If the extent of your worldliness and cross cultural experience is meandering through the aisles at Cost Plus World Market, then please take this advice: read this post with as open of a mind as you possibly can. Remember that just because we are American or more formally educated or just because we can use Wed MD does not always mean that we know what is going on and what is right in regards to a culture very different from our own.
That being said:
This is a story about a young girl who was very sick. A kind of sick I had never seen before. A kind of sick that is only in the movies. A kind of sick where it makes me question whether “sick” is even the right adjective to use.
It began on January 11, 2011. For a date containing so many ones, I should have known a first was likely to happen.
My neighbor passed by my house early one morning. Thinking nothing of it I questioned her if her eldest daughter was ok. I had my Muchachs Guias (girl scouts) meeting the day before and it is really not like her not to show up.
“Ella está enferma Meti, como una baracha loca”
And this is where the firsts begin. The Ngobes always complain about being sick, but I had never heard them describe a sick person, especially a 13 year old girl, as being sick like a crazy drunk.
The mom rushed off to the tienda. As soon as she left, something occurred to me. I referred to a calendar in which I had each Muchacha Guia decorate her birthday. Just as I had thought, today was elaborately decorated with a big pink flower, the girl’s name, and the number 14. I immediately popped some popcorn ( a favorite among my muchchas), put together a little birthday/care package with some nail polish, a magazine, crayons etc, and went up the hill to visit.
My muchacha was sitting there in the corner of this one bedroom home, her 9 younger brother and sisters were bouncing off the walls in excitement of my arrival, each competing for my attention. She seemed fine, tired but normal. Not like any crazy drunk I had ever seen. We chatted a bit, she told me that her head hurt and her body was sore like she had been working really hard the day before. Her mom cut in.
‘they tied her up over there’ she pointed to the corner with puckered lips, like most Panamanians do.
Tied her up? I thought.
Being familiar with Ngobe culture, I cautiously began asking questions, but not as to seem to overbearing. Some answers were given, but this”sickness” still was extremely vague. It was concluded that these drunken symptoms only present them self at night. We also concluded that it would be easier if I just saw it for myself, as it was obvious they were having difficulty explaining it.
I returned to my house, and completed my evening chores before sundown. As I lit my kerosene lamp, I heard a voice call from the hill behind my house.
‘Meit, it has started, come quickly!’
I blew out the flame, grabbed my headlamp, slipped on my rain coat and followed the voice up the hill.
I entered the same room I had been in a few hours earlier. But the scene had changed drastically. Now the picture was of panic, hysterics, confusion and uncontrol.
As I entered the room, the large crowd that had already formed parted, revealing my muchacha. She was in the middle of the room, kicking, thrashing and fighting against 7 grown men who were attempting to hold down and control her flaring extremities long enough to tie her up. The strength and endurance she showed was abnormal. The group effort of the men to control this teenage girl appeared much more taxing and arduous than her effort to fight back. It seemed more like a game to her, like if she really wanted to she could throw them all out the window. But that didn’t happen. Even though her efforts seemed relentless, the men eventually maintained control.
My muchacha was tied face up. Her legs were crossed at the ankle, right over left. They were tightly held together with a large marine rope. I remember wondering where they got a rope of this quality. It ran from her ankles to the one post in the middle of the house. Her arms were spread wide apart. Her wrists were wrapped first with a t-shirt, as to not place the rope directly on her skin. The marks from the night before made me believe they had learned this tactic the hard way. These ropes were not of the same quality as the one around her feet, but they made up for it by making layers of complex knots. The ropes were as taut as a guitar string, and ran in opposite directions until secured to the houses frame.
The men took a much needed coffee break after nearly 2 hours of struggle. At this point, the bush doctor, who is also my muchacha’s grandfather, entered the scene. He held a glass coca-cola bottle full with a liquid medicine. Regardless of my attempts to find out, the ingredients are only known to him. The bottle was passed off to the eldest brother of my muchacha who was instructed to give her a thimble size dose. She calmed immediately.
The room was dark, except for the glow of one candle and sporadic burst of light when someone checked the time on their cell phone. The rain came in pounding waves over the zinc roof, immediately drowning out any attempt to communicate. I sat on the floor, directly to the left of my muchachas head. I had her little brother on my lap. I counted at least 35 people in the room. A cup of cold but very sweet coffee was passed around. The tripping hazard caused by the crisscrossing ropes made everyone stay put. All conversation was in Ngobere because there were elders present. Spanish was only spoken when they were talking to me.
‘Does this happen in your country Meti?’
Or ‘I bet you have only seen this in movies’
Or, ‘This is why you shouldn’t live by yourself. But don’t worry. If you go crazy, we will tie you up too.”
They said this with true sincerity. I took it as, ‘if you are sick, we will take care of you.’
My muchacha lay dormant for about 20 minutes after taking the medicine. Her body was still and her eyes focused straight up at the ceiling. When it seemed the medicine wore off she began thrashing again. Her head would go quickly. Left to right, left to right. Then suddenly her eyes would focus with immense concentration on the knot, which was located slightly above the bend in her wrist. Once she figured out she could touch the knot with the figures of the same hand, a whole new game started. Her concentration intensified and her figures moved quickly, succeeding in unraveling layers of knots in just minutes. Someone would grab the rope just in time, and re-tie it. She would mumble, flip her head fiercely to the other side, and start working on that knot. Each time she unraveled the knots a new guy would step up, promising to tie one she wouldn’t be able to undo. We would all watch in amazement as she proved them wrong one by one.
Her face was calm and emotionless, her eyes showed no signs of struggle, only focus. She rarely blinked. She was mumbling nonsense. One knot she was able to undo so quickly, the guys didn’t have time to respond. Her left arm swung free. She reached for anything to grab. All of us quickly scattered out of the way. Her fingers ran along the floor boards, eventually falling into a crack. She worked her finger tips down until she could grab a hold of the board. She pulled up hard. The board lifted straight out, nails and all. Control was maintained once again, and I decided it was time I leave, I had been there for over 5 hours.
I returned the next morning. She was fine, and with no memory of the night before. I went back again that night. It was the same scene as the night before. They had brought in another medicine man from a neighboring community. Other healing practices started, including burning termites nests all around and underneath the house, which made for a really uncomfortable, smoky and erring setting. This new medicine man also ordered my muchacha to be segregated in the corner at all times, day and night. Separated by leafs and bush from the jungle. At night she would be tied up, during the day left to rest and read the bible. And so it went, for 8 days.
Some of you may be trying to diagnose my muchachas ‘sickness’ based on the symptoms I described above. Don’t. I don’t think this is something any of us outsiders know anything about. But it is not uncommon here, and it is not exclusive to my village. This happens in Ngobe village all over Panama.
In our culture if it ever got to the point of tying someone up in the corner it is likely that a third party would be called. The police, or a doctor, or some sort of professional to put them in a straight jacket, and deal with it behind closed doors. That is not an option here.
I respected their healing methods, because that is what you do when you are outsider. This had happen 3 times before in my community. It was not something they were unfamiliar with. They were never looking to me for help. These medicine men are incredibly knowledgeable about the medicinal uses of local plants, and I don’t doubt their expertise. A majority of our findings and development in modern medication was derived from the knowledge of Indians just like them. The last thing I want is for them to shun these native practices. I think it is in the benefit of all of us that they continue and share their invaluable knowledge with the younger generations.
After witnessing this sickness reveal itself 2 nights in a row, I decided for my own mental health, it would be best to keep my visit to the daytime only. And so, each day I would visit my muchachca. Even though she was behind the blanket of jungle shrub I could still see her smile, and I know that my visits brought her some joy.
After the 8th day she was fine, cured. The nightly fits stopped completely and abruptly. She was released back out into the world, and it was over.
~ Meti
