Panama and Colombia don’t actually connect.
Well, technically, there is a border between them, but a ninety-nine mile swath of thick jungle and swampy marshland known as the Darién Gap splits the Pan-American Highway, the closest road connection between the two countries. The sparsely populated zone is inhabited by the Embera-Wounaan indigenous people as well as the more modernized, Marxist fighters/terrorists of the FARC (Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia People’s Army). In fact, due to the remoteness and the potential FARC activity (à la kidnappings, ransom, extortion, etc.), this zone is on the “do not travel” list for the World Race, and while our contacts initially began to visit this area with armed military representatives in their car, they assured us that the zone was not as caliente as in the recent past.
We left Chepo, Panama at nine in the morning, piled into two, well-tested SUVs and a trailer of our stuff. The cars were filled to the brim with our team, our contacts and a team from YWAM. We drove for several hours uneventfully but then suddenly, our path changed. The smooth highway appeared to end abruptly at a military checkpoint. As we approached, Panamanian soldiers required us all to exit the vehicle and pass through an immigrations check. We passed this point and an hour later, another checkpoint loomed ahead. This time, the military not only asked for our passports, they asked our reason for travel and the date and time we planned to return. My nerves started to rise. They wanted to know when we would return, partly so they’d know when to send a search party.
After the check points, the highway degraded in to a Mars-rover testing ground; we snaked our way through axle-breaking craters and patches of rough gravel. For long stretches of time, our two vehicles were the only ones in sight. After several slow, cramped hours, we turned off the remnants of the Pan-American Highway on to an unmarked gravel road. Creeping through thick vegetation, cut only by the road, which happened to use a simple power-line trail, we reached a dead end. We piled out of the car and unloaded our stuff, down a short path to at the edge of a green, lethargic river. After a few minutes of restless waiting, a dugout canoe – attached via the hold of a couple of sinewy arms to a small beater of a barge – crept in to view. We loaded up and headed out to El Salto, an indigenous community on the water’s edge, beyond where the road ends.
For the following four days, we lived in prefab huts (a “gift” of the government after a devastating flood destroyed the town) amidst one of the 3 main paths of the town. Even in this remote, forgotten settlement, there was a clear divide between the Haves and Have-nots. The Haves live in modest homes, defined as “wealthy” for sitting on stilts, sometimes also having a cinderblock wall or two. The Have-nots live in the prefab cabins on high ground, which, while a handy gift from the government (flown in by pallets on helicopters), lacked in their long-term stability. Throughout the town, women still wear brightly colored wrap skirts. One custom I was not expecting is that older women do not typically wear shirts and cover themselves in a black paint made from the fruit of the jagua, which is said to repel insects and provide sun protection. Painting the body with jagua is a similar custom to henna tattoos. On a girl’s quinceañera, her whole body is covered with intricate designs.
We spent the week ministering to the Embera-Wounaan in several ways. Several members of our team and YWAM worked to repair the basic water system of the community. Sadly, like many well-intentioned projects in the developing world, a previous group (possibly even the government) installed a basic water system to spigots throughout the community, however, they failed to train any locals in the maintenance of the system. Additionally, we walked through the community and spoke with families, inviting them to movie night via a portable projector (Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe!) as well as to several programs in environmental responsibility, hygiene and sustainability.
I’ll admit that teaching hygiene and environmental stewardship were not in my plans for the Race, however, our contacts Kenneth and Elaine have a huge heart for God’s creation and for teaching everyone, including the poorest of the poor, how to live healthfully and sustainably. We took kids on a trash walk through the community and taught them the importance of keeping the river clean. We also taught the community how to make portable, efficient penny stoves, using materials available in their village. While I don’t think of myself as an environmental specialist, showing the community we cared for the environment, their environment, and wanted to teach them how to better to interact with what is available to them, we opened doors for the sharing of the Gospel through several fun (crazy?) nights of activity with the children. I also learned this: in small, indigenous communities, tell a few people of an event and within a few hours, everyone knows where and when to show up!
Even with all this adventure, El Salto was a tough experience. It is unsettling for a city-dweller like myself to climb a hill and see jungle in every direction as far as the eye can see. The heat, humidity and mosquitoes were tough companions. The cultural differences, while entertaining, were tough to reflect on and consider. But, in the pattern of this year, the greatest value was in reminding this community that they are not alone, that they are not forgotten. Through the power of the Lord and His Love, we got to visit in family homes, hold hands with playful children and pray over many households in the community. We prayed that they would be able to receive love, that they would care for their neighbors, that the Lord would grow their children to be healthy and strong.
Not many people visit the Embera-Wounaan. It’s dangerous (the Peace Corps actually pulled out of the area due to a recent drug trade shootout on the river between cartels and the police). It’s hot/humid/buggy. It’s culturally uncomfortable at times. It’s inconvenient. And yet, there are communities of people who need love more than a handout, who need laughter and music and games and silly skits. Who need crazy missionaries who don’t care about the danger, but care more about breaking through the physical, emotional and spiritual isolation of the jungle.
El Salto was one for the memory book, not just for the “adventure” of the experience, but for the simplicity of the calling. We are called to go and called to love, called to mend wounds and bind the broken-hearted, to proclaim hope in a God that doesn’t fail even when natural disaster strikes, a God who does not forsake us because of our ethnicity, nationality, language, our economic value or our past decisions.
We are called to go beyond the road’s end.
“The Spirit of the Sovereign LORD is upon me, because the LORD has anointed me to proclaim the good news to the poor. He has sent me to bind up the broken-hearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners.” Isaiah 61:1
