Months ago I had planned on entertaining a visiting guest,
or going to Nicaragua, or returning to Costa Rica or buzzing Bocas del Toro.
All of those plans fell through because I am on a budget, since I am traveling
to Sierra Leone in T minus ___ days!!! I toyed with the idea of Boquete in the
northern part of Panama because I wanted to spend some time in nature, going on
hikes, writing, and just planning. Planning whatever the heck I want to plan.
But then I did a bit of research and realized it would be too expensive to
spend a week there andddddddd I’m not exactly sure that it would have been the
most poppin’ place for a single lady like myself. Yeah, sure I could do some
writing and thinking and planning, but the truth is right now I am not sure
that I would have gotten a lot of writing done because I would have found a way
to be un-relaxed. And secondly, I tend to over-think and over-plan; I am actually
making an effort to relax and trying not to plan so many things in my life. I
am still grasping the concept of truly ‘going with the flow.’ And let Bee tell
you: it ain’t easy. It ain’t easy. Although, I have loads of fun, do crazy
things here and there (all within
reason), I tend to spend a lot of time making lists, jotting down plans, and
seriously over-planning even things that I over which I have no control.
So what did I do this break? I didn't make any plans. Not one, single
plan. I simply (well, not really), decided that I would sit at home and do
absolutely nothing until I was inspired to get up and go. Saturday I rested because the bed summoned my body. By
Sunday, my good friend and partner in many ridiculous things around Panama,
reminded me that this was the same weekend last year that he “allowed” me to be
in his circle. In other words, he wanted us to celebrate our year anniversary
of an amazing, rewarding, and truly eccentric friendship and many adventures
later. He didn’t have to ask twice. I packed an overnight bag and headed to ‘di
Colon side.’ Things were sure to pop-off as it was independence weekend. He
would march with his school, we would up-turn in the streets, eat lots of
street meat, hit the club, and be merry---all with the blackness and richness
of Colon City.
I am not sure that I have ever blogged about Colon proper.
But dammit, they deserve a few hash tags, peace signs, and a big, warm
thank-you hug from me. Colon is Caribbean. Colon is rich. Colon is intriguing.
Colon is unique. Colon is black. Colon is me.
Colon captured my heart in a way that gringos who live by
traveller’s book wouldn’t understand. Every piece of Colon reminded me of an
experience that I had in other parts of the world where the diaspora exists.
Every well-coordinated, neon-colored, leopard/cheetah, sandal-wearing ensemble,
gelled-hairstyle, reminded me of home. A home that could be anywhere. A home
that could be Georgia Avenue day in DC. A home that could be MASH in Guyana. A
home that could be New Year’s Day at Lumley Beach in Sierra Leone. A home that
could be a Friday-fish fry in Barbados. A home that could be anywhere where my
aunties, uncles, sisters, brothers, cousins, friends live.
As we waited for my friend to finish marching with his
school, we enjoyed the ocean breeze from the Atlantic sitting pretzel-style on
the back lawn of the Washington Hotel in Colon City. Soon after, we set out to handle
the most important business: food. I was able to get a taste of the
independence kick-off parade, which left me wanting more. We found a $3.50
comida sold by a church on the street. Win.
What’s culture here? The combination of the obviously West Indian dishes
being called “comida.”
Next up…partying. Y’all know I love a good dance. It was a
holiday Sunday. So no work on Monday and Quincena; needless to say the club
would be a win and indeed it was. I danced with my friends. Alone. With
strangers. Danced so much a girl invited me to a birthday “parking.” I danced
so much, the people felt curious about me. And I felt this curiosity.
Monday was a beach day. We spent just a dollar to journey to
Playa La Angosta. The dollar bus ride was made more interesting by the
beautiful black man that adorned the seat in front of me. He was the symbol,
the essence of being on the Caribbean side. His black shone. Teeth glistened.
Jet-black shape-up screamed fresh. I didn’t speak to him, but I remember the neighborhood
where he got off. Don’t judge me.
The beach of course was---well, I can’t really say anything
bad about a beach in November ;)
Every November 5th, the people of Colon take the
street to celebrate the foundation of the Colon city. People fill the sidewalks
and the streets, corners, and even rooftops to witness the local schools march.
And just when you think the show is over, the independence bands show up late
in the evening and blow their horns, bang their drums, and fill the city with
their pride.
Colon is where there a large number of black migrants
settled after having arrived from primarily Barbados and Jamaica for the
construction of the canal back in the day. Needless to say, the Caribbean
influence and remnants of Caribbean culture is heavy. Old men talkin’ shyt to
their other gray-haired friends on porches. Older Caribbean women with one
special gold tooth. A plate of oxtail, rice and peas and a salad. And my brand
new favorite---icing glass---and the “original, original, icing glass,” as the
aunty-esque woman shouted down the carnival route. Colon is the kind of place
where you come to be reminded of the fact that really, we all are one. It is
the place where you see so many things that are similar in your life as a black
person. It’s the kind of place that tourists say don’t go to because its’ building
are decrepit, its trashcans are overflowing. But its’ trashcans ain’t the only
thing overflowing. The culture, the richness, the soul---Colon is overflowing
with these things as well. It is the
place where an old man, whom I have never met, can eye me with a toothpick in
his mouth, and speak to me with a familiarity as a patois-esque accent laces
his words asking if I “change up.” It is
a place where I would respond as if I had known this man as an uncle or so
before. It is a place where I understand nuances that some people just wouldn’t
get.
This is where I saw a man playing the drums in a band, who
reminded me so much of my grandfather that I chased him. His tall and stately
presence, his OG hat, his long Kissi chin, his Bambara finger length, his
entire swag. I chased him down the parade route. I bumped into old ladies.
Stepped on kids’ toes. Weaved throughout hundreds of people in the crowd. No
matter what I did, I couldn’t catch up with his steady pace. All I wanted was a
picture. Then it occurred to me that sometimes it’s best to just take in the
moment and not try to capture it. Maybe I would have captured more of him with
my own eyes, heart and soul if I weren’t so busy chasing him down with a
camera. He made me think of my paternal grandfather and it made me sad, but
happy at the same time. Maybe if I would have just took it all in, I would have
had more peace. I have been working on this more since that moment.
Trying to learn to just enjoy the ride. Next stop---AFRICA! :)
Nice to see you visited Colon. Panama is a nice country. And you are a very beautiful black woman. Keep up the good writing.
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