Next morning we went to the dock to collect the water we had paid for. I connected two hoses and they reached the tap so we began filling. The Saila came to bid us good morning and ask if I would photograph him. He rushed away to change dress for the photo returning a half hour later in the same clothes but smelling of Old Spice after-shave and a wearing a new Panama style felt hat. His face was grim as I tried to get a happier shot.

The dock master appeared with a receipt for a bill of $13.35 for dockage. Yvonne argued we were to get the water for free, “But this is for the jetty the water is free,” the dock master explained.

We howled and asked how were we to collect our paid for water without using a hose from the only tap near the jetty.

I rapidly downloaded the photos and bought the Saila below to discuss the one he wanted. He was adamant that he wanted a particular photo with the grimmest expression but cropped below folded arms.

The dock master waved our receipt for $13.35 demanding payment and Yvonne appealed to the Saila who spoke Spanish quite well.

In a fit of generosity or was it because he could see his picture in his new hat appearing out of the printer the Saila agreed we did not have to pay the jetty fee so the dock master was sent on his way by the Saila as the black and white photo emerged from the printer. The Saila was happy and he told us when he went to Panama City he would have this A4 photo made bigger and in colour.

Water tanks full we discovered that Kuba Island, where the friendly Saila we had photographed on the Island walk lived, was also called Nubadup and only 3 miles away so we headed off to hand over the photo. We anchored a good half-mile away from the island to reduce the number of visitors. We enjoyed them but some women bought the same bad molas day after day pleading for too much money. Near Kuba was the Island of Tubaula.

As we anchored an old man paddled up behind us. After much excited discussion with words of Kuna, Spanish and English Yvonne eventually asked him his name. It was Pablo, the Saila we were looking for but did not recognize. He came aboard for coffee and discussion on his area. He told us we could go up the rivers and pointed them out. After an hour of discussion he suddenly left clutching his photo and we agreed to visit him onshore.

We entered one of the rivers that afternoon progressing as far as we could, finding a few canoes belonging to farmers tending their farms. We wandered on a trail, enjoying the farms we passed with scattered planton, coconuts and yucca.

Next morning we hit a different river and walked on a trail that the Indians said went over the distant mountains. It took an hour to pass the cultivated area where we were surprised to see many gigantic trees as normally these were harvested. The trail began to rise in the tropical rain forest. After four hours we returned but somehow we arrived at the ocean not at our dinghy in the river. A man there had no idea what we were talking about and all we knew, as we could see the Yacht, was that our dinghy was to the North, how far was anyone’s guess. We returned a half-mile along this trail when we met a man who gabbled on about our dinghy. Finally he agreed to show us a trail to it. A faint trail lead off from the main trail and he told us to go along it so we did. Often Yvonne waited while I went ahead to find the trail or to ensure it still existed. We came to a river where an old man was casting a net. While Yvonne was trying to make him understand that we wanted to find our dinghy I walked on finding our dinghy a hundred yards further down. The old man who had passed it did not remember seeing it. I have this problem often myself and we called it cruiseheimers disease. We finally arrived back aboard very tired.

Not far from us was a mainland beach where we saw canoes so we headed for it. A young man, Justo, arrived at the same time as we did and, although now we were armed with a GPS so that we would not have to hunt for a half day for our dinghy ever again, we followed him. He pointed out birds we would have missed and became our tour guide. It was his desire to show us his farm, which was a long way off in the mountains exactly where we wanted to go with out getting lost. Justo found many birds and pointed out medicinal plants and others used in food. We turned onto an ill-defined trail, which we would never have attempted alone, and began climbing. He answered ten minutes whenever we enquired how much further. Ascending a step track we were about to give up but it was only one minute to the farm. Twenty minutes later we were there and Justo cleared a place for us to rest, as he charged into his farm slashing here and there appearing to enjoy himself. He climbed back to where we were with a bunch of planton. I offered to take his photo so he slashed an area to make it neat pushed his hair down and posed with a solemn look. No amount of absurd antics could make him smile whilst in front of the camera. Telling us to rest, he continued up hill to his other farm. He now had three large bunches of planton which he divided into hands and laced them either end of the fat pole he had carried up the path. To finish the job he bound his shirt around his cutlass and tied the parcel to the pole. He lifted the heavy load to his shoulder and we began down the steep mountain. Justo stopped to see many birds, including a golden X, and swapped the great load from shoulder to shoulder by ducking under it.

As we approached the beach he asked us to sit as he wanted to show us another of his farms with Yuka. He ran the huge load about 500 yards to the canoe and ran back to us. We followed him parallel to the beach and soon came to wetlands. Only 5 minutes,” was Justo’s answer to how far this farm might be. After another 15 minutes we began to climb up a steep trail. After 10 minutes the trail became very steep and Yvonne lagged behind as Justo declared less than one minute. We came to acres of Yuka (Cassava) and Justo kept on, finally stopping at his plot.

When we asked how he identified his tiny plot in the acres of yuka he answered, “This plot has belonged to my father’s father and so it is easy for me to tell where my yuka is.” There were no boundaries marked but every one seemed to know exactly which plants belonged to them and Justo was horrified to think that a mistake could be made.

He used his cutlass to dig some long tubers and filled his bag whilst we sheltered from the hot sun after admiring his plot and the yuka. Yuka is the staple crop of the Kunas. It is baked on the open fire and handed around, too hot for us to hold, by children who run with it as soon as it is cooked. This is the best way to eat it soaked in butter, which the Kunas do not have. We have boiled it for a long time and mashed it with onions and even further diluted it into a thick soup that we enjoy. These last two methods of cooking yuka amused the Kunas. Breakfast is yuka and midday meal is yuka and fish if at home or nothing if out working on the farm. The large meal of the day is fish and yuka with coconut and plantain - a truly bland diet by our standards.

Justo was 20 and he bought his attractive 15 year old wife to the boat with his two children aged two and a few months along with their tiny three week old puppy and his wife’s grandmother dressed in a formal mola. She had rosy cheeks ready for a photo and a copy was needed for each of her four grandchildren. They told us she was 78 and she certainly looked that old but in the days when she was born Kunas never kept years. She had a wonderful solemn face and chose a full-length photo for the grandchildren.

The next day Justo, with his 2 year old son, came in our dinghy to a river to look for birds. We had an enjoyable day with the little child walking for miles and being carried when the going became too rough for his tiny legs. He had a special grunt to get his pants lowered for a piddle, which he used frequently, and a different grunt for poo. The child was happy and did not grizzle the whole long day. The Kuna children, who look after the one in the family younger than them try to toilet train a young baby from an early age and at about 8 months the baby is toilet trained and out of knitted woollen pants.

©Bernie Katchor

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