Relatives at Lago Alajuela

That’s what we did in the below picture. Just around the corner was a video game where you could play the role of a rooster fighting another. On a small, fuzzy screen nearby were the taped fights of real roosters. I’m not advocating this, but be prepared when you go off the beaten path to see things you may not be accustomed to.

Not long ago I was relaxing at a relative’s home as his young granddaughter ran back and forth. The sun was setting and a nice, soft breeze cooled our sweaty skin. My host began to speak about his job at the Canal. He talked in a low voice, as was his style, and I leaned forward to listen.

He said there are many tunnels around the Canal that are used for maintenance crews. Sometimes, based on the work needs, they’ll ask for a second or third shift. During a recent graveyard shift, one of the workers completed his tasks and decided to rest. He put a board between two cinderblocks and laid down. But not for long…

He awoke to the sound of voices. He thought someone was calling him. He was far beneath the Canal with only a flashlight. He strained to hear what the voice was saying as it faintly echoed in the tunnel, but he couldn’t make out the words. The voice stopped, and although the worker was a little unnerved, he laid back down.

Many Voices erupted, closer this time, and in languages he didn’t understand. Languages from all of the different groups of people that had built the Canal. In his mind, they were still there. Screaming in fear, the worker ran out of the tunnel, never to return for another overnight shift.

To punctuate the story even more, my expert Story Telling Friend said that a few days later they were cutting concrete down below, in the same general area. If you’ve ever seen a concrete-cutting saw then you know it only cuts straight. He said they made a cut, and when they were done, what they saw was the shape of the sole of a boot. An old boot. The same type of boot worn by the original canal workers.

I’m not saying the story is true or not, but like any good story… you may never know.

This last Fall when Bilo was in the hospital in Colon, news was very dire. My daughter Andrea went to visit him then and reported on the poor conditions in the hospital. I would send a note when I could, if someone was going to see Bilo, and I took the occasion to do so this time. I wrote to Bilo how it had been my honor and joy to be his son-in-law these many years, and that I thought about him and family everyday. I also wrote about how his grandkids were raised with stories about him, and life in the interior. I was happy to hear that Bilo kept this note on a table by his bed. Andrea was working in another state and was unable to make the funeral in Panama. Now it was her time to send a note. I printed off two copies on the morning we left to the airport, with Andrea’s desire to have the note buried with her dear Abuelo.

Bilo was born sometime between 1916 and 1920. He always said 1920, but others that knew him said this wasn’t true and he was older. He never disputed this and would only smile about it when asked. I think he liked being a little mysterious. Bilo was poor financially, but rich with his zest for life, the land, and stories. He was very humble, and although he didn’t have much, he was willing to share whatever he did have. After his wife died and most of the kids went to live in either Panama or Colon Province, Bilo moved on too, visiting from family to family, oftentimes with only a cot to sleep on. Everyone seemed to know him. Once as we were leaving Tocumen airport my wife ran into some friends and the first thing they asked was, “How’s Bilo?”

We arrived late Monday night, and went to see my wife’s older sister. She provided more details on what happened. We decided to meet with other family members in the Terminal in the morning, and go to Colon Province where the oldest son and his family lived. We then left to stay with relatives in Chapala.

No one told us about the major bridge construction going on over the Bridge of the Americas, and so we were quite late, and exhausted, in getting to the terminal. But we did gather, all eight of Bilo’s children, to make final arrangements. Later that afternoon, I went with my wife and others into Sabanitas, Colon, to the funeraria–Panama’s version of a funeral home. Bilo was still in the morgue at the hospital in PC where he had died. What we were doing was making any final arrangements for the funeral and they needed a copy of the death certificate. It turned out that Bilo had saved money over the years which one of his daughters had kept safe. It helped pay for the services. Plus, Bilo or one of his sons under his direction had previously been to the funeral home to pick out a casket. As we waited for a receipt, I asked one of the workers which casket Bilo had picked out. In a small storage area near the office he showed me.

Nothing seems to come easy in Panama. The office lady suddenly exclaimed that the death certificate did not have the red stamp on it from the Civil Registry to show that Bilo was “officially” dead. Without it, they could not proceed. The Civil Registry is where all births, marriages, and now as I learned, deaths–must be reported. It was decided that one of the daughters would get the stamp early in the morning. I was skeptical. It was already late in the afternoon. We needed the stamp, plus Bilo’s remains still had to be transported from the Pacific side to Colon Province. And all of this for a 1pm funeral the very next day.

Back at my brother-in-law’s house, I heard that some of the sons, grandsons, and great-grandsons were in the cemetery across the road digging Bilo’s grave. I went over to look, crossed through the gates, up a hill, and over to a tree on a hillside. There, Bilo’s grave was being dug with handmade shovels and a pick. It seemed only fitting that the family be so personally involved. Bilo had brought many of these men into the world, or was there when they were born, or helped raise them. Now, it was their turn to help Bilo one last time. Before we left, I read the letter my daughter had written to Bilo, as did other family members. It was very touching, but nothing was decided as far as when or if I would be able to bury the note with Bilo.

Later that night in Chapala, I really didn’t think there would be a funeral the next day. On Wednesday, my wife tried calling her sisters but no one answered. We drove to Colon Province with our cousins through Paraiso and over the Madden Dam. This was definitely much better than the road to Colon with all of the construction. We arrived around noon, and as we drove down the rocky, gravel road, to my amazement, I saw a hearse parked on the side of the road. We parked behind it and after I got out, I glanced through the back window. I thought I saw a wreath of flowers, but it was hard to see, and my wife waved me on. The house sits back several meters from the gravel road. As we walked down the path to the front porch, I could see that it was packed. There were people everywhere. And they were sad, so very sad. Panamanians are by nature a very happy people. They might get angry and yell at someone in traffic, or discipline their child. But to see so many Panamanians that were so sad, it was suffocating.

Near the front entrance a man stood up and offered me his chair. I gratefully accepted, sat down, and looked around. I recognized many people, but there were just as many that I did not, and more were coming. They came from everywhere, near and far. Some were walking. Some were being helped by others. Some were walking with the aid of an old, gnarled cane or walking stick. All of them coming down that rocky, gravel road to see Bilo one last time. It was unusually quiet, except for the occasional sound of a bird, or a rooster, or a baby crying. Bilo had told one of his daughters on the way to the hospital for the last time that he knew this was it, that he would never see them again. He did not want people to wear black. He did not want the nine days of mourning afterwards. He did not want crying, or people to be sad. I honored his wish and did not wear black, but the not crying part, well, that was asking the impossible.

It had been several minutes and I got up to look for my wife. As I stepped inside, my eyes had to adjust to the dim light. As I waited, I could tell that the furniture was gone. I thought I saw what looked like a long table with some kind of white linen near the far end. As my eyes adjusted, I realized what I was looking at. It was a casket of the same style and earth color I had seen the day before in Sabanitas. This was Bilo. I had no idea that he was resting here, in the living room of his oldest. Caskets in Panama have a lid that can be flipped over or flipped down. This uncovers a pane of glass through which you can see the person’s face. The white linen I saw was the white cloth on the inside of the lid. And then around the pane of glass itself was a white laced border. Standing at the head of the casket and crying was one of the great-granddaughters. I was numb for a few seconds, to have been sitting outside and to only now realize that Bilo was here. I slowly inched forward and gently touched the casket. And then I looked down through the glass to see Bilo’s face. I stood there for several emotional moments.

I found my wife in the back kitchen area being consoled by her older brother. Afterwards, I went out back where I was surprised to see many more people. There were more things that happened, but around 1 pm, the men gathered around the casket and carried it outside. The casket was put into the hearse, and we followed in a very slow procession. It was an amazing sight. If only I could somehow bottle all the sights and sounds and emotions of those moments. There were people crying, and others comforting those crying. There were people talking in low voices about Bilo, and on occasion you could hear birds chirping in the trees, or a distant rooster crowing in someone’s yard–even a baby crying–demanding to be nursed.

We continued with the funeral march for about five-hundred meters until we reached the church. I waited until the men began to remove the casket before climbing the steps and entering the packed building. The first two rows near the front on either side were reserved for immediate family. I was in the second row on the left. They brought in Bilo’s casket and sat in on two small saw horses and opened the lid over the pane of glass. It was a catholic funeral service that lasted about twenty minutes.

After the priest sprinkled water over the casket for the last time, my wife turned to me and said to go with my nephew Alex, who was right in front of me, open Bilo’s casket, and put Andrea’s note inside. I was a little surprised by this. I had already figured there was no way we’d be allowed to open the casket. It was an emotionally charged group of family and friends, and if one thing was wrong with Bilo, if one hair was out of place, one finger–who knows what might happen.

In the note that Andrea wrote to her Abuelo, she said how she always knew this day would come, but she secretly thought that if she loved him enough, maybe she could spend more time at his side, sitting in silence. She wrote about the eternal gaze in his eyes, his knowledge of the land, the songs of country life, his simple wisdom, and his ceaseless offerings to his family. At the end of her letter she said that now it was his time to rest, that his work was done, and she asked that he visit her in her dreams. She thanked him for his love, the purity in which he lived his life, and that all the goodness he taught her, she would spread to the people she meets.

And so it was with a little trepidation that I stood with Alex in the front of the church, and tried to open the lid to the casket. I could feel people staring at my back. After all, what was this gringo doing? Most of them had no idea at the time. Alex and I fumbled with these two small metal tabs that seemed to be what held the coffin lid shut. Finally, Alex got it and he opened the lid halfway and there was Bilo. His arms were at his side, so I placed the note on his lower chest. And then, something wonderful happened. Relatives rushed forward and began caressing Bilo’s face, and his head, just like they used to do when he was alive. They crowded around him and emotion poured out. Before this, they could only see him through glass. Now, they had an unexpected opportunity to say good-bye the way they wanted to. After several minutes, the lid to Bilo’s casket was closed for the last time.

The men carried the casket outside and all the way back to the cemetery. The hearse had left, its obligation complete after bringing Bilo to the church. Once again, we formed a slow moving procession. In the cemetery at the top of a hill is a small shelter. Here, another small ceremony was performed, but most people waited by the open grave. Soon, a small girl came walking forward, carrying the hand-made, hand-painted cross with Bilo’s name on it. And then Tonya, carrying the wreath of flowers that read, “With love, from the families,” followed by the men carrying Bilo’s casket. Slipknots were tied around the carrying bars on either side and the casket was lowered into place. Some threw handfuls of dirt. Afterwards, the men began to slowly fill in the grave and put the cross in place. When they had finished, there was a huge mound of dirt covering the grave. Over time this will settle, and when the rains return, much of the excess dirt will wash away.

Back at the house, chicken and rice was being served, and the mood was decidedly different. No more sad, mournful faces. No more silence. People smiled, and waved, and talked about Bilo in various groups. It was a happy time, and I know that I wasn’t the only one who had visions of the ending to the movie, Big Fish.

Before we left, my wife grabbed my arm and looked around with this strange look on her face. “What is it?” I asked twice. Suddenly, she looked up at me and said. “For a moment I wondered where Papa was. I didn’t want to leave him behind.” I reminded her on the trip back how after my father died, I got up one Sunday morning to drive over to his house to watch football, only to be stopped by my wife as she reminded me he had died.

Bilo was definitely a man of the earth. He knew its cycles. In my eyes, Bilo was Panama. As I wrote about the country, much of it was because of Bilo. Panama has lost one of its sons, and he will be greatly missed. Sleep well, Bilo. I hope that someday we may once again meet during our travels.

Also, it´s been a year since I started this blog. I´ve enjoyed it, and thanks to all who have visited the site and have left comments.

Here’s a picture of Iris washing baby clothes just prior to giving birth…