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 Girl with the Mystery Moves

bee and beenie. mystery moves pay off ;)

the girl with the wine.

I may be full of myself. I admit it. But really…everyone wants to know who the girl with the mystery wine is. Yeah, my skin is chocolate like my African ancestry. Yeah, my backside is curvy, like my Sierra Leonean mother. Yeah, I wrap my head like my Madingo Muslim grandmother. Yeah, I stomp as my hips sway side to side like my pretty American princesses. But the wine…the wine…we have yet to place it.

even if i show them my lips, they might still question  my hips...movement unidentified.

To me, I dance like the Atlantic ocean that touches my west African roots, I rotate my hips like the Caribbean sea that surrounds the patois speaking islands, I shake my tumba like the afrobeat in my Sierra Leonean songs. This mixture, this touch, this thing has caused people some confusion here in Panama. They want to know where I’m from. They thought maybe if they stare they might place me. Not. They thought if they heard me speak, they might surmise. Then they saw me dance…and still, they couldn’t. They would never know that I am an American girl, who identifies as Sierra Leonean, who loves reggae, who dreams of dancing in the Congo with my favorite Soukous group, who transforms stares into energy and motivation to give a performance. They would never know that in my head, I am on a stage. On my own stage. Each and every time. They would never know just from looking at me. I would have to tell them.

what they were fighting for. closeness. 

And so on this particular day. They didn’t ask, just yet. They pushed me, taunted me, pulled me, spilled beer over me, called me puta and all. But I didn’t shake. I didn’t move. I simply gave them the space to do all the rudeness they wished since they were determined to make me so uncomfortable that I would move. Little did they know, I was determined to stay in the space that they had once occupied. Hey, as the saying goes, you move your feet, you lose your seat. Lol, well it was standing, but you get my point! And listen here, we all paid however much to get in that VIP Section and if I find an opportunity to get right smack in the middle and in the front, best believe that I will take that opportunity. And that’s exactly what I did. They just weren’t happy with it. They sent their best and rudest to challenge me. She started dancing on me. Wining on me from her back to my side. All in an effort to push me out of my spot or to get me pissed off so I would start something so that the whole crew could jump me. Little did they know, I would not be moved. Enty mi nah salone titi, ah don use for dance pan people dem, so we all go dance. I was chill. I gave a little something but not too much. She kept going and I kept going. They didn’t realize they had met their match. But then the dancing/challenging girl, had a light bulb moment. She must have recognized that mystery wine.

Suddenly, she stopped backing it up on me rudely and stared at me intensely before asking, “I have seen you before right,” in her Caribbean twang. I responded that I wasn’t sure. Then she proceeded to explain where she knew me from. She said, “weren’t you dancing at the Konshens concert, you had a green short pants on, I know you!” I replied yes, smiled coyly, (yes, I’m a little shy when I get recognized for these things). Then she high fived me and said she always wanted to know where I was from. Her crew stared intensely and waited for my response. “You from Jamaica,” she asked. The crew anxiously awaited my response…and then I silenced their curiosity. I was born in Washington DC, to Sierra Leonean parents. I’m an African girl, I said. Shoulders relaxed. Heads nodded. Everyone commenced to dancing again. This time together. The crew was from Bocas del Toro, Panama. All black like their Caribbean grandparents and African descendants. I was no longer the enemy. I wasn’t the mysterious wining girl that had taken their spot. I was just like them. Black, lover of reggae music, African. Same hips, same motions, same passion, same blood.

When Drums Traveled Oceans

When you feel like you are in your native land, but you hear Spanish and quickly realize that you are in a country, at the tip of Central America, in the mouth of south America’s Colombia.

When you are grateful to see the same tropical colors reminiscent of your ancestral home

When you are pleased to see people whose cheek bones, lips, noses, body structures resemble yours

When you can play with a little girl’s hair…a girl who could have been you when you were her age

When you can smile and nod at each person in a way that only people who are proud of their blackness recognize

When you taste that rice made over a wooden stove with a chicken combination similar to what your mommy makes

When you can look around and say “Hey, we do that too!”

When you can see how your ancestors once moved their waists and feet to the same Congo drums

When you can pinpoint things that originated from Africa and were carried across oceans into a foreign land now meshing into the land of the foreign

When you can appreciate another culture, because it looks like what you know

When you can look at another person, in a land foreign to you, and see yourself. See your brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and cousins. Then you see just how connected we once were.

Happy Black History Month family!

Pictures from La Feria de Diablos y Congos in Portobelo, Panama. The tradition hails from Afro-Antillean interpretation of tactics used by slaves to rebel against their masters. The devil represents the slave master and the people taunting it represent that African slaves. Women in colorful dresses sing songs of freedom while sway their hips melodically to the beats of the drums. It is said to be a cultural and colorful display of the struggle of good versus evil. The event is held only every two years on the old fort ruins of Portobelo, a town located in the Caribbean province of Colón. I had the pleasure of spending several days there and fell in love with the town for it's slow paced caribbean vibe, freshly cooked food, and abundance of pretty tropical plants. I am a sucker for the vibrant colors of the tropics.

La Feria de Diablos y Congos

nothing like roast meat at an outdoor gathering

djege man...y'all know the type.

diablos from Bocas Del Toro

end the night with a display of fireworks

doesn't this look like Sierra Leone? or Barbados? Or Guyana? Or you name it.