Panama Viejo, Panama City

Pirates Sack Old Panama

Long ago when Central America was still called the New World, and pirates still sailed the Caribbean waters, Panama City was built over the sparkling blue waters on the tiny isthmus. Henry Morgan and his crew sacked the city in 1671, razing it to ruins. These fearsome fiends searching for riches and control over sea-power cannonballed and ransacked the tiny colony of the Spanish.

Today evidence of this blunder still stands, with broken foundations poking out of the poor section of the new Panama City. UNESCO has made the ruins of Panama Viejo a national heritage site, forever preserving the site and the history of marauding pirates.

Wade and I took a local bus, and the driver dropped us across the street from the site. Not seeing an entrance, Wade showed up the low fence. In pirate nature he abandoned his wench, bounding over the fence and trespassing into the ruins. I cried out after him, but he was hidden amongst the dilapidated houses.

Before I had a chance to follow, a guard was heading my way. He eyed me and returned to his post in front of a gate. I walked towards the opening intending to slip through. The guard barred my way.

“Where are you going?”
“To the ruins.”
“To do what?”
“To look of them, of course.”
“Why are you coming through this gate?”
“I don’t see another gate.”
“But you have to enter through the main entrance.”
“Why can’t I enter through this gate?”
“You aren’t allowed.”
“But why not? I want to.”
“But people enter through the other gate. Cars come in this gate.”
“But I am at this gate too. Can’t I enter here?”

This went on until I finally gave up, and he pointed me in the direction of the main entrance. In the scorching Panamanian sun it felt like miles. When I arrived, I quickly walked through a gate trying to scout passed the ticket booth.

“Señora! Miss! Señorita! Miss! Pardon! Excuse me!” annoyingly called the man in the booth. I pretended not to hear him until he began to rise from his seat to stalk me. Damn.

I sauntered over, head down, trying to put on a mean face. Sure enough I would have to pay to enter the site legally. I scanned the board of prices cringing at the US dollar signs. Luckily there was a student discount. I gruffly told the man my scholarly position and my fare was lowered to $2.

I finally gained entrance, extremely pissed about the whole fiasco. I searched for Wade simply to let out some anger and call him a butt for leaving me. We hiked around the unimpressive ruins, only stopping to read the signs about the pirates. There was not much to take pictures of except for a few fallen down, lichen-encrusted stone walls that once belonged to the wealthy of the city.

The main structure was a tower which was once a church steeple. At the base of the building a group of people with official looking badges surrounded us asking to see out tickets. I showed mine, as Wade searched for a non-existent ticket and stammered that he must have lost it. A lady called someone on a walkie-talkie, presumably the ticket vendor, asking if Wade had paid. The vendor had not seen a man with a beard and a red and black checkered shirt (as Wade was being described). I translated the conversation to Wade, anticipating trouble from the nearby armed guards.

Wade fled the scene without another word. I nonchalantly mounted the winding steps of the ancient temple, pretending not to know the man with the beard. I climbed the 5 flights of the bell tower alone. At the top, I looked out on the unappealing landscape and did not see Wade anywhere.

When I climbed down, I still did not see Wade. I circled the entire site and he was nowhere to be found. Damn kid had disappeared again.

For more Photos from my trip to Panama visit: Wanderjahr Jill´s Travel Photo Blog

Turrialba, Costa Rica

El 28 de enero

Hoy yo descubrí la belleza y la hospitalidad de Costa Rica de Nuevo. El Wade (mi novio quien está conmigo) no le gustó Costa Rica cuando estuvo aquí la última vez. El solamente visitó San José y Cartago y tuvo una experiencia mala.Ahora yo quiero mostrarle el otro lado de Costa Rica, como la gente amigable, la cultura divertida, la naturaleza bella, y todo lo que yo he conocido de este país.

Ayer salimos de Heredia y fuimos a Turriabla. Yo no conocía Turriabla, pero El Wade quería ir a las montañas y nuestro libro de guía se dice que allá las hay. Cuando llegamos, no vimos montañas ni senderos ni parques ni nada. Eso no estaba por las nubes tampoco. Yo le pregunté a la dueña del hotel y ella me miró como una loquita.

“Pues… se puede caminar hasta Santa Rosa, pero es muy lejos, como cuatro kilometros.”

Entonces Wade y yo salimos caminando por la calle a Santa Rosa y en pocos minutos empezó a llover. Nosotros regresamos al hotel después de mojarnos mucho. Estabamos tristes y desalentados.

Pero, por la mañana hoy no amanecimos con ganas de un buen viajecito. Salimos caminando otra vez. De Nuevo no vimos senderos por las montañas ni parques ni nada. Hasta casi una hora después , vi un campesino con una pala. Yo le pregunté si el conocía este lugar. Con una sonrisa muy grande el me dijo, “sí” y me llevó a su quinta. Lo seguí por cafetales y fincas y corrientes. Hablamos del ambiente y su vida y mi vida. El señor era muy amigable y nos mostró muchos senderos en las fincas privadas por las montañas. Vimos aves y mariposas e insectos. Wade y yo aprendimos como cultivar café, bananas y caña de azúcar.

Lo sentí muyrefrescante porque la gente de otros países no es tan hospitalaria y amigable. Los ticos del campo siempre rien y tienen tiempo para ser amigos.

(Yo con plantas de cafe, a photo of me with coffee plants)

Playa Gorgona, Panama

Getting There

Sometimes the best and worst part of any journey is getting to where you are going. I needed to get out of Panama City. The noise, the traffic, the smog, everything about big cities rubs me the wrong way after a few days. I picked a random beach on a big map of Panama and hoped for the best. All buses leave from the Albrook bus terminal, a cluster of honking beasts driving every which way. I asked around for a bus to Playa Gorgona, not entirely sure how to pronounce the word. I kept repeating it as gorgonzola (as in the cheese), but after a couple of tries a woman finally understood me and directed me to the Chame window. I bought a ticket and was aimed towards an exit. I left the building to find a mini-bus with Chame written in gangster letters across the windshield. I entered, weary that there was no driver to ask about the destination of the bus while the other passengers were throwing me unaccommodating hairy eyeballs.

As soon as I arranged myself for the trip my traveling companion got antsy. We were due back in Costa Rica in a couple of days and needed to buy tickets in advance. He kept mumbling something about this in an inaudible level, complaining, but not fully enunciating his concerns. After a few minutes of passive aggressive prodding and annoyed looks I gave up and agreed about buying the tickets in advance. We jumped off the bus and headed towards the turnstiles. The driver’s assistant from our bus cut us off, looking very worried. “Where are you going? What happened?”

I tried explaining in my rushed, broken Spanish, but he did not seem to understand. Time was burning short, so I broke through the barrier leaving him looking confused.

(Staring at the Sea in Panama)

I made it to the ticket window, huffing and puffing. Although I appeared obviously rushed, the ticket vendor took her dear old time in the transaction. Nothing goes fast in the tropics. After what seemed like an inordinate amount of time spent typing I decided to run back to our Chame bus to stall the driver while my companion waits for the ticket vendor to examine our passports and do some more typing. Breathless I returned to the bus just as our rotund driver was hobbling out of the station. Once again I attempted to explicate my situation to no avail. I am faced with more confused looks from both assistant and driver. I told them to wait, and the rotund driver shook a couple of chins and plopped into his seat.

Finally my companion jogged back, and we stepped into the crowded bus. I threw open a jumpseat and plunked down. I am suddenly aware that I am sweating profusely and am all too conscious of the ripe smell of my damp body. The chica next to me smiled shyly and aimed the air conditioner vent towards me. Is this for my sake or hers?

The ride is only about 60 kilometers from Panama City but within 10 minutes I am unbearably uncomfortable. I am smooshed between two people, my legs halfway cramped into the front seat and halfway over the center console. The bar is in the seat back is digging into my spine. Most treacherous of all, the bus is looping around precariously sharp bends at very high velocities. I have absolutely nothing to hold onto for balance and risk falling out of my seat at every curve. As we buck left my seat threatens to fold up with me still inside, and when we veer right it takes all my strength not to topple into the driver’s lap.

My pain is finally relieved as our driver drops us on the side of highway, pointing down a dirt road. Lately I have had a bought of rough journeys to the beach, and this is turning out to be no exception. Wade and I buy a couple of oranges and ask the Chinese shop owner how to get to the beach. Through her accent I understand that the playa is “cercita,” very close. I began walking around midday as the hot tropical sun beat on me as if I were roadkill on the pavement. The extreme humidity allowed no reprieve to profusely sweating. On foot, almost an hour later we arrived at another convenient store. I stumbled in to again ask the cashier for directions. I received the same reply as before, “cercita.” I am starting not to trust this “ita” business. It sounds like an excuse to say yes to everything.

(WAlking Man sign, I was in for a walk)

Another half hour of staggering in the sweltering heat and somehow we arrived at the beach. The black volcanic sand sparkled like diamonds strewn on the ground and the green waves calmly rolled over the unpopulated shoreline. I stripped to my bathing suit and plunged into the water. Nothing could feel better than the cool Pacific Ocean after such a sweaty adventure. Secluded beaches are empty for a reason: access is difficult.

Costa Rica Bus Travel to the Beach

First Weekend of February

The smell of the Ocean penetrates deep inland.
A wave of salty air slaps me in the face from the bus window.
I try to close my eyes,
But I can’t stop starring at the stars.

Panama City

February 22, 2008

(Photo of a painted pimped out Panama bus)

(Photo of a Panama Spanish Language Stop sign in front of the Panama Canal)

Got the Panama Red song stuck in my head. It’s hot as hell here and walking is tough going. Love the buses, ultimate pimped out rides with fuzzy dice and decals of naked chicks; but I can walk faster than them, and could breathe easier if they weren’t around. This is a manly city, dirty, huge, loud, shipping, canal. Girls don’t go out of their way to see canals and monstrosities. I would rather be at the beach.

(Photo of the Panama Canal Locks at Mira Flores)

Crossing Borders from Costa Rica to Panama on Ticabus

Ticabus direct from San Jose to Panama City. 15 hours. I about froze to death with the air conditioning. They advertise air conditioning and by god they are going to use it, cranked at full blast. The passengers sat huddled under coats, towels or any other warm scrap of cloth in their luggage. But they were all shivering with enjoyment and no one asked to turn the damn freezer off.

We landed at the border in the dead of night, who knew what time it was. When you’re on a bus hours do not matter. A passenger who looked like old Panama Red himself dressed in a full suit of jeands and wielding an American accent told me the way to go. Window after window. First stop, Costa Rican customs. A breeze because they want you out of their country anyway. Then walk through a no man’s land of duty-free hawkers. Go to window A; wait in line to disclose your need to enter Panama. The man examines your passport and gives you a yellow slip of paper. Do to the tourist window to show the women the yellow slip of paper. She takes $5 USD and exchanges it for another yellow ticket. Then return to window A, stand in line for another 20 minutes, and get the man to stamp your passport and the little yellow ticket. Buy a $1 sticker from some guy that demands it is necessary and attaches it to your yellow ticket. Show the man in window A $500 cash or a credit card or you do not pass go. It must be done in this silly, unorganized order.


(Panamanian Bus on the Central Avenue)

A Mexican on our bus was caught up in the circulation of the line behind me.
“Bad news,” he says in accented English. The border was giving him some trouble with his Mexican passport and grungy checkered shirt. I breezed by with my blue passport almost unnoticed, offering a brief, “Buena Suerte,” to the mexicano. They like American money, but the Mexican peso is worth less.

Then we were all ushered into a brightly florescent lit room, bare except for 4 wooden tables. We put our checked baggage in a pile on the floor and lined up behind the tables with our carry-ons. A small beagle, more cute than vicious, was brought through, sniffing all of our bags and made to re-sniff the more suspicious looking suitcases. Customs officials then entered the room examining each person’s yellow ticket and then their bags one by one.

(Photo of The Panama City Skyline)

The Mexican was scrutinized and his bag of apples was confiscated. My own grocery sack full of fruit, however, was not even opened, and I was quickly dismissed. My white skin got me almost diplomatic privileges. My friend the Mexican was taken somewhere else for further investigation as Ticabus waited as passengers reloaded. It was a rough night for my amigo. He was finally let back onto our refrigerated bus and despite the balmy tropical night we froze all the way to Panama City.

When the bus arrived, the sky was still pitch back. The bright bus terminal lights blinded me with confusion as I awoke at 3 AM in the capital city. I was at the end of the line. I wanted to stay sleeping under my cozy pile of clothes and dreaded getting out into the unknown darkness of this new place beyond the bus windows.

Happiness and Globalization

(This little Bribri indigenous girl wants to learn English instead of her native language of Bribri. I think she looks happy living in her community.)

The article Gross National Happiness in Bhutan offers a very interesting view on country development. The king of Bhutan Jigme Siongye Wangchuck has developed a new theory called Gross National Happiness. Instead of only pushing for growth in economic sectors, industry and monetary means, he is implementing a social plan of happiness. This includes a push for better education, health care, environmental conservation, and governmental soundness. Most importantly he is stressing the pertinence of community and cultural preservation.

To me, this is most unusual because often economic growth details a complete destruction of cultural traditions. I think this is a very idealistic model. If it should work it may be a solution to many of the detrimental affects of globalization.


This theory could be helpful in many developing countries. For example, in the technology hub of Bangalore, India, only economic growth is being promoted. Because of the vast seas of call centers, the cultural heritage of India is being viewed as ignorant, hackneyed, backwards, and not as “good” as Western culture. As a result, it is being rejected by a majority of the youth, as they adopt Western attitudes, media, ways of dressing, etc. Yet correlating to this, it seems that there is also a growth in social problems, depression, and loss of community, even though people may now have a greater income. Definitely plans like Gross National Happiness could aid developing countries facing such realities.


I feel that this concept, however, cannot be universally applied. Already developed countries, especially in the West, may be too far gone into “money making” mode to return to find happiness in the same sources as the Bhutanese. For instance, the consumer culture and separation of church and state in the USA is so great that culture often seems hard to find. The country is so obsessed with dollar signs that it would be a difficult habit to break. The secularism in state affairs would not allow for the promotion of cultural preservation, or such healthy growth of social programs.


All in all, I would like to see the future outcomes of Gross National Happiness in Bhutan. As a student of anthropology who has seen the traumatic devastation of globalization on culture, it is thrilling to see an implementation of preservation. All too often economic growth is valued over culture, thus destroying tradition. This plan aims to embrace both in a sustainable manner for a holistic vision for improvement in Bhutan.





This was a paper written for my Junior research class on Concpets and Research.

Baby Boomers Smoke Up

February 6, 2008

Baby boomers are now reaching the ripe ages between 40-60 when the risk of cardiovascular disease drastically jumps. This article suggests that these former hippies are in greater danger of heart attacks if they are marijuana users. Research for this study included interviews with almost 4,000 individuals aged 20 to 92 who recently suffered myocardial infarctions. The average marijuana smoker in this sampling was around 44 years old.

The independent variable is the use of marijuana and the dependent variable is the related heart attack. The external validity of this study is addressed by including many other possible independent variables that need to be examined before this study is proved conclusive. For example, the author proposes that the marijuana users were mostly men, obese and also smoke cigarettes. These three variables are all known causes of heart attacks as well. As marijuana consumption is not isolated as the only variable in a patient’s life that was able to cause a heart attack, it is difficult to conclude that it was the marijuana alone which triggered the attack.

Also, only 124 of the patients had smoked marijuana in the year before the heart attack, while only 9 of these had smoked within an hour of the attack. This sampling is rather small for any conclusive, diehard evidence to be drawn. Just because of the small numbers, the study needs more participants and research before it can be convincing.

This study will be difficult to research because of the vast number of variables that can influence a heart attack. The external validity due to the sheer number of possible independent variables is so extensive that isolation of marijuana smoking alone is nearly impossible. Clinical studies that inspect the exact effects of smoking marijuana in a controlled situation may be a more effective way to study its impact on heart attacks, rather than conducting interviews.



This is another paper written for my Junior Research class. The assignment was entitled making a stament and providing evidence. The information for this assignment was about Baby boomers smoking pot.

Derby Suave Costa Rican Cigarettes

January 31, 2008

Driving along the highway from San Jose to Heredia I noticed a huge billboard advertisement for Derby brand cigarettes. There was an image of a very attractive young woman dancing in what appeared to be a nightclub, party, or other situation that young people would typically enjoy. Behind her was a young man admiring the girl with a “wow” expression plastered across his face. Neither of these people was smoking and the only indication of an ad for cigarettes was the oversized, red and blue labeled package of Derby cigarettes in the bottom corner. What struck me as most unusual about the ad was the words of caution neatly printed along the bottom of the billboard; “Smoking is bad for you health.”

On a whole, the company was using a very simple advertising scheme, with roots as deep as our species; physical attraction. Males will look at the sign because it pictures a pretty girl. Females will look at it because it has a boy admiring a pretty girl, and most females want to feel “sexy” and be admired likewise by the opposite sex. Using intuitive knowledge and common sense, an average onlooker would come to the conclusion, “If it works for these two people portrayed in the advertisement it should work for me.” Can it really be so simple that one will have more fun and become more sexually desirable if they smoke Derby brand cigarettes?

I will state my opinion as no, placing distrust in the advertisers. The company is trying to sell their product, but at the same time is denouncing it for its potential health risks. These are obvious contradictory statements. Why would I trust a company that does not even trust itself? Why would I buy a product from a company that so observably is aware that it is physically harming its consumers?

Through some sort of traditional knowledge, i.e. cultural ideals, the media, and peer pressure, we are led to believe that smoking is “cool.” James Dean, Elizabeth Taylor, Danny from Grease, and countless other teenage American heartthrobs and role models of cool have asserted that smoking is attractive. Through advertising, this still appears to be the most weighted gravitational pull to entice smokers.

On the other hand, the “Smoking is bad for your health” statement is an authoritative projection of the experts. Through scientific research these experts have come to the conclusion that this knowledge is truth. Empirical evidence, systematic research, and quantitative data have proven that cigarette smoking is dangerous to the health of humans.

However, a century ago medical experts believed just the contrary. Cigarettes were widely thought to have beneficial health effects. Tobacco cigarettes were even prescribed as treatment for many pulmonary problems such as asthma and used by athletes to “open the lungs.”

Clearly, this advertisement for Derby cigarettes portrays an important aspect of information intake. It plainly illustrates that not all sources are trustworthy. Information should be scrutinized and sorted, rather than directly accepted as truth.


This is an essay written for my research class. The assignment was titled ¨What is research?¨ and asked the student to critically look into the information being presented in popular advertisements.

Indigenous Sentiments

Essay written for Contemporary Indigenous Peoples of Latin America

February 4, 2008

I was raised with Native American spirituality. Both of my parents followed and studied it, from my mom building a sweat lodge in our backyard and holding ceremonies, to my father becoming a sort of mystic medicine man, communing with nature, and going on vision quests. Neither of my parents have a drop of native blood (that we know about), but they both had a calling towards this way of life.

As such, I was instilled with “indigenous” ideals and values in my upbringing. My beliefs lie in a native cosmovision. This faith was of those who are the ancient inhabitants of Turtle Island. I was born on Turtle Island as well. I was brought up to believe I am a child of this planet. The Earth is a mother to us all, and, fortunately, I was born on the North American continent, also known as Turtle Island. The sky is my father. All living creatures, from the largest leviathan to the smallest protozoa, are my brothers and sisters to be treated equal. Each has a special value, story, and spirit. The four directions are places of great spirits and my ancestors. In ceremony we pray to our ancestors.

Does this make this religion mine, too? Am I indigenous? Can these beliefs be my own? I have many questions like this because of my indigenous sentiments, but I am still a “white man.”

This creates a major incongruities in my distinct cosmovision. My ancestors were not the indigenous peoples of my homeland, but, on the contrary, the people who conquered the natives. My ancestors were the invaders who brought diseases. My ancestors were the pioneers who slaughtered all of the buffalo. My ancestors were the militias who massacred the Indians to steal their land. My ancestors were the promoters of hundreds of years of mistreatment, broken treaties, and prejudices.

For me, approaching the study of indigenous peoples harbors mixed feelings and emotions. It is a topic I am passionate about, and I find it very interesting. On the other hand, I hold a sort of guilt associated in the issue. I feel imperialistic myself, as if I am imposing my ideals of indigenousness onto actual people.

Anthropology, in the past, has been a wave that crashed on many indigenous peoples throughout the world. They were studied as subjects rather than as real living people. They were put on display in museums and circuses, thought of as exotic, and distinguished as “them” through what was called scientific research.

Anthropologists who actually assimilated themselves within cultures, and treated indigenous as they would any group of people, were often criticized for their research methods. A prime example of this is Kevin Duffy in his studies of the Mbuti pygmy people in Children of the Forest. Duffy viewed the Mbuti as people, friends, family, making personal connections and relationships with his subjects. Duffy threw himself into the midst of tribal life through total participatory action, even going so far as to have sexual relations with the females. Yet, today, his works are regarded as some of the best and most interesting ethnographic studies by contemporary anthropologists. His methods were revolutionary and paved the way for anthropologists to gain a greater understanding of their subjects. I admire his methods, his honesty, and his view on anthropology as a sort of integration, rather than simply a study.

So where is my place in indigenous studies? Am I able to objectively study indigenous cultures without making them objects? Will I be able to take off my imperial glasses and not place my own values and beliefs on those of others? I feel that this will be a great challenge for me. I do not want to assert my own ideals upon other cultures.

Indigenous peoples are considered marginalized, but the tribal peoples of the Brazilian Amazon do not have money because they do not use it in their societies. Because they do not have money, they may be considered “poor,” but they themselves do not consider themselves as poor. They may be considered “savage” because they are nomadic and live in “huts” and in Western society people live in houses, totally removed from nature. There is a great rift in the beliefs of my society and those of many indigenous peoples.

All over the world I have been studying indigenous or tribal peoples. I am drawn to these unique minority cultures that appear so different from my own. This broad view of a myriad of peoples throughout the globe has shown me just how vastly diverse our planet is. I can see the complications of defining “indigenous” as a result.

I road camels with the tribal Bhils of Rajasthan, once known as fierce and noble warriors, but now are nomads and gypsies lost in the vast sands of the Thar desert. I met with an empowerment organization working with the Koragas, a scheduled tribe so low in the caste system that they are forced to do unmentionable deeds just to feed themselves. I briefly studied the Hui people scattered across China. They are descendents of Muslim lineage of the merchants who came along the Silk Road and have long since established themselves in Chinese society while keeping a distinct culture from the rest of the Han Chinese. I have had countless encounters with indigenous organizations, native rights groups and politicians in Latin America. Every culture was so diverse and varied that I myself would not be able to pin down a common definition of indigenous people to cover them all.

I look forward to my further studies with indigenous peoples. In studying this field I am also looking through a window into myself, my own culture, values, and beliefs, while discovering how I fit into the whole, greater unity of our species.

El 25 de Enero

Es muy extraño para mi que estoy en Costa Rica otra vez. Cuando yo estuve aquí hace casi dos años era una persona muy diferente, más joven, más loca, y más ingénua. Ahora yo he tenido muchas experiencias y he visto el mundo, y he aprendido mucho de la vida. Estoy más tranquila y estudiosa.
Muchas cosas en Heredia hancambiado y muchas cosas todavía son las mismas. Esta semana yo fuí a todos mis partes favoritos de Heredia. Fuí a las cataratas en Monte de la Cruz y mi restaurante favorite de hamburgesas con cebollas y bares de mis amigos conocidos y el campus de la UNA. En la finca de las cataratas ahora hay vacas en vez de caballos. El restaurante ahora tiene dos partes y es más pequeño. En los bares todavía hay mis amigos Buenos y en la UNA todavía hay cartels de conciertos y marchas politicas.
Mis amigos les alegra mucho de verme de nueva. Ellos tienen brazos abiertos y corazones sinceros. Todavía ellos bromean mucho, bailan bien, y toman como siempre. Me gustan mucho la passion, el amor, y la amistad de los Ticos. Estoy muy felíz de estar en Costa Rica.

Central America

Hola hola,

So I came to Costa Rica in late January and have been jumping around Central America for a couple months now. I am currently in Copán, Honduras exavating a Maya archaeology site.
I guess I still haven´t gotten into the total swing of things and haven´t written on this beast since January! Yikes! I will get some stuff of there as soon as possible.