Living with Panama’s Kuna Indians by Martin Li

Our De Havilland Twin Otter takes an hour to fly east from Panama City across the width of the isthmus to a remote airstrip on the San Blas coast. When the plane takes off again towards its next stop it leaves us in what could be another world. A few Indians are gathering their belongings in the open-sided concrete shelter which serves as the airport “terminal”. Behind us is thick, misty forest. In front of us is sea. Moored beside a rickety wooden pier is our “taxi”: a precarious looking dugout canoe. Our destination lies a mile offshore: the mysterious Kuna island of Achutupu.

My guide Ramón motions to me to get into the tiny canoe. I can’t believe we’re taking to sea in a two feet wide dugout but we’re soon clambering in, just about avoiding capsizing the craft. We’re sharing the canoe with a group of Indians. In front of Ramón and I sit two small children. Behind us are two even smaller children and behind them the woman canoe pilot.

The woman propels us slowly with a crude wooden paddle. Our progress is hindered by her having to stop periodically to comfort the youngest of the children who cries loudly at intervals. I know how the child feels. The boat has only inches of clearance above the water and has an alarming tendency to list suddenly from side to side. Fortunately the sea is warm and calm. Tiny fish jump out of the water around the boat. Occasional coconut shells drift past.

We’re finally able to make out some detail on Achutupu. Not a large island it’s densely packed with thatched huts and dotted with squat palm trees. Smoke rises gently from a few huts. Bright flags flutter from others. Wooden canoes are moored by small docks and inlets; others poke out from open shelters. Beyond the island is a reef, over which waves are crashing energetically.

Most of the 365 islands of the San Blas archipelago are uninhabited. Achutupu is typical of the 49 inhabited islands. The majority are tightly packed with traditional earth floor dwellings, constructed around a frame of sturdy tree trunks, with thatched roofs and walls of cane or bamboo. Kuna homes comprise two such huts: one in which to hang hammocks and the other for cooking and eating. Coconut palms, banana plants, hot chillies and medicinal herbs grow cramped in unused corners and in the spaces between houses. There is very little spare land. Anyone wishing to build a new home would probably first have to create a land plot by filling in shallow water around the island with rocks and sand.

Few ancient tribes have preserved their traditions as staunchly as the Kunas. Leading a coastal way of life that has changed little in centuries, they survive from trading coconuts, fishing and selling artesania. The Kunas live virtually autonomously from the Panamanian state and are fiercely territorial. They will gladly take visitors to any of the islands in their chain but won’t leave any non-Kunas alone on their land. The government consults them before finalising any proposals, such as roadbuilding, which affect their territory.

I needn’t have worried about the unstable canoe journey. The Kunas are accomplished mariners who for centuries have paddled and sailed their way on the ocean in small dugout canoes. One of their few concessions to outside influences is to use outboard motors for longer journeys.

The Kunas’ sense of independence and pride is possibly best asserted through their women’s dress, most notably the mola blouse. These patterned silk squares form the centrepiece of their traditional costumes and remain the everyday clothing of most female Kunas. Along with their molas, women wear rings through nose and ear piercings, and headscarves. From an early age they strap their forearms and lower legs with bright strings of beads, and wear these beads day and night for their entire lives.

Walking around Achutupu is a surreal experience. All the women are dressed in traditional costume. Children in varying states of undress play in the streets and on the beaches. We encounter a number of albino Indian children - the unfortunate result of in-breeding. Many families rear pigs in tiny raised pens which the pigs won’t leave until they are slaughtered for the Christmas feast.

Despite obvious overcrowding, islanders reserve space for a basketball court which, with the nearby stores, is clearly the hub of local life. We pass the large Gathering House, where the community governs its affairs. The Chicha House is the other important public building and is where islanders celebrate the coming-of-age of their girls.

Women maintain a revered and protected status in Kuna society and their reaching puberty is celebrated in a series of ancient rituals and feasts. The culmination of these celebrations is the “Long Chicha”, a three to four day drinking carnival involving not only islanders but also visitors from neighbouring islands.

Unlike many other indigenous populations in Latin America, the Kunas are not only independent but also very contented. Groups of villagers chat in good humour and the sound of laughter often rings out across the island. Many children greet us with happy cries of “Hola!” as we pass.

Zobeida, our local guide, invites us to her home. Passing through a small gate we reach a courtyard dotted with animal cages and hung with coconut shells drying for firewood. Two small dogs come to greet us and a skinny chicken scurries away through a labyrinth of buckets housing small turtles. Beyond the obligatory raised pig pen with its young squealing inhabitant, two dugout canoes sit on a tiny strip of beach between the sleeping and cooking huts.

We enter through the low entrance of the cooking hut. An old woman greets us at the door. A younger woman is reclining on a hammock. Although it is the middle of the afternoon, the interior of the hut is dark. With no windows the interior is illuminated only by the thin needles of light entering between the bamboo canes. Various pots and cooking utensils hang from the beams. Through the gloom we can make out a mound of bananas on the ground and a wall hung with dry coconut shells.

We sit down on carved wooden stools and Zobeida tells us about the Kuna way of life. The Kunas’ island existence began in the middle of the nineteenth century when they started to move to small offshore islands to escape the snakes, mosquitoes and diseases which plagued their lives on the mainland. It was a challenging transition. Thorny bush, swamps and even tidal waves impeded early settlement, as did the belief that evil spirits inhabited the islands. But the Kunas persisted and today only 11 of the 49 coastal villages remain on the mainland.

Achutupu’s 1,800 inhabitants mostly lead traditional island lives. However, Zobeida laments that the men long ago stopped wearing tribal costumes. I’m particularly fascinated by the idea of the “Long Chicha” drinking festival which crowns a girl’s puberty celebrations. Was there one happening that day by any chance? Sadly not.

The younger woman gets up from her hammock and checks the progress of a rack of plump, shiny fish gently smoking over a pile of embers behind me. They’re not quite ready for us to taste although that’s not a problem. We’re soon back in our open-sided dining hut and tucking into massive plates of fresh, juicy lobster.

After dinner I return to the gentle glow of an oil lamp in my cabin and the reassuring smell of an insect coil burning in the corner. As the power generator is turned off the stars shine brightly overhead. A light sea breeze cools the air to a comfortable temperature. Outside the waves continue to break noisily just a few steps from my bed. I’m starting to understand why my Kuna hosts always seem so contented.

Our departure from Achutupu is as unique as the rest of our stay. As we make our early morning passage back across the sea towards the mainland, a number of other canoes are also motoring or paddling towards the airport. Strangely none of them seems to arrive. Zobeida explains. The mainland mosquitoes are particularly bad at that time of the morning. Villagers wait a distance offshore and only go on land once the plane arrives.

Here we are, half a dozen dugout canoes bobbing gently on the calm early morning sea. In the distance the villagers on the island have not yet stirred and everything is still. Thus we wait for the tiny plane to arrive over the mist-covered forest. Fortunately, not even the prospect of aggressive mainland mosquitoes can dampen the Kunas’ spirits. They paddle up to each other’s canoes and chat and joke amiably, also not seeming to mind that the plane is half an hour late. But such is the nature of these happy coastal dwellers whose company I am sorry to have to leave so soon.