Greetings!
What’s worse than biting into an apple and finding a worm in it?
From my recent personal experience, I would probably guess…not much. Unfortunately, competing against worms and cockroaches for hard-earned produce is standard practice here in the tropical forests of Central America - a land far removed from the rules and regulations of the Food and Drug Administration. As my boss, Jon, often notes, “eating around bugs is just part of the organic way of life!” Of course, competition for limited food resources is not the only battle one must wage against nature's creatures while farming in the tropics – we fight for limited territorial resources as well. As I quickly learned, the phrase “mi casa es su casa” takes on a whole new meaning out in the countryside: I consider myself a pretty hospitable guy, but when a poisonous scorpion tries to sleep in my shoe, or a promiscuous tarantula wants to spend the night with me in bed, that’s where I draw the line!
Even more problematic was getting used to sharing a living space with Terciopelo snakes – one of the deadliest breeds in Central America. “Equis” (or “X”), as he is colloquially known, has made a nice life for himself here on the farm: he kills the frogs, that eat the worms, that feed on the manure, that is excreted by the chickens, that lay the eggs (--- that the human then sells on the market for two zuzim). Unbeknownst to X, however, is that the farmers have declared an all out war against his cold-blooded, death-eating, parsel-tongue-speaking brethren: in an eight-year effort to keep the farm schlangerein, Marcelino and Jon have exterminated well over one hundred and fifty serpents - hunting down male, female, and baby snakes alike. X, however, does not exactly march to the slaughterhouse as willingly as his comrade the sheep. Last month he bit Marcelino’s friend quite badly, and shortly afterward the man started coughing out blood. Thankfully, the town across the river has one of the best anti-venom units in the region: they immediately rushed him to the hospital, and sure enough, just two weeks later, he was as good as new!
Even more frightening than eating bugs, sleeping with unusually sized rodents, or getting eaten by a venomous snake, is the risk of falling victim to the most dangerous game of all – the hotheaded neighbor down the road, best known around here by his nickname, “El Loco.” In this lawless region of the world, where the police do not patrol (and where the district cannot afford to finance mental institutions), one needs to be somewhat cautious of the crazy, crack-smoking neighbors living next-door – certainly more so, at least, than in Newton, MA. In recent weeks, El Loco has been accused of destroying property, sending threatening letters, and even urinating on tents. The silver living is that he seems to be well intentioned, and has the safety of our farmers in mind. In a recent letter, he warned us to beware “the powers of the Jew”, and to be cautious of the “fifth order of the Star of David” (I'm not kidding.) Unfortunately, I didn't exactly know what to make of his words of caution - I guess I haven't yet read that section of the Protocols of Zion. In any case, thanks to his considerate warning, I made sure to sleep close to my machete at night from henceforth on…you know, just in case somebody was really out to get me.
Life in the rural country awakened me to many of the archetypal fears that my ancestral forbearers might have experienced during their lengthy evolutionary stint in Mesopotamia (…and then again in Medieval Eastern Europe). Nevertheless, life on the farm was far more peaceful - and probably even much safer - than life in the big city. My morning routine was more or less as follows: wake up at 6 am, feed the chickens, send away the mother hen, steal her babies, and then make for myself a tasty omelet. After breakfast I would go to the fields, either to plant vegetables, make a compost pile, plant some rice, or work on a construction project. Approximately twenty minutes later I would get bored and distracted, and spend the rest of the morning foraging mangos from the forest, berries from the bushes, or harvesting bananas and yuca for lunch. At around eleven I would leave "work" early to cook lunch for everyone (turns out manual labor pretty much sucks…who knew???), and then by noon I was done for the day :)
Afternoon activities included swimming in the river, watching monkeys climb trees, and reading essays about, well...non-standard analysis, Skolem functions, and incompleteness. Much of my day was spent alongside my (equally-lazy) friend Sam, an orphan from Chiapas, Mexico, who was spending time on the farm as part of his three-year long tour of the Americas. As seems to be the tradition in his country, he crossed many of the borders to get here, illegally: when traveling from Belize to Guatemala, for example, he spent a month living alone in the rainforest, subsisting on food that he foraged from the trees. Sam was quite an adventure go-getter, and he reminded me a bit of how I might have wished to live my life, had I, too, not had any people back home who really cared about me. In any case, I really enjoyed his company, and looked to him as Tom Sawyer might have looked towards Huck Finn: not as a role model, per se, but certainly with a strong sense of admiration. Unfortunately we didn’t get the chance to exchange email addresses before I left; and since I forwent an opportunity to accompany him into the guerilla-controlled Darien rainforest bordering Colombia, I probably won’t have a chance to see him again anytime soon.
So that pretty much sums up the story of my brief stint as an organic farmer. Whether I was hanging out with nature-lovers, spending time with nature’s creatures, or just learning about the natural numbers, farm life turned out to be a pretty cathartic experience. “Spirituality” is undoubtedly multifaceted, and I think it’s important to sometimes be able to familiarize yourself with new perspectives on The Absolute. In yeshiva I learned about the “God of the Jews” and in college I explored the “God of the Universe”. Unfortunately, I hadn’t really been in touch with the “God of Nature” since at least the fourth grade. It was kind of nice to get reacquainted.
One thing I noticed during my travels was that Western culture has successfully managed to penetrate even the most remote traditional communities in rural Panama. One day, after rescuing a blonde lady from being attacked in the jungle by a butt-naked man with a blue facemask (???? --- true story!), I caught a bus back to town with some old-school indigenous Panamanian ladies. Though most of the native women still dress in traditional garb, they appears to nevertheless be very much up-to-date with the latest fashion trends popular in the USA. One lady wore a “Backstreet Boys” backpack, while another carried her produce in a “Hannah Montana” duffle bag. The little Indian boys on the bus also seemed to be in tough with the times, as demonstrated by their perfect fluency in the various hip-hop and reggaeton tunes that came blasting from the minibus’s speakers. (From what I gathered, “Bieber Fever” is a pretty major epidemic in these parts of town as well).
On the bus I chatted with a nice lady named Yasmin, who, quite sadly, had made the unfortunate decision to pursue a degree in education. Due to her regrettable life choices, Yasmin was forced to take a job in Pueblo Nuevo - an island three hours off the coast of Panama that is home to just a few hundred members of the Ngobe tribe. Since public transportation to and from the island is quite infrequent, Yasmin only manages to see her teenage daughters on a semi-regular basis. (Note to self: I probably shouldn’t poke too much fun at her situation – if I continue for a PhD in neo-Kantian religious epistemology, that's likely where they'll be sending me to teach as well!) In any case, my point in telling you this little story is as follows: here was a lady who spends most of her week on a remote island that lacks electricity and running water, and yet a week later I get a friend request from her on facebook! The patchy, haphazard “development” that globalization has sparked in this part of the world is truly mesmerizing. Honestly, I probably wouldn’t have even been that surprised had she decided to contact me via Google + instead.
Okay, last on the list: Panamanian Jews! Jewish life in Panama is pretty exciting, and I made sure to do my best to get very involved with the community during my stay. Thankfully, I had some pretty close contacts to work off of: prior to arriving, I had already made Shabbat plans with my second cousin’s husband’s friend, my friend’s father’s colleague, my Chabad rabbi’s friend’s son, and my friend’s friend’s boyfriend’s mother. Hooray for Jewish networking! The general stereotype of Sephardic Latin American Jewish communities is that they are very closed and insular, but all the Panamanian Jews that I met were incredibly warm and opened their homes to me as if I was their own son. On my first day in Panama City, went directly to the kosher supermarket to buy some food: the next thing I know, the guy in front of me in line had invited me over for (yet another) Shabbat meal!
A short story: back in the countryside (i.e. far removed from the Jewish community in Panama City), I once caught a ride with a local mechanic who proceeded to share with me his family history. Interestingly enough, his father was born in Israel, and after fighting for the British against Germany in World War II, ended up in Panama where he fathered a child. At this point in the conversation I had yet to reveal to this man my own ethnic affiliation, yet he proceeded to tell me about how much he loves the Jewish people, how he yearned to study Hebrew, and how he hopes to one day fulfill his dream of moving to Israel and volunteering for the Israeli army. Needless to say, I found his story to be incredibly fascinating: here was a guy who had never stepped foot in a synagogue, who probably didn’t have a single Jewish friend, and whose religious observance was entirely constituted by a (lackadaisical) abstention from pork. And yet, his cultural Jewish identity was sufficiently strong that he planned to make a life for himself in a country that he knew nothing about - insane! Now to be clear, I am fully cognizant of the fact that such passionate religious emotions are perhaps the leading obstacle to peace in the Middle East - the inexplicable love this man feels towards Israel is almost certainly comparable in nature to the zealous fervor that underlies the hard-lined support for the Palestinian cause that is assumed by nearly all Muslims worldwide. Nevertheless, regardless of any potential geopolitical implications, I couldn’t help but find this man’s story to be deeply moving and inspiring.
My brief interactions with this mechanic, and my various warm experiences with the Jewish communities worldwide, have got me thinking: obviously one needs to be open-minded and respectful towards people, regardless of their ethnic/racial backgrounds. So long as that is a given, however, I think there is also something to be said for being part of a closed-knit community that is perhaps just a little extra receptive to people in the “in crowd”. The need to form groups is a pretty fundamental human desire, and there is no good reason why people cannot fully embrace that desire while remaining mindful of the fact that artificial social divisions are not a sufficiently good reason to feel hatred, or to be emotionally instigated towards violence. In other words, embracing one’s psychological need to construct ethnic/religious/tribal divisions need not necessarily lead to dangerous social tensions.
Point is, I definitely plan on “paying it forward” and inviting goofy nomadic Jewish strangers to crash at my place, once I have one of my own…if anyone knows anybody who needs a place for Shabbat in Rehovot next year, just let me know!
...until next time!
Ezra