Upon arriving to the community’s entrance, I lugged out my big backpack from the chiva, thinking I would be used to the weight by now, but laughing along with community members as I tried to carry a backpack bulging with pineapples, a bottle of nance, a boot that had come loose, and a cra full of vegetables. “What did I have in that overflowing bag for them?” Multiple people asked as I walked by along with, “You’re finally returning home?!” I thought about it and said, “Yes, I am returning home!” The thoughts of what is home stuck with me as I walked along the muddy path to my house. I was so close- 5 minutes away- when I found myself in a pickle. The whole path was completely muddy; that kind of mud that doesn’t even look bad until you try it and instantly regret your decision as you sink deeper and deeper. I evaluated the options, and thought about going on the side path when I spotted a 6-inch section of the path that seemed passable. My 1/3 laziness, 1/3 stubbornness, and 1/3 curiosity got the best of me and I knew I had to try. It was a little slippery, but I didn’t sink, and before I knew it I made it to the other side without even breaking an egg! I was welcomed to my house by a hungry cat, gleeful kids, and ant piles and mushrooms which seemed to have found their own home while I was gone.
As I laid in my hammock already breaking into my stockpile of carrots, I thought about the mud path I had crossed today and how the path to my house can be so different. Sometimes it’s clear and easy and a car drives me all the way to my house. Sometimes it feels impossible and I find myself clomping through various muddy patches, continuous falling, and arriving with a now brown nagua. Other days it’s dry and dusty so the path looks easy; however, it’s so dry that I still slip on the rocks as they break formation, yet these times arriving to my house without the evidence. I always have way more than I need or should be bringing back. Sometimes people help me with my load and sometimes I turn them down wanting to prove to myself I can do it without help.
These last few months have been muddy in more ways than one. So extremely muddy. My neighboring Peace Corps Volunteer, Cody or Tächi, suffered an accident and passed away, leaving me in a place I am all too familiar with. Community members, fellow Peace Corps Volunteers, family, and friends have helped me carry this load, and I can’t thank them enough. Even those who didn’t know, the random letters or messages I received lifted my spirits in more ways than you can imagine. I grieved. I cried. And finally, I put my boots on, stuffed my backpack to its limit, got on that chiva with Yuni greeting me, and trekked through every mud section on the way to my house. Even with the boots I arrived a little mud splattered with hands that looked like melted chocolate, signs of almost slipping, almost falling down along the way, but catching myself, straightening my bag and continuing along. And finally, I made it home. Home. There’s no place like home.
Chiva- a pickup truck with benches in the bed used for travel
Piña- pineapple
Nance- a small, round, slight bitter tropical fruit of Panama
Cra- the traditional handmade bag of the Ngäbe people
Nagua- the traditional hand sewn dress of the Ngäbe people