely winded, and he starts to get ready. We then run back with our backpacks on and make it with minutes to spare.

The boat the doctor has is the “penca”, the fiberglass boat that will get us to the port in a spine-crushing, 4-hour ride. The boat was tied to a tree and was being thrown around by all the shore break. Needless to say, this was no protected bay. We took off sailing straight over some of the smaller waves. The experienced driver knew how to time this all just right. Then we sped as fast as the engine would take us parallel to a few 10-foot waves, getting out of their way in what seemed like the nick of time. We finally made it past the big breakers, but I was still planning on what I would do to swim back to shore if the boat was capsized by one of these giant waves.

The two patients and their families took up most of the 20-foot boat. One patient was a 7-year-old boy who had second degree burns all up and down his body. His dad held him on his lap the whole way there. His little head was jerking up and down the whole time, occasionally smacking against the wood seat. The other patient was a 50-some year old man who was in a lot of pain, and was lying on a plastic hospital mattress propped up against the bench I was sitting on. About 20 minutes into our trip that bench broke in half from one of the extremely harsh bumps that was caused by the bow of the boat crashing at 50 miles an hour on the next wake.

I found my happy place on the floor of the fiberglass boat, holding onto the side with my right hand, trying not to get knocked around too much. I would change hands every so often to dry my mummy-like hand that would get wrinkled from the salt water spray that was constantly smacking it. The life-jackets the driver gave Alex and I served better as seat cushions than life preservers, so that’s just what we used them for.

All along the way we could see little villages and little settlements, literally in the middle of nowhere. Boats were these people’s only means of transportation. Why would they want to live here? What must life be like for these people? We passed by one small bay and we saw small canoes that look very much like others I’ve seen in the past going up and down rivers with outboard motors, but these had small, 7 foot by 4 foot, triangle shaped sails on them. This bay was heavily dotted with them; it was like a scene from a fantasy movie.

Night fell and we still had one and a half more hours to go. We finally entered the protected bay of Bocas Del Toro and the waves were much more calm. The stars came out like shimmering diamonds in the sky. I thought of how navigators of old would use these beautiful lights to guide them. I believe this was my first time on the open ocean at night. It was perfect to go with my first time hiking at night, the day before.

We arrive in Chiriqui Grande port. We see the lights of the ambulance in the distance, when all of a sudden, our motor sputters and then stops… Now what? I hear on the radio one of the nurses with us is holding, “Where are you guys?” “Do you need us to pull you in?” The driver tries various times to restart the engine with the tank of gas tilted. Finally he gives up and radios another boat to come tow us the remaining 100 meters to the dock. The driver then tries one last time and the engine fires up!

We sputter on to the dock where the whole town is gathered around, waiting to see the patient transfer. Alex and I help holding the boat steady while they lift the patients to the dock and into the ambulance. By the time I step out the ambulance is gone.

I decide to put on my wet socks and shoes and save my very last pair of dry socks for the bus ride home. Alex and I walk off the dock into what seems like the very center of a small town. Chiriqui Grande looked like a typical Latin American town that offers none of the familiarity for Westerners that many of the larger cities now have. For me it was like going back to the time of my DTS outreach in Mexico. It reminded me of some of the strange and slummy towns that we would go through.

Now the missionary at the New Tribes Mission back in Santa Catalina had told us that the last bus left Chiriqui Grande at 9:00pm. Because of our little gas-running out incident we were now at 8:30pm, a half hour later than expected. Now it was really cutting close! We were also told that the bus terminal was some distance out of town and we would have to take a taxi to get there, first thing.

We went to the nearest corner, looking very out of place. Here we both were, a white American with a big backpack on and an indigenous man with an equally big backpack on, all in the middle of the nightlife of a predominately Black-Latino town. We wait for a taxi. We see many people driving up in taxis and then we are turned down by every single one after they drop off their passengers. We keep waiting, 8:45 roles by. I am getting very nervous. My cell phone finally has signal after 3 days of none. I look for some number on the side of one of these taxis so that I can call one to come pick us up, no luck, no telephone number.

I suggest going to the next corner, where we might have more luck. Alex says, we don’t know this town we should stay where we are. I see the wisdom in that, but then I start to think…if we don’t get a taxi in the next 5 minutes, we are going to have to find a place to stay the night in this town that we don’t know, and trust me, the shoddiest roach motel in my home town doesn’t even compare to the nicest hotel here. Not a place you would feel very safe either.

I convince Alex to go the next corner, while I call information for a number of a taxi service in this area. Just as I call information I spot another taxi. He just dropped off his last customer and is going grociery shopping at the mini-mart with his family. I beg him and tell him of our situation, and he assuredly tells me to keep waiting a bit longer, one’s coming. So we go to the next corner and keep waiting. Nothing.

I pray one more time that God would provide a taxi for us so that we can at least get to David, the next big city over the mountain range on the Pacific side, at least there we can sleep in the bus terminal until early the next morning when a bus for Panama City leaves. I feel motivated to go over to the same taxi driver who is now shopping with his family. I feel kinda bad asking him, but I did it anyway. I told him our situation and he agreed to take me. He also assured me that the bus doesn’t leave until 9:30 anyway. Phew! PRAISE GOD!

So we squeeze in the back seat of his 4-door mini Nissan pick-up, a very common taxi vehicle. And wouldn’t you know it, 4 other guys hitch a ride in the back of the pick-up as well. I keep a tight eye on my backpack.

We get to the “bus station” which is more like a gas station with a little outdoor restaurant. We see a short but nice looking tour bus, running, looking like it is ready to take off. I ask to buy a ticket, he starts to sell me one and then abruptly asks: “Where are you going?”, I say, “David”, he says, “sorry, we’re going to Panama City”. “I’m going to Panama City!” God’s provision once again! It’s a direct 9-hour bus ride. We can just sleep and be in Panama at 5:30 the next morning! I call Kristina and she is so excited!

I quickly go into the dingy bathroom to change into dry clothes and… dry socks. If anyone has ever been into a bathroom in a bus terminal of a developing nation than you can imagine what the wet, smelly floors of this bathroom were like. With no other choice I change into my clothes, dropping my wet ones… on the floor…gross, and roll up my pants to not get soaked on the floor. Then, I, with dry socks in my pocket walk onto the bus, find the only remaining seat, take my smelly shoes and socks off, and put on my sacred, fresh, dry socks. I put on my jacket to protect me from the famously frigid Panamanian bus air conditioners, and settle in to try and sleep. I also avoid drinking my water, knowing this is a non-stop 9-hour bus ride.

I didn’t sleep much as the bus whirled and took these sharp, mountainous corners as if the driver were auditioning to be the driver in one of those new car commercials where there is a small caption on the bottom of the screen that reads: “closed course, do not try this at home”.

We stopped in Santiago, the place where we stayed the first night, at about 2 in the morning. I got out and had a bite to eat at the little cafeteria that is open just for the buses coming through in the middle of the night. I also had an idea that I got from my Swiss friend that Kristiina and I worked with in Venezuela. If at first asking the busdriver to turn down the frigid air conditioning doesn’t work, pull out your mummy sleeping bag and zip up. Great idea, I slept much better the rest of the way, not freezing like an icicle. One small problem, I think the bus driver didn’t like me messing with the system by asking him to turn it down, so he played this game where he would turn it off until it got sweatin’ hot, and then turned it on until it was frigid cold again. This made me only be able to doze off and on as I zipped and un-zipped my sleeping bag, all the way home.

We arrived in Panama City an hour early, 4:30am. The terminal is about a 40 minute drive from our house. Kristina was going to pick us up when it was at 5:30, her night vision isn’t so great so that was pushing it. It starts getting light around 6:15 here. But at 4:30, I just as soon her go back to bed and we get a taxi. We dickered one down to a reasonable price and headed home to finish our journey.

Kristina let me sleep all day, thanks Honey. I was so glad to be back and to hear Natalie say, “dah-dee!”.

I still reflect and thank God for how he brought us through this experience and got us though safely and quickly so we could be home with our families. It’s not that I was so desperate to be with them, but He knew and cared about the little things. It seemed that every time I cried out to Him, he responded in a very tangible way. First, the 4X4 pick-up that saved us 6 hours of hiking, then the human pack-mules to help us make a two-day hike in one day, protecting us from the snakes, protecting us from injuring ourselves on the trail those many hours, giving us just the amount of food and water we needed, protecting us from Colombian drug lords who I almost unknowingly asked for a boat ride in Santa Catalina, providing a 4-hour boat with the doctor, a taxi at the last minute, and the last bus out of Chiriqui Grande, not just any bus but a Panama City direct one.

We made this trip faster than anyone has ever made it I think. Sometime within the next few months we are planning on going back, but staying for a bit longer, and maybe taking a nice, smooth boat ride there. More on that trip after we go.

God is Great. He is always faithful. He cares about the little things and He loves you so much.

THE END... for now

DAY 3

Sunday, Day 3: We leave at sun-up and I try to empty as much of my pack as possible for the long hike ahead of us. The majority of our canned food, my magazine that I was keeping for reading material, and I wanted to leave more but you never know what you might need. I had a lot of survival and emergency equipment with me as well.

Our goal was to a settlement called Guacamaya. It was an 8 hour hike at least, and was probably going to turn out to be more since the students’ parents still hadn’t showed up. Well, actually one did, but it wasn’t enough. Demesio figured the only way we could make it was to hire a few able-bodied men to carry the young girls’ packs so that we could make better time. We found two men and we were off.

My shoes had been soaked from the hike the day before. (Let me diverge and tell you about the “trails”.) The whole entire trip, I did not see ten feet together that resembled anything I have ever come to know as a trail. It resembled a creek that had been formed from the worn-down footpaths that later had filled with rain turning it into one constant mud puddle. It consisted of about 6 inches of water and 6 inches of mud. This was in the shallow parts, mind you. There were, however, carefully placed stones on the trail (that I presumed were for walking on although they were completely covered with slippery moss). And of course there were the aboveground roots of trees to gain footing on, although also very slippery. And I also won’t fail to mention the partially submerged logs that you had to guess where they were at, and would oftentimes disappear altogether leaving you knee deep in mud. There was also never any choice to go off the trail because of either thick jungle growth, or tall grass that almost certainly housed the deadliest of snakes taking their midday snooze. (more on that later as well).

Needless to say, our feet did not stay dry, but, silly me, I thought that the trail was just like this up until now. I thought, “no way will the ‘trail’ continue to be this messy”. Of course it did, so then I thought, “maybe it’s just this bit, so I’ll walk in my already-wet socks and save my slightly dried-overnight shoes until the trail gets better. Well, walking practically barefoot with a 40 lb pack is not so good on sole (pun intended). So I changed into dry socks, put my shoes on and purposed to leap rock to rock and root to root to avoid soaking my shoes like the day before. Now, I must comment that the Buglere people all wear rubber boots wherever they go. Our American friend who hiked this trail last year used rubber boots and she has permanent scars where the tops of the boots rubbed her legs raw. The Bugleres must have calluses on their calves or something. Lacking these calluses, I decided to stick with the hiking boots.

Minutes after putting on my dry socks and damp shoes, I slipped off a rock crossing a stream and thoroughly soaked my shoe. From this point on I just gave up and did my best to keep them as dry as possible.
As the sun rose over the mountains we came to a clearing revealing a view overlooking a sparkling river. Beautiful. 
A few hours later we came to our first river crossing. It was only about hip-deep, but our Buglere cargo-packers insisted on carrying our packs across, to avoid them falling in. This began the river-fording part of the trip. Demesio wanted us to go as fast as we can to be able to cross all the rivers before the afternoon rains that could make the rivers impossible to ford. A few hours later and we were past them. I don’t remember ever really stopping for lunch, but we snacked here and there. When your pushing your body this hard, though, all you really want to do is drink water.

Shortly before we arrived in Guacamaya we met up with the parents of the students who we were originally supposed to have met up with the day before. They took some of the backpacks, and consequently Alex and my packs as well. I still felt a little energy left so I helped some of the younger girls with their backpacks. We arrived in Guacamaya, which was at the base of “the mountain” that we had left to hike up and down to arrive at our final destination. It was about 4:30 in the afternoon and I was beat. All day I had really wanted get to San Soledad in one day, but after all that we had been through I would have been happy staying in Guacamaya for the night. We stopped for about a half hour. I took off my shoes and socks to give my feet a chance to dry, drank a bunch of water, had a few snack bars and fell asleep on my pack within seconds.

When I woke up, Demesio said he found two more cargo-packers to carry Alex and my packs. Also these cargo packers were receiving $3 - $5 for their duties. A grown man will normally make $3 for working 7am to 4pm clearing a field with a machete.

Demesio couldn’t find anyone else to carry the student’s cargo and he knew that we wanted to get to San Soledad in one day. He asked if we thought we could make it up and down “the mountain” without our packs. Having never hiked “the mountain” I had no idea what to expect, but for some reason I felt optimistic, so I said yes.

We left right away, along with some other family members of a few of the students and half of the students themselves, leaving Demesio and the two smallest girls (his daughters) back in Guacamaya.

After climbing up and down several inclines and the clouds starting to form above the jungle canopy we arrive to a small stream. Silvania, a stout and sturdy student who has been along with us and was leading this leg of our trip said to me, “now the mountain starts”. I thought, “Now?!!?? What was all that other stuff we were hiking up? Hills?

Sure enough, after the stream, the trail starts heading straight up. Buglere trails are not like Gringo trails. Gringo trails zig-zag up the mountain to bless the hiker with a path that takes the least effort, although taking a little more time. The Buglere trail cuts straight up the mountain, no zig-zags to be found. Because of this, and the soft soil, these trails turn into mudslides and waterfalls when the rains come. As I was thinking of the possibility of this happening, I start feeling drops from the sky. Imagine hiking in 6-inch clay mud, at a 45 degree angle, using trees and roots as climbing holds.

Every false peak that we climb, I ask Silvania in my toughest, least whiniest voice, “Are we almost there? How much longer?”. And she says, “not much”. I later realize that, in Buglere, “not much” translates into “you have no idea how much more we have” and “were almost there” translates into “3 hours more” and “we’re there” translates into “just over that ridge”. I could go on, but I’ll spare you.

We then get to the top of the mountain. Silvania tells me that when it’s not raining you can see miles and miles back to where we started our hike in the day before. Too bad. As we head down the mountain, dark begins to fall. I think, “no way will we be hiking in the dark, we should be almost there”. Silvania assures me, “we’re almost there”. Now, don’t forget what that means in Buglere. Right, 3 hours more. We start to go slower because we are now trying to go down the mudslides. As time passes we go slower because it’s getting even darker. We finally stop to pull out the flashlights. I give mine to the guy carrying my pack, while I walk to the light of the person in front of me. Trying to remember where they put their foot so, a second later, I can put mine there too.

We then walk in the dark for an eternity, which I later find out was about 2 hours. Then, exhausted, we arrive in San Soledad! It’s pitch dark and I expect to be able to just crawl into a hut and collapse. But this indigenous village isn’t like others I’ve been to. The Bugleres traditionally live spread out, with their huts on their own piece of farming or ranching land. It’s another 20 minutes on small pitch-dark “trails” to get to Silvania’s dad’s house, the place we will be staying the night. I no longer fear snakes. At this point there really is nothing one can do about them.

We arrive at the hut. It is up on stilts about a story up in the air. I climb up the notched log, take off my muddy shoes, clean the mud off my legs with my wet socks, and collapse onto my pack. Shortly after this, one of the young men who carried our packs on that last leg of the trip, come with green coconuts. They chop the tops off and give them to us. Cool and fresh coconut milk or “pipa” as they call it. I polish off two whole coconuts (about 2 liters of liquid) and set up my sleeping bag. I took a few ibuprofen for the headache that’s been pounding on for the last 6 hours and I doze off to sleep. 13 hours of almost straight hiking! At least 2 and a half of those hours in the dark!

To be continued...

Day 2

Saturday, day 2: We wake up at 5:30 am to get an early start on the day. After breakfast, we head back to the Santiago bus terminal to board a small bus… large van that is headed north to the end of the road in the mountains of the continental divide. (I know you’re thinking “continent?” but anyways…). We arrive at the end of the paved road in a small town named Santa Fe. From here, there is a 4X4 trail that they are planning on paving soon that goes to the real end of the road, a town called Guabal.

One of the students’ dad is our guide for this adventure. His name is Demesio. Demesio tells us that we might be in time to catch a ride with one of his friends with a four-wheel-truck if we make it to Santa Fe in time. Unfortunately, as we arrive we discover that he is already gone. The truck turns a grueling 6-hour hike in the hot sun with no shade into a short but very bumpy pick-up truck ride.

Now to pay any old random truck to take 8 people (our group) it would run us around $200, Demesio tells us. “Oh well, I guess we’ll have to start walking”. Then, my make-it-happen-Western-gringo mindset kicks in. I’ll just start asking around. Sure enough I find a truck willing (after some negotiating) to take us all the way to Guabal for $60. We split it half and half with Demesio, because Alex and my goal is to get in and out as fast as we can back home to be involved in the new Discipleship Training School that is starting in a few days and also to not be gone too long from our families.

We board the truck around 10:00 am. We start on one of the bumpiest rides I have ever been on. We cross rivers, traverse boulders, drive up and down mountains peaks, and every big rock that we pass by Demesio points out to me and explains that the chief of the Buglere people has painted, in their native language, yellow writing demonstrating the border lines for their “comarca” or reservation. It comprises a large portion of this part of Panama, many thousands of square miles of steep, mountainous jungle, impassable by Gringo or Latin legs.

We arrive in Guabal, which is little more than a government-built elementary school, a clearing, and a few houses. We are now at least a few thousand feet high in elevation, yet the sun is still blazingly beating down on us. We pay the taxi driver, who wonders what the heck we plan on doing all the way out here where only a few farmers and poor rural Panamanians try to eek out a living on these mountainous slopes.

We start hiking, just a little ways down to the river and a little co-op or mini mart that sells things like a package of 4 cookies for 18 cents, or a bag of chips for 37 cents. The people here carry nickels and dimes here as if they were 1 and 5 dollar bills. (In case you didn’t know Panama uses American currency).

Demesio tells me that we are going to wait here a little while for a few more of the students’ parents to arrive to help with some of the little girls’ backpacks and bags, or “carga”, which is literally cargo in Spanish. That way we can make better time in our 2 day hike which lay ahead of us. We also shaved a day off our trip by hitching a ride with the taxi, which made me pretty happy.

I take the opportunity to go swim in the river that is right next to us. It is the most beautiful river I think I have ever seen! Crystal-blue water that you can see 5 feet down to the bottom! It was refreshing, but not too cold like a lot of high-mountain rivers in the states. I played a while in the rapids and tested out our new waterproof camera. I took a little video of myself floating down a section of rapids to show off to Kristina and Natalie when I got home. The river was so beautiful, and I wished I could have shared it with my family. It just really impacted me how clear this river was compared to all the other slow-moving, chocolate-colored Amazon-like rivers of the Darien province that I have seen before.

Now after waiting about 4 hours at the co-op, Demesio tells us that he thinks there was some miscommunication about the meet up with the other parents. So we decide to hike to the next town, which is the last Latino settlement before the land is fully taken up by native Buglere people.

I soon realize how heavy my pack really is. I start thinking about how I will be able carry it in and out of this place. I was told to pack all my drinking water because every outsider who has hiked this trail before and tried drinking the water, even with iodine drops, has gotten Giardia. We are also packing all of our food because we will be traveling the whole time and there is no place to buy more food. Demesio tells us that this leg of the trip is about a four-hour hike. Distance is measured in time and not length out here apparently.

It rounded about 5 pm as we arrived this small settlement which boasts a government-built elementary school, the last radio tower connected phone booth that serves the entire area as the only means of communication with the outside world, and a soccer field that doubles as a helipad in the event of a medical emergency. I take advantage of the payphone and call my wife to tell her I’m o.k. and won’t be in contact with her for a few days to a week, depending on many things.

This community is mostly made up of the grown-up children of Buglere people who have been absorbed into the Latino culture and have never learned their indigenous language. A wonderful Christian family who is very influential both in this town as well as in the Comarca welcomes us into their home for the night. We have rice mixed with some of the canned tuna that I brought for dinner. We talk in the dark with one candle lit. It’s amazing how much you can talk and share with people whose faces you have barely seen. In fact the next morning I didn’t even recognize the people I had spend hours talking with the night before.

To be continued...

Trip to San Soledad Part 1

Buglere Trip


I told myself as I hiked the trails that the Buglere people have hiked for centuries that I would write down the account of my experience. Now, weeks later, I will try and recount the things that made an impact on me.

I started to write and kept on writing, so I am going to divide this story up into readable sections.

There is a village of the Buglere people group that I have been meaning to visit now for about two years. It is in one of the most remote places of Panama. The village of San Soledad is located halfway between Panama City and the Costa Rican border, nestled up in a mountain valley overlooking a treacherous portion of the Caribbean coast.

The reason I have wanted to visit is to make contact with the family and friends of some of the students enrolled in our Hogar Jucum (secondary boarding school for indigenous). I had hoped to be able to do a song-writing workshop and encourage them to use their God given culture to worship God and share Him with others.

The reason I have waited so long to visit is the accessibility. There are three ways to arrive at this village: air, land, and sea. Air is next to impossible because the small grassy lawn that they told me was an airstrip is, these days, only used in emergencies or to fly old and out-of-shape special speakers in 4-person prop planes to the New Tribes Mission headquarters on the coast.

Land, well we went by land, but you can only go during certain months because during rainy season (most of the year in Panama) the multiple rivers you have to ford, rise and become deadly to cross. Many foreigners and natives have died trying to cross them when rains in the mountains convert the ordinarily small rivers into class V rapids. Also, the trails through the mountains that take the Bugleres themselves 3 days to hike through are so worn down that they have dug into the land sometimes 6 feet deep (because of soft soil and thick jungle all around making it hard to start a new trail). These trenches, I mean trails, turn into mudslides and mud-waterfalls down the mountain bringing debris and small animals into the path.

Sea, is also dependent on weather patterns, the Caribbean, at least in this area is not what I had imagined the Caribbean to be. I usually imagine crystal blue, calm waters. Not here, it is nothing but open coast with no islands or reef to protect it. The trip by boat is usually a 12-hour boat ride that starts at around midnight and arrives at noon. It is a dugout canoe with an outboard motor on the back. The canoe, in order to be safe in the sometimes 10 foot seas, is carved out of a huge tree. Not just an ordinary huge tree but one whole, hollowed-out jungle tree that floats well on the water. The sides of the boat, I’m told, are so high that when standing up, one cannot see out.

So besides traveling in the middle of the night and then under the broiling sun with no shade, you get no bathroom breaks, and therefore, force yourself to not drink or eat anything during that time. The other route is a fiberglass skiff they call a “penca” that has a huge outboard motor on it. It will make the trip in 4 hours but the spine-crushing shaking for that 4 hours makes the 3 day hike seem attractive (more on that later). Also, there is almost never a seat available to buy on a penca. They are mainly private. You can contract one but it will put you out upwards of $250 one-way.

Now, besides all the above reasons why it is difficult to get to this village, add on needing a guide who knows how to get there and one who will be willing to take you during the months that it is possible to go. That’s what makes my recent trip in and out of there so amazing.

This trip that I finally made to visit them last month came out of nowhere. Like I said, I have been meaning to make this trip for almost two years. Others who have visited planned months and months in advance to prepare for their trip. I found out that I would be going one day before I had to leave! Nothing was prepared. Nothing was planned. I just had to pack and hope everything would fall into place. The purpose of this particular trip was to meet with the parents of a student in the Hogar Jucum program about a sensitive matter. My Wounaan indigenous friend, Alex and I accompanied the small group of Buglere students with a few of their parents, back to their home village of San Soledad.

Friday, day 1: We leave our YWAM center in central Panama, just outside of Panama City for the bus terminal downtown. We then board our bus which looks like it used to be a second class tour bus, and now years later is a very used and poorly treated second class tour bus. We then wait over an hour and a half parked in the parking lot of the terminal sitting in 95-plus degree heat. Once we finally take off, the air conditioning kicks on to a chilly 45 degrees, in true Latin-American cross-country bus form.

Four and a half hours later we find ourselves in Santiago, the capital city of the central province of Veraguas. Here we meet up with a missionary family from Northern Ireland who has a long history working with the Buglere people. They take us in and feed us dinner as we prepare for the long voyage that lies ahead of us early tomorrow morning.

To be continued…