My site is quite accessible: about 5km from the two-lane highway called the Vía Interamericana. I am fortunate that buses run from my site to the regional capital of Santiago, which connects me to the rest of the small country of Panama. However, there is no direct bus. I have a sort of checkpoint, a small stop off the highway where the big bus lets me off and a covered pickup truck takes me the 5km south through the winding, hilly terrain. No big deal, except that there are only two trucks, which are driven by a father-son duo. As they aren`t "official" transportation, they determine their own schedules and I often wait extended periods of time at the tiny bus stop for one of them to show up. Occasionally, I get fed up and take alternative transportation...literally anyone who`s driving in to the town. Once I drove in with the man who sells fish and other goods out of the back of his truck (which, by the way, he has been doing for 40 years). A few other times I`ve driven in with men who drive old American school buses now used for various purposes, such as business and government transportation.
This past Saturday I got fed up with waiting and hitched a ride in a bus labeled Alcoholes del Istmo. I assume it`s some sort of company that governs the regulation or distribution of their beers and liquors, their Balboa and Seco Herrerano and all that. What I didn`t know was that it was currently being used as a party bus. I stepped on and wondered if is was actually for Alcoholics of the Isthmus: beer cans everywhere, vacant expressions, and everyone wearing hats, for some reason. On the bus men were clamoring for my attention. When a gringo comes to town, everyone knows about it. Men were introducing themselves to me in relation to their kids, my students: I'm so and so`s dad or grandpa. I shook several hands (and got lots of limp fish, but that`s a rant I should save for later). I got lots of invitations to come and eat at their houses. One guy, who monopolized my time, insisted on buying me a Pepsi. At least that`s what I gleaned from the conversation, since his speech was almost unintelligible. When he got off the bus, he tried his hardest to give me a dollar, which I refused. That was weird, I thought. Why is this poor man giving me money? (He probably really wanted to give me that pop.)
A theme emerged from the men`s disparate conversations. They were extremely welcoming, although in an off-putting, almost threatening way, since they were drunk. But they were (mostly) accepting, welcoming me into their community in their own way. Another man went off on what has become a pretty standard speech: "We don`t have much, but we`re happy." I`d heard it before, but what made his unique was a phrase that stuck with me: La mitad nos sobra, which means Half is more than enough. I think that is a succinct way to describe their attitude. People here know what they`ve got (not much), but they live comfortable and fulfilling lives. Half of what some people have is plenty for some others. For a brief moment, he made me feel guilty for ever wanting something I didn`t need. Now I`m trying to find a way to incorporate that into my life, to make less more. It`s coming slowly.
As a side note, Half is more than enough is my new motto when it comes to bucket baths, my new standard method of bathing. Other Peace Corps volunteers and I are becoming masters of water conservation and efficient use.
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