Ride on the Black Side: Colon Tingz, Bwoi

What does one super-cute, hot, chocolate, [and broke] teacher do during a 10-day vacation? This was the question. Not a bad problem to have, I must admit.

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 ;)

Having been intrigued by the glimpse that I caught of a Colon-style parade, I decided that I would go back to Panama City, collect some more clothes and return on Tuesday morning for the Colon Day Parade.  

Every November 5^th, 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! :)

The 'La Negra' Experience: Part 1

Well, I am L-I-V-E in Panama and who would have thought, that my being black would actually be a thing? I imagined that, since there are obviously people here of African descent, my presence would go almost unnoticed---not.

Lol. A task as simple as walking to the go grocery store for me is met with hollering matches between construction workers, taxi drivers, and quite frankly almost any guy that’s on the street. Yeah, I know what you are thinking---I’m an international showstopper...jk.  But this show stoppin’ deserves analysis. Here, I am called 'La Negra,' which literally means the black girl/woman, black and feminine. Sometimes I get 'morena,' which is brown girl. To-may-to, to-mah-to.

I will say that I was prepared for the 'la negra' experience because it happened to me in Spain and my host mom explained to me that it was a term of endearment. Call it what you want, but I still have some reservations about the deeper meaning of being objectified by your skin color AND womanhood. But, I am in another country and I have always despised when people complain about a country they are visiting. I will live this experience and use it to my advantage by writing about it.

On two separate occasions, I have felt extremely uncomfortable with taxi drivers because one kept purring over how beautiful my skin was and the other kept explaining how much he loved my skin color. The last one even went as far as rubbing his head on my arm…errr?

Yes, people will say that it’s normal here for women of afro-descent to be referred to as ‘negra’ or even ‘morena.’ Yet, I find it peculiar that I have to be referred to as ‘la negra.’ Yes, in the Spanish language they often refer to people as exactly what they are in a sweet (?) way. They might call a cute, chubby little girl, ‘gordita’ or a cute, black little girl, ‘negrita.’ They even call the people from East Asian countries here, ‘chino,’ #straightlikethat. But even in a place where there are others who look juuuuuust like me, my skin is still made to be something exotic.  Something tells me that there is more to this. I have a couple of theories; we will delve into them later on in the journey.

All this to say that, while I expected that my seemingly African looks would stand out a bit from time to time, I didn’t expect the rave reviews that I am receiving from men and women alike. With the men, it is as though I am a forbidden fruit. Or rather, the forbidden race, whether they look like me or lighter. With the women, I can't exactly read all of them, but I have noticed a sense of disapproval/ridicule based on their facial expressions/body language. I am just assuming that it may because of the way I wear my hair, (haven’t seen anyone with natural hair here) or wrap my head when I don’t feel like engaging in a war entitled Hair vs. Comb. One day as I enjoyed my Saturday ritual of ceviche de langostinos* at the Mercado de Mariscos*, a woman asked me why I didn’t perm my hair...that my hairstyle must be an "estilo africano*." She really meant no harm, I guess. The way I look, the way I dress [some days], my style, jewelry, and even that dramatic (but natural) walk that people love to hate... it screams culture...it screams...black...it screams Africa...and I am beginning to think that some folks here, just aren’t ready to open up their ears and hear my silent audio. We shall see…

This topic is one that we will revisit at various times throughout the journey, as I am sure that it will come up pretty often. So don’t worry. Race, culture, travel, and perception--- it’s only right. 

*Ceviche made with Jumbo Shrimp or Prawns

*Seafood Market

*African Style

Up next: Hopping the border to Costa Rica...buckle your seat belts. Yes, it's the law, even here on Bee's Backseat :) Stay tuned for the Carnaval experience!