dances
The shopkeeper opens the door and invites me in after he sees me pass his store, stop, then return to the window to stare at a painting of an old woman in orange and yellow. I step in from the heat, holding my paper bag of empanadas. He first asks me if I am Panamanian (which makes me laugh) and after trying a little bit of Spanish, then French, speaks to me in near-perfect English.
I´m guessing he is of West African descent. He shows me a cameo-perfect sepia toned picture of his grandmother in victorian dress. His grandmother, Mrs. Hudson, was a merchant that followed the Maya trails through Guatemala and Nicaragua before settling in Bocas del Toro. He also shows me pictures of his nieces and nephews in New York and remarks how we are really all one people. His niece looks strikingly Pinay to me.
His wife is the painter, he is a poet and drummer. They opened this shop in Bocas del Toro in 1986. It cost about $1000. I ask him if Bocas del Toro has changed a lot since he first got there and he emphatically agrees...takes me over to some watercolor paintings depicting what Bocas might have looked like 20 years ago. We get to chatting about Bocas and poetry and music. And he reminisces about the dances he attended as a youth.
He says that in those days, mothers were very strict. So when a dance was held only the boys could go and the girls were not let out by their mothers. But when the school would sponsor dances the mothers would think it was okay and allow their daughters to go. The professors would not want to mix with the students, so they stayed outside. The boys would smuggle in paper bags to cover the bare lightbulbs. In this brown paperbag-dimmed light, the teens could dance cheek to cheek (here, he steps out from behind the counter, places his hands in front of him and does a few steps with his feet, eyes closed). And he says how the Indian girls would all smell of cheap soap - the kind you could buy for 15 cents because they were poor - but how this smell was so erotic and wonderful because you would smell it while you were holding a beautiful Indian girl close. And how the African girls would smell amazingly of coconuts because of the coconut that they put in their hair.
He pauses and sighs. Then hands me my purchases (a book of his poetry, inscribed with a note) and my change, and wishes me well on my journeys.
I´m guessing he is of West African descent. He shows me a cameo-perfect sepia toned picture of his grandmother in victorian dress. His grandmother, Mrs. Hudson, was a merchant that followed the Maya trails through Guatemala and Nicaragua before settling in Bocas del Toro. He also shows me pictures of his nieces and nephews in New York and remarks how we are really all one people. His niece looks strikingly Pinay to me.
His wife is the painter, he is a poet and drummer. They opened this shop in Bocas del Toro in 1986. It cost about $1000. I ask him if Bocas del Toro has changed a lot since he first got there and he emphatically agrees...takes me over to some watercolor paintings depicting what Bocas might have looked like 20 years ago. We get to chatting about Bocas and poetry and music. And he reminisces about the dances he attended as a youth.
He says that in those days, mothers were very strict. So when a dance was held only the boys could go and the girls were not let out by their mothers. But when the school would sponsor dances the mothers would think it was okay and allow their daughters to go. The professors would not want to mix with the students, so they stayed outside. The boys would smuggle in paper bags to cover the bare lightbulbs. In this brown paperbag-dimmed light, the teens could dance cheek to cheek (here, he steps out from behind the counter, places his hands in front of him and does a few steps with his feet, eyes closed). And he says how the Indian girls would all smell of cheap soap - the kind you could buy for 15 cents because they were poor - but how this smell was so erotic and wonderful because you would smell it while you were holding a beautiful Indian girl close. And how the African girls would smell amazingly of coconuts because of the coconut that they put in their hair.
He pauses and sighs. Then hands me my purchases (a book of his poetry, inscribed with a note) and my change, and wishes me well on my journeys.
posted by Jen Cocohoba at 6:15 PM
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