The Black Christ Festival of Panama

There are so many different versions of how the Cristo Negro (Black Christ) statue found its way to Portobelo, it’s hard to decide which one has validity. But regardless to which story you hear, fact or fiction, for the last three centuries, tens of thousands of people have made a pilgrimage to visit the mythical effigy in this tiny community on the Caribbean side of Panama. My travel companion/translator and I would join those thousands this past October at the Black Christ Festival.

We decided to leave Panama City before daybreak to get a head start because October 21^st, being the last of the four day celebration, the village would be swamped with a mass of worshipers, festival folks and curious tourists like us. The closer we got to Portobelo, like a rural Irish road flocked with shepherded sheep the narrow double lane paved drive began to swell with more people making it almost impassable by car. Some of these diehard believers walking inches along side our car have traversed as far as the 53 miles from Panama City, and many were even crawling the last mile on hands and knees to worship the purple robed icon. You can see the determined fatigue and anticipation through the sweat on their faces.

For some of these purple robed pilgrims, I’m told the crawling gesture announces they are confessed sinners repenting of their wrongdoing. For those walking upright, wearing the color purple simply makes an expression of faith.

Along their route, they receive public words of encouragement for their devotion to the religious icon. Some are bedecked with miniature shrines decorated like the Christ figure and garnished with burnt offerings of money, jewelry or other personal artifacts. Some even drag a life size wooden cross as a penance. Other walkers are pacified with cups of water to quench their arid throats from the long walk. A few shirtless pilgrims even accept melted wax poured on their backs mimicking the lashes Christ received on the way to his crucifixion.

Some Panamanians regard the Black Christ as the Patron Saint of criminals because a lot of the followers are muggers, burglars, and drug dealers. Chris who is Panamanian, but has lived in Denver, Colorado for fifteen years says, “I don’t criticize the people for how they believe, but I think they are hypocrites because they ask for forgiveness and turn around and do bad deeds again.” Others I spoke with share his belief.

Talking with Carlos, a lifelong resident of Portobelo and an employee with the Museo Del Cristo Negro de Portobelo said the festival has turned to paganism. The once sacred observance has turned into a sacrilegious carnival. He says, “Since the 17^th century, Portobelo has been the home of the Black Christ. The Cristo has magic powers to most devotees. The sick and troubled make promises to the Cristo with hope of receiving blessings. The belief is, if they make a promise and it is not kept, there will be severe retribution.” He goes on to explain that there are many conflicting explanations to it’s presence in this village. One story holds that the ship carrying the statue met a terrible storm and was driven back into the harbor. The ship attempted to leave several times, but each time a sudden storm endangered the ship and everyone aboard. To lessen the weight, it was decided to leave the heavy statue in port. The towns' folk were amazed at the lack of respect shown by the sailors, so they carried the Black Christ to their church and gave it a place of honor next to the pulpit.

Carlos says many attempts were made to send the statue to the island of Tobago it's initial destination, but all attempts failed. Finally, suspecting the statue had magical powers, the people of Portobelo excepted their fate and allowed the statue to remain with them. He says out of all the versions, there are three similarities in each story: (1) it arrived from Spain, (2) the refusal of the statue to leave Portobelo, and (3) everyone thinks it has an admired appearance.

Throughout the year, the life sized statue sits encased on the right side of the pulpit at the Islesia de San Felipe (church) adorned in a wine colored robe. For Holy Week, the robe is changed to purple and the icon is moved to the middle of the church. During the week, believers fasten various prayer pins to the garment of the life size figure with faith that their prayers will be answered.

Mass is called at 6 p.m. on October 21^st. At 8 p.m., the platformed statue is carried from the church by 80 men moving in a harmonious cadence of three steps forward and two back similar to Spanish religious processions. The dancing statue is followed by a lively band of drummers, horn players, and a multitude of worshipers. The cavorting parade goes around the village until midnight when the icon is safely returned to the church. One account says that it is impossible to return the statue to its resting place before midnight because it gets too heavy.

Word to the wise: try and get a hotel room on the far side of Portobelo, so you can avoid the midnight after-festival traffic going back to Colon or Panama City. We thought ahead and made reservations on the tranquil island of Isla Grande, a short 12 kilometer drive from the hotel-less Portobelo. After all the hooplah from the festival, you’ll savor the peacefulness of this pedestrian island that’s only reachable by water taxi. There are about six hotels to choose from and they are all reasonably priced. For hotel accommodations and details just Google Isla Grande in Panama. To see more photographs from the festival, please go to FaceBook-Michael Bracey - Chicago.

Panama July 2009

14 July 2009

“Bocas City has changed,” we were told by a 60ish looking dark skinned man sitting next to our table. He was wearing a baseball cap and he had just finished his beer. He said they called him”Papayillo,” but his name is really Hector. He over heard Maria and I speaking English, between our sips of cold Panamanian beer, while we waited for our lunch. He said he knew a place where we could stay in Bocas . . . cheaply. Well that last word got my attention. His friend whose niece just opened a place called “My Home,” will welcome us. Her name is Inez but they call her “Tortolita” which means “little turtle”. I bought him another beer.

Bocas has changed. I see tall wooden skeletons of what will become high priced high-rise hotels that I’m sure will entice comfort seeking westerners. I was last there five years ago in 2004 and it was an idealistic paradise with treats of sweet juicy pineapple slices, ice cold beer, and hot lazy carefree nights under star filled skies silhouetted by slowly swaying palm trees. If you were away from the noise at center of town where most of the bars are filled with drunken loud tourists, you can relax to the hypnotizing lullaby of the roaring in coming tide. From the looks of the building boom, Bocas will need its first traffic light soon.

15 July 2009

We awoke to sluggish rumbles of thunder and a sneaky drizzle of rain making the street below our room almost empty of foot traffic. The few umbrella toting pedestrians were prepared for the weather; even the bike riders. Panama has two seasons - dry and wet. This was July the wet season. We can expect several small showers everyday.

Bocas City is on the Island of Colon, apart of an archipelago in the Bocas Del Toro province in the northeast part of the country on the Caribbean side. A lot of the natives are of Indian or West Indian descent. You will see jet black hair, straight, curly, or coarse and various skin tones of the brown hue.

After a quick American breakfast of crisp bacon and fried eggs at a restaurant in “el centro,” we took a ten minute water taxi to Isla Bastimentos, the island where most of my Panamanian friends live. The waters were a little rough this particular morning, probably because of the earlier storm. The ride was bumpy and at some points we were airborne, hydroplaning and crashing with a big BAM-BOOM down upon the sea. Maria was not fond of this bucking bronco water ride and she let me know, so I asked the driver to slow down. After we debarked, she was glad and said she did not want to do that again. I reminded her that where we were staying was on the other island and we would have to go back the way we came. She said she would wear a life jacket.

Like Bocas, Bastimentos had changed a little also, but not with high priced, high-rise hotels. It changed with firmly structured brightly painted wooden homes, some stilted on the water. A good change for the residents. I remembered weather beaten shacks that look as if you leaned on them, you would reduce them to a pile of firewood. The pastel homes and painted sidewalk poles gave this community a gleaming fresh breath. It seems the natives are putting money back into their paradise.

I asked a group of men working on a house did they know where I could find Roberto. They looked at me very puzzled and said they did not know a “Roberto.” I used his other name of “Chocó,” but that name did not click either. With two strikes and one more to go, I decided to describe him, short, dark, including the fact that he talks a lot. “You mean Robert!” a few of the men said in unison. “We call him Robert not Roberto and Chaco for his other name.” Well I was close by a few letters, but miles off from pronunciation. I’m working on my Spanish.

***

I knocked on the door and this voice asked, “Quien es?” “Roberto, this is Mike the photographer from Chicago,” I said. The door slowly opens and this shirtless dark-skinned middle aged man peeks through grinning with an ear to ear smile. “This is a wonderful surprise! I was thinking of you the other day,” he said.
After hugs and an introduction to Maria, Roberto excused himself and returned in 5 minutes with his waterproof windbreaker, backpack, and no shoes. Roberto walking outdoors shoeless amazed Maria, especially because where he lives, the ground is scattered with broken pointy branches and jagged rocks.

Roberto made a few phone calls and within five minutes, we met Jose at the pier. He would be our boat driver and Roberto our guide. After a little negotiation, we hired him and his boat for the entire day just $60; actually $40 because he gave Roberto $20. I would later give Roberto an extra $10 making his total $30 for his services.

About a 45 minute trip later, Jose steered carefully as we putted through the jungle river looking out for huge tree branches spearing upward of out the water that could damage the hull of the boat. Roberto stood on the stern looking ahead occasionally pushing off when we drifted too close to the river bank or near menacing trees. Except for it being daytime, it was kind of eerie slowly creeping with mangrove roots half submerged in the water and twisted vines dangling above as if waiting to snatch and strangle us. I could imagine something hiding behind the giant leaves or up in the trees looking down at us – the Swamp Thing or the Creature from the Black Lagoon. We would see random abandoned dugout canoes on the muddy river bank.

A young Indian man appearing in his early 20s came out of the hut wearing rubber knee-high boots and a short sleeve shirt. It was drizzling so his black hair was getting wet and began to plaster to his head with the occasional Alfalfa strands sticking up. When Roberto introduced us to Carlos and told him the purpose of our visit, he returned to his hut and came out with his flash light and machete. Off we were.

The walk along the path was wet, very muddy and filled with Cacao trees. Carlos said he saw a sloth feeding on Cacao earlier, so our focus went upward searching the trees for the camouflaged slow moving creature.

After a 30 minute trek through the muddy grass, we came upon an opening with a mass of grass covered rocks and boulders pitched into the earth. This was the entrance into the cave. Roberto said that he always brought scientists and a few curious hikers here, but he’s never ventured in himself . . . nor did he have the desire to do so now. When Maria heard there were bats inside, she shrieked opposing, “No way! They will get in my hair!”(This memory was something she experienced in Puerto Rico as a young girl). So it was me and Carlos to do the Lewis and Clark thing and explore and discover.

When we entered, the bats were flying around making us duck a few times. Carlos shined his light on the ground, bent down and grabbed some brown stuff. He held it out to me, shined the light on his hand and said something in Spanish. He was explaining that the bats eat and their feces cover the ground where we were walking. I was like, “Okay, bat shit.” With his flashlight pointing upward, he focused on a slit in the rocks above. Between the stalactites you could see a group of brown bats huddled and clustered and right in the middle was an albino. They were hanging up side down and appeared to be attentive to our movement. I know some bats are blind and others can see, but I don’t know about this species. It was kinda eerie because they seem to be looking at us.
We walked deeper into the cave and the chilly water began to rise covering my sandals to my ankles, and finally to my shins. It was getting deep! That was a sign to turn around and go back. The water was getting too deep and the wet rocks were slippery. All I needed was to slip and douse my camera equipment in cave water filled with bat shit.

Roberto and Maria were standing on a small hill just outside the cave entrance. It was still drizzling and they were content not to enter the cave, nor to even to get out of the rain. They could tell by the look on my face that I was pleased. They missed seeing a natural wonder still in its natural state, undisturbed before mankind inserts hand railings or wooden steps, and a robotish attendance saying, “This way folks. That will be $8.50. Watch your step.”
This was my first cave adventure, and I was in awe by the beauty of the subterranean world.

Carlos waved as we putted away from the pier in Jose’s boat. The trip out of the jungle was uneventful except for the occasional squawk from an unseen bird. It had been cloudy and rainy all morning, but the clearing brightened as we reached the open sea.


16 July 2009

Unlike yesterday, Maria made sure she wore a life jacket on the trip to Bastimeintos. She was not taking any chances in case the ride bucked us around like young cowboys on old bulls. I assured her there was no need for the jacket today because the seas were calm. She still wore a life jacket.

Wearing the white Barack Obama t-shirt I gave him the day before, Roberto was waiting for us as we moored the water taxi next to Roots restaurant. He announced today we are taking a hike through the jungle to see the other side of the island. Bastimeintos is only 8 miles long and not even a fourth of a mile at its widest point, so the hike should be quick and easy.

Walking up a hill we came to a scattered group of small cinder brick houses. I remember being interested in one of those dwellings when I visited in 2004. It is abandoned and falling apart so I thought the owner would gladly part with it. It has three jail cell size rooms and the rusty zinc roof has collapsed. I could tear it down and rebuild it with termite proof wood. The yard already has a banana, avocado, mango trees and some other trees. I would clear another group of trees to expose a beautiful view of the Caribbean Sea. I imagined it would be wonderful to wake up, walk outside with a cup of coffee, eating a banana from my own tree and see the ocean. The owner did not want to sell it.
I let Roberto and Maria walk ahead of me so I could show perspective on the path. By then, we had walked a good distance from the village where we came upon a Asian lady pointing up in the trees. She said, “There was a sloth around here earlier.” We stopped in our tracks, tilled back our heads and searched the trees. After about 10 minutes we spotted it. There it was at the top of some trees camouflaged. Sloths move very slowly, so the only thing stirring were the trees from the wind blowing. Luckily for me it was in an opening between branches so I could take a clear photo. From my urban eyes, it was weird to see a familiar “captured” zoo creature free in its natural environment.

Soon we happened up a fence letting us know we were on deeded land. Roberto said the property belonged to an Argentinean couple and they have been living here for about 5 years. They had two cozy looking cabins for rent that faced the ocean that sat across the path from their house. Their place was a short walk off the path, passable only by a chain link gate. Roberto hollered hello just to let them know we were coming up their walkway because they had yard dogs. Big yard dogs he emphasized.

The one dog I saw was huge. I think it was a Mastiff hound, but it was slobbery. It raised its huge head, looked at us very lazily with blood shot eyes, wagged it’s tail and went back to sleep. I guess it was too hot to give us a proper sniff and lick. The only other animal was a cat curled up and asleep in a chair. It didn’t even open its eyes.

The man of the house was not available, but his wife, their two children, the Panamanian house keeper and her children were all there. The woman was tall, friendly and had not much of a tan. Actually I thought she was kind of too pale to be living in a sun soaked environment. Anyway, they turned their outdoor porch into a small café/general shop where she sold old wore out books, organic jewelry, homemade insect repellant, fresh fruit, and other nick knacks.

We looked around and decided to buy insect repellant. Maria and I ordered lemonade and a fruit tray, and Roberto a brownie. In ten minutes she returned with our food and drink.

The lemonade was cold and wet and the fruit was sweet. We paid and thank her for the hospitality and continued with our journey leaving the huge head dog and the sleeping cat where we found them.

Like tropical clockwork the rains began to fall before we left the Argentinean’s place. The sun was absorbing the moisture making the environment a green steam bath. Roberto led us on a round-a-bout route where we happened upon a group of Indians taking a break from working in a make-shift plant nursery. There were small grocery size plastic bags filled with infant plants piled up ready to be shipped to would be buyers most likely in the United States. Roberto and Maria exchanged Spanish pleasantries with the group, while I photographed a frog on a lily pad.

We came upon a clearing where a little pond with huge elephant leafed plants were dangling on either side. The plants dwarfed us as we cautiously walked across a deteriorating wooden bridge. Up ahead there were some small children playing around a dugout canoe. The only fully clothed child was a little girl about age six or seven. The younger boys were either shirtless, pant less, and one toddler with his thumb in his mouth was totally naked. We stopped for a few minutes and talked and photographed the children ripping and running around just being children.

The afternoon sun was out and it was scorching hot, but within minutes the rains came again and we took refuge at Roberto’s friend’s restaurant. Within 15 minutes the rains stopped, the sun reappeared and the water taxi driver began scooping water out of his boat. I gave Roberto $50 for the tour and he was so happy, he hugged and kissed me on the neck. We said our goodbyes, got in the boat and left for Bocas. Each time before when I would leave Bastimeintos, I felt sadness in my heart. This time it was different. There was no sadness.

Peru 2008-09 - The village of Chincha

cont.)

29 December 2008
It was about noon when the bus pulled in and stopped at the station. I looked around for mirrored faces in the crowd, people who looked like me, but to no avail. All I saw were Inca featured faces with tanned bronze skin, straight black hair, and puffy ears. This town, Chincha, is supposes to have the largest Afro population in Peru. I’m told this town is known for turning out athletic prowess citizens (which I think leans toward a sports stereotype). Chincha is the town that produces the soulful Peruvian music we hear in the US, with the beats, rhythms, and sounds of Africa, but is stamped “Made in Peru”. I have seen a video with black people dancing traditional African style, but listening to the lyrics, you will hear Spanish.

The taxi driver tied the two suitcases full of give-away clothes to the top of his little four seat sedan at which five of us, plus the driver, managed to squeeze into. We drove another 20 minutes out of the town before we came upon a few houses on the side of the road. Apparently, this was to be our destination. There was a crowd of people to greet us, but I saw only one black man, one black woman, and one black girl. Curious about our location, I asked my compañeras, “Are we in Chincha?” I was told yes. Well something was wrong. I think we were expecting more black faces, but all we saw were Inca features and most were children. Somehow, somewhere the communication wires got crossed with our host and her contact. I had planned to sit and visit with African descendants from Chincha, not Inca descendants from Chincha. I want to speak with them about their lives and racial experiences while living in Peru. I want to photograph them and have documented visual proof of their existence.

My lack of Spanish speaking skills made me the receiver of delayed information. When something was communicated, Maria had to interpret it and then put her two cents in before translating the point of the conversation to me. She sometimes had trouble understanding the Peruvians because of the speed and difference in some words. Spanish dialect and vocabulary appears to be different in each country, and Peru was no exception.

After figuring out that there was a mis-communication between host and contact, we did not want to turn and leave, “Hi and Bye.” That would be cold. So we stayed for a while and managed to entertain the children and gift them with soda and fruit bread. Although it was simple, this was a Christmas treat from the North Americans visiting their village.

It was hot in the van and the opened windows provided little relief as we drove down a dusty road. We left the children seemingly pleased with our visit and gifts. They appeared to be very appreciative showing smiles, giving hugs, and handshakes of gratitude.

A few minutes later, the van pulled in front of a Ranch style concrete structure with a canopied spacious open air area. There were some card tables and chairs occupied by a few gathered men who were sipping drinks. As we got out of the van, a short smiling robust black woman wiping her hands on her white apron approached us. I looked up and saw her likeness on an advertisement poster hanging on a post. She is Mamaiñe, the owner of this roadside establishment.

When I handed the t-shirt to Mamaiñe, her eyes lit up and a huge grin covered her face. She knew the person on the shirt. It is the popular worldwide iconic image of Hope - US President elected Barack Obama (now the official president). Grinning, she said some things in Spanish and gave me a big hug. Maria did not have to translate Mamaiñe’s words. I could feel her joy and appreciation.

After meeting a few more people, as if on cue, a young man started drumming a box shaped instrument and two young women started dancing. The sounds were loud, rhythmatic and transforming. Transfixed by the beat from the box and watching the dancers really confirmed for me that Chincha retained its Africaness. The desceased elders are smiling.

When they finished, I applauded each dancer with an Obama t-shirt. I gave t-shirts to a few more elders as they arrived at Mamaiñe’s, but handed the children Obama buttons. The t-shirts were x-large in size, way too large for the children, but would be useful to the adults in promoting Obama's message of Hope. The children could wear the buttons proudly.

I showed Mamaiñe and her friend Rolando my book, Africans Within the Americas, and through Maria explained why I was in Peru and wanted to meet them. Rolando commented how I was blessed to have traveled and met all these people documented in my book. I agreed with him. I know I was blessed and felt blessed again to have met the people from Chincha. We stayed at Mamaiñe’s about 30 minutes. I posed with them for a group photo and then we were off.

Peru 2008-09 - Road to Machu Picchu

(cont. 5 Jan 09)

We raced along side the Urubamba River , which seemed to be impatience with its blurring continuous rapid rush of curves, ups and downs, overlapping smoothed stubborn gray rocks peeping from the muddy brown waters. I was told this river’s source is from the mighty Amazon, in northern Peru sharing borders with Brazil . The Amazon is a little over 4,000 miles, second only to Africa’s Nile River which is the worlds longest.

When we disembarked in Aguas Calientes, we were to look for a woman named Beatrice. There she was holding a sign with my name like chauffeurs do at the airport. Beatrice, late 30s early 40ish looking, was a slightly built woman, wearing a yellow sun visor, a sleeveless blue picnic checkered blouse, and blue jean pants. She didn’t speak English well, so Maria handled this one.

We had to wait for another group before our trek up the mountain. While waiting for the others, Maria and I talked with the two young ladies from Sweden who were backpacking through South America, up to Mexico . They were with us yesterday on other tours, but are planning an overnight stay here in Aguas Calientes. They were taking time away from school to explore the world. Maria and I both admired them for doing this before they set root and become “grown-ups.” I gave them both a Barack Obama button. They were thrilled.

The previous day, the dark haired Swede had an episode at a lunch buffet. Obviously she knew she was allergic, but probably did not detect the hidden peanut sauce. She had to sit in an ambulance as the group explored Ollanlaytambo another ancient site. Because she could not make the hike, she sent her blond friend to photograph and report what she could not see. Apparently she did not want to miss anything.

In about 30 minutes, the other group arrived on the train. After a five minute gather and divide of Spanish and English speakers, we were off.

The bus ride up to Machu Picchu could be white knuckling and hair rising especially if you were sitting next to the window. Occasional there would be a guard rail on this one lane swindling road as down hill on coming bus traffic squares off challenging you on the surprising “S” curves. Maria sitting next to the window closed her eyes and turned her head praying in Spanish all the way up. After about 30 minutes, we were at the stopping point and then I added an Amen.

Our group consists of about 12 – 14, with about three Americans - Maria, myself, and another guy who was with a Latin woman. Everyone but an older French man understood English pretty well. His wife had to translate for him. They kept up for a while and then kind of disappeared from the group.

Our guide kept us in entrenched with Inca history and knowledge for about two hours, and then we were on our own. It was about 2:30 and we had to be on the bus by 3:30, so Maria and I decided to climb to the Watchman’s Tower which was a good thing, because we could see the sheets of rain slowly coming toward us and the stones downhill would be slippery.

By the time I huffed and puffed my way up to Watchman’s Tower, Maria was smiling down at me as I was almost on my hands and knees. She had been waiting at least 10 minutes. Admittingly, her weekly visits to Balleys paid off. I was really out of shape and this climb proved it. Halfway up, I almost said forget it, but coming down was a smiling white haired dude who looked to be in his 60s. Maria looked at him and looked at me. She said, “If he can do it, you can do it.” I could not let this white haired dude show me up. I took a breath and continued pacing myself almost to a crawl, but I was determined.

When I finally made it, the view was spectacular. My legs quivered to the scene of the majestic natural beauty of the mountains. And what was even more amazing was the fact that the Incas engineering knowledge and technology was on display in these massive smoothly polished well fitted stones. How did they do this with no heavy machinery?

I quickly snapped back to photographer mode and did my thing. “Click, click, click.” I hurried because in the near distance we could see the rain coming. We were only up there about 10 minutes max, but it was worth it.

As gravity would have it, the trip down was a lot less effortless than the reverse. When we got to ground level, we stopped and put on our rain ponchos. Not soaked too much, we made it to the bus on time. In the dry bus, we took a moment to reflect on one of the world’s wonders we just witnessed.