Forces at Work

There are strange forces that act upon our world, turning it inexorably towards the future. Usually we are in sync with them, understanding them intuitively and matching ourselves accordingly, but occasionally we will be out of step, or they take an odd turn, and we are reminded that there are things we just don't get, and maybe never will. Yet the wheel keeps on turning, and those things that are ground down take on a new shape that matches with world and are back in sync.

For us, these forces peeked out through the chickens.

One day, as Lisa and I lounged in our hammock together, the heat of summer slipping through grip of another soggy winter, I whispered to her, "Look at the chickens." I had to whisper, for the forces of the world were strong and strange. I immediately knew we were out of step with them. Lisa raised her head from her book and gave a little gasp.

All of the chickens that are normally in constant motion (peeking, stratching, clucking, raping or being raped, and generally annoying us) had been pushed down on their sides with just one wing or leg sticking out. Or maybe as if they'd fallen out of the sky, but chickens don't fly and they weren't hurt. It was an odd position, and one that they seemed unable to overcome. A rooster might try to stand up and peck at a hen, but after moving for a second or two, they'd lay back down in the same position. We were fine, but the planets must have lined up funny for them. Maybe Jupiter was in the chicken coop.

This went on for a half hour or so. The weather was warm, but not too hot. The breeze blew, but not too hard or too soft. The sun was out, but so were some clouds. For us, it was a normal day. But for the chickens, something had pushed them to the ground and held them there. Then, all at once, the entire flock stood up, and, in normal chicken fashion, clucked, and stratched, and pecked, and went on with their stupid lives as though nothing had occurred.

Something similar happens every year here. During the beginning of November, when we American foreigners look forward to Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years, anticipating some a few days off with family and some feasting and football, the Panamanians are already in full swing with their Mes de Patria (Patriotic Month).

There are so many days off for the kids at school, that they essentially stop going, especially in the campo where the teachers already only work Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. The farmers still go to the fields to harvest, but now there are juntas with fermented corn drink randomly sprinkled throughout. The women look after the children and stay inside out of the heavy rains hoping for a sunny morning to wash all the dirty laundry. And every few days, there is another national or provincial holiday.

The 3rd and 5th, the 10th and 12th, the 15th, 22nd, and 28th were all times when our entire corregimiento (county) were all celebrating something or other with alcohol. (And we had our Thanksgiving on the 26th.) At each of these gatherings, men and women, and sometimes children, got drunk and had fist fights. Just the other day, we watched as every 20 minutes or so three to six fights broke out as men pulled off shirts and circled up. Mostly these are all in good fun, though sometimes they are used to settle old grudges. Luckily, we seemed to be exempt from the sparring, which is good because the people are powerfully built and tough as coffin nails.

This may be the time of year when foreigners feel the most out of sync with the rest of the country. Last year, we were brand new so everything was unusual. This year, we did our best to present ourselves but drink moderately, dance but not arouse jealousy, and still have some kind of forward motion with our work.

In the end, we mostly just enjoyed the company of our friends (both Panamanian and American) and get a lot of reading done. Nevertheless, we still felt the strange forces of a wheel we were not perfectly matched up to, which seemed to knocked down the chickens and men alike.