In Search Of Panama Hats, Part III

                                                           

Along the Avenue of the Volcanoes.

It came to me up toward the top of Ecuador -- a revelation.  I was hopping buses at the time along the famous Pan-American Highway, a stretch known as the Avenue of the Volcanoes, when the trip became more than simply about hats.

Sometimes, here and there, I could catch glimpses of the peaks -- Cotopaxi, near Quito, at 19,347 ft; Tungurahua, towering over the resort town of Baños, at 16,500; and the highest of them all, sacred Chimborazo, at 20,702.  As well as others.

Tungurahua was giving off a steady plume of ash, while glowing red at the tip at night as if the mountain itself was perpetually toking on a cigarette.  Almost all of them were snow-capped, with symmetrical cone-shapes, like helpful pyramids marking the way along the High Andes.

For days the peaks had been playing peek-a-boo with me through swirling clouds and rain showers -- maddening for someone trying to take decent pictures.

Disappointed, I happened upon a religious pamphlet at a road station, with a definition of the word pilgrimage:

"...a journey, especially a long and arduous one, made to some sacred place as an act of religious devotion."

Fellow travelers on the bus.

Quite honestly, if I had just wanted Panama hats I could have gotten them in the country of Panama or back in Cuenca.  No problem.  And for less money than elsewhere because so many of them are made there.  

As it turned out, I didn't just want Panama hats -- I wanted their history, their roots, their core.  Actually I was on my own pilgrimage, of sorts, which is why I descended those mountains and endured that god-awful stretch of Ecuadorian coastline.

 A street in Montañita -- tourist trap extraordinario

Indeed, the beach towns that I visited were some of the biggest holes that I've ever landed in -- Montañita, Puerto López, etc.  I didn't leave them as much as flee them ASAP.  I can't say that I wasn't told -- other trekkers had warned me.  But Montecristi, the veritable Mecca of Panamas, was but a few miles inland, practically en route, so I thought that I'd breathe a little salt air first.

On these trips, I've learned, you have to go with it...go with the flow.  And the flow was spurring me away from the squalor and grayness of the coast, toward the interior, where the sun finally shone through.

The plaza at Montecristi.

Your humble correspondent -- under the big sombrero at last.

What interested me there as much as anything were the straw cutters.  Even now, in the 21st Century, they're still guided by the moon.  For five days in every lunar cycle, after the moon reaches its waning quarter -- then and only then -- do they machete down toquilla, the ten-foot-tall, palmlike plant from which the hat is woven. 

However, it's more than mythology:  The straw holds less moisture then and thus is lighter, easier to cut, and more pliable to weave.  It's something that has been learned through the centuries.  It's what gives Panamas, the genuine articles, that light-as-a-feather feel, that cock-of-the-walk attitude, that combination of style and practicality which virtually oozes of the tropics when you see one.

WOW! I recoiled, now this is what they do when you get to the source of something:  myths, lore, trivia, facts to amaze, and, of course, making them.  After drying and sorting and aging, the palm is taken to places such as this...

Glenda Pachay in front of her family's home/hat shop.

Regular households, really, which are scattered throughout Montecristi.  These are where the real work is done here, where the superfinos are made.  For some models, the artisans can take two months to make and the weave is so tight you can tip them upside down and they'll hold water!  In fact, locals used to use them to haul water.

Pop one of these babies on and look in the mirror -- you can see why they've become a fashion statement.  Not only does your look change but your disposition as well.  I angled my head higher, acquired a little strut in my walk.

  

 Flerida Pachay Anchunida at work inside.

For my purposes anyhow, Flerida Pachay about did it.  Spending time with this master hat maker and her daughter Glenda was both informative and a true delight.  Plus I came away with a sense of closure.  The mission was now completado.

Their household, and dozens of others in Monetcristi and nearby, are where the tradition of Panamas began, and where it continues to this day.  I had seen the process from top to bottom, and had even trod the dirt from whence they are grown.

Through this last month, seeking them out had been a true adventure, travel at its best.  Like all such endeavors, it had its ups and its downs.  But boy, what a pay-off.

Now all that was left, I decided, was to buy a few.

Back home with three different styles.

Finally, a travel thought:  Ecuador uses United States dollars as the national currency, which cuts down on some of the stress of traveling as you don't have to change money when you arrive, you aren't charged extra fees for credit card transactions, etc.  Which makes it nice and simple.

Un saludo a Ecuador for that!

THE END

In Search Of Panama Hats, Part II

   

Cuenca, Ecuador -- some 8,400 ft. in the Andes

Winding down out of the high passes in the bus, looking out over the city, I was struck first off by all the domes, shiny in the crisp, mountain air.  Cuenca is a city of churches, as it turned out -- dozens of them.  They seemed to be everywhere, including the central plaza area, which boasted not one but two cathedrals.

The "Old Cathedral"

Down, down our bus descended, until we entered the city proper...with the cobblestone streets, the four rivers winding through, balconies fronted with ironwork, beautiful courtyards with tended gardens within.  I became a fan of the place before I even checked into the hostel!  The Spanish influence seemed to be everywhere.  No wonder that the city has been declared a World Cultural Heritage Site.

However, I wasn't able to connect with the inhabitants as well as I had in other countries in Latin America.  Many Ecuadorians were descendants of the Incas and other early immigrants to the Andes, with a culture much more stoic and conservative than, say, neighboring Colombia.  Often I couldn't break through to them, especially out in the countryside, as much as I tried.

Nor could I speak with them that well in Spanish.  It seems that the accent or style I learned in Central America did not communicate briskly there.  Because this was disappointing, and sometimes exasperating, I decided to concentrate on something else...to wit, my unofficial "mission" there, getting to the bottom of those Panama hats.  

Hot on the trail.

As it turned out, Cuenca and its suburbs are the hat capital of Ecuador.  You can this see just walking around -- colorful murals and logos adorned walls, walkways and store fronts.  Indeed, los sombreros de paja toquilla, as they often call them here (hats of toquilla palm) are practically a symbol for the area.

And it's not just a male thing, by the way.  To the contrary, women favor the famous headware more than the men.  Many even make their own.  Amazingly, using special treatments for longevity of the palm fibers, some keep them for decades, even their entire adult lives.

An Indian woman, in Sunday finest.

Now, of course, even seekers of truth get hungry.  As many of you know, I make it a habit of sampling unusual or even exotic foods in the countries I visit.  I consider it part of the cultural experience; how you really get your money's worth from traveling.  And Ecuador was no exception.

Barbecuing cuy -- pronounced "coo-eee"

Now, exactly what is this cuy? you might be wondering...  

In a real culinary twist, compared to the United States anyhow, guinea pigs have been used for food here since the time of the Incas.  And probably even before that because the Incas weren't in Ecuador that long (arriving shortly before the Spaniards).  I doubt that much has changed in that time as far as preparing them.

If you want real fresh, just pick one out and the woman will reach into the cage, grab one by the scruff of the neck and...well, you get the idea.  The next thing you know, yours is being rotated on a stake over white, hot coals of carbón wood.

As for the result, it tastes like chicken, or squirrel, or something.  Nothing exceptional, if you didn't know what it was.  Rounding out the exotic foods list for this trip, I also had piranha (supposedly) down in the Upper Amazon, but that's another story.  Back to the search for the sombreros.

While hat sellers abound in Cuenca itself, and a few hat makers as well, eventually I found that the wholesale production was done in the outlying pueblos.  Little towns such as Biblián, and especially Sigsig, emerged as more like the real sources.

So it was back to the bus station, terminal terrestre, to use the Spanish, for a trip farther up into the mountains

The central plaza in Sigsig.

 
While Cuenca is sprawled out over elevations of eight-thousand-some feet, Sigsig is even higher. And I was huffing and puffing on my walks as it was.  The height affected me so much that, those first days in Cuenca, I was light-headed, tired, and had to take naps every few hours.

In time I had adapted to Cuenca's elevation, but when I got off the bus in Sigsig I knew that I'd be woozy yet again.  But no matter -- the quest had to go on; it could not be denied.  In fact, it put a spring in my step when I heard that they fashion Habana Clásicas up there while standing on street corners.  On street corners!  Can you imagine?

In Sigsig, they do make them on street corners...

...and in co-ops and homes and little shops...

Townswomen wear them to community gatherings.

Sigsig seemed to have it all, as far as the hats go.  And it was a pleasant, little place to boot, unfettered of souvenir stands and chain restaurants, situated between two lofty peaks.

Mainly though, I thought that I was finally there; the birthplace of the style icon itself, the place where Panamas came into being.

Then, disappointment again...I was told that, no, actually it didn't begin in Sigsig or Biblián or even in Cuenca.  Rather, hat-making migrated to this region from a little town called Montecristi, near the Pacific coast.  Flat-Landerville, as we call such places back in PA.  La Costa, as they call it here.

Hat production had been shunted away from there decades ago, I learned, to take advantage of the numbers of skilled weavers in the highlands.  Nowadays, the Cuenca area produces the most by far, but Montecristi still has the best, the superfinos.  Moreover, it's where it all began. 

As you can imagine, what choice did I have?  After three weeks up in thin air country, I was tired of the mountains anyhow.  A few days later, I returned to terminal terrestre in Cuenca and caught a slow bus for the coast.

[Part Three to follow, next Monday, Nov. 18]

In Search Of Panama Hats, Part I

                      

Tracks To Panama

Located towards the Caribbean coast, this combo railroad/walking/driving bridge marks the northern border of Panama.  Called the Sixaola crossing, from Costa Rica to Panama, it's one of the more unusual borders I've ever seen.

Making my way across a few years ago, dragging my trusty duffel behind, I had to squeeze against the railing as a hulking bus crept by a foot or so away.  The structure is so rickety, some places you can look between the planks and see brown water swirling below.  Smiley people pop out seemingly from nowhere to offer plastic bags swelled with coconut juice or hand-carved wooden necklaces.    

Passing over the first time, fairly dripping from the humidity, I peered out through the wavey heat with anticipation -- I thought that I'd get to the other side and find Panama hats hanging about on trees, they'd be so plentiful.  In these I had long had an interest and looked forward to getting one of the real thing.  What a souvenir to show 'em back home!

Was I in for a surprise.  Not only didn't I find any, except for "knock-offs" or so-so imitations, I discovered that I wasn't even looking in the correct country.  Like an international woman of mystery, the hats were a lady with a past.  And like so many things Panama, I discovered, it has to do with the Canal. 

                                        

El Canal De Panamá

It took time, but I learned that the hats originated in Ecuador, a country along the Pacific coast of South America.  (Panama is in Central America.)  In fact, the hats were developed in Ecuador centuries ago.  The palm to make them is grown only in two provinces along the coast, and the hats, the genuine articles, were woven there and still are.

Because Ecuador is an out-of-the-way country, with no major routes passing through and no place to market their wares to the world at large, hat merchants shipped them to the isthmus of Panama in the 1800s. 

 
There, the 49ers were passing through in droves en route to California.  There, later on, the French and then the Americans and others arrived en mass to make the Canal.  The wide-brimmed hats proved perfect to protect the workers from the blazing sun and were pretty spiffy to boot.  Accordingly, they sold by the thousands.

And there, the hats eventually underwent a transition, of sorts, at least in the eyes of the public -- from practical headgear for the tropics to fashion statement.

As often happens, a President of the United States might have set off the trend.  On an inspection tour of the Canal in 1904, Teddy Roosevelt snatched one up and soon after was photographed on a steam shovel.  The image appeared on the front pages of newspapers around the globe.  As he might have said about all this:  "Bully!"

TR at the Canal in 1904.

With his hat back in the U.S. later on.

In subsequent decades, everyone from movie stars to gangsters was sporting one and they became symbols of wealth and elegance.  Because the country of Panama was the prime selling point, they became forever etched into the collective consciousness as Panama hats.  Poor little Ecuador got lost in the fray.

Such misnomers are not unusual, of course; they appear throughout history:  The Holy Roman Empire, for instance, was not holy, was not Roman and was not an empire.  The Bridge On The River Kwai in Thailand, of book and movie fame, did not span the River Kwai, and the Canary Islands off Spain are named after dogs, not the little, yellow tweeters.  And so on and so forth.

Most people, you understand, would just let this hat thing go.  They'd buy a knock-off, sip a cool drink with a little umbrella inserted, watch the ships pass by, and go on with life.  As I said, most people. 

However, me being what I am, I was determined to get to the Source.  Oh, it had to wait a few years, until this September as a matter of fact, when I finally got to make a visit to Ecuador.

[Part Two Follows, next Monday, Nov. 11]

Lord of Panamá, Good Morning! (transiting the Panama Canal)

 

The Canal from the Balboa Yacht Club, on the Pacific side.

 For The Information Of All Hands:

It's taken a couple of weeks rooting around down here in the Canal Zone to hook up, but I finally have gotten my ride.  Tomorrow morning, 1000 hrs. approx., I will be boarding the McPelican, a 42-foot sailing yacht of Australian registry, and will be transiting the Panama Canal.  It'll take two days in all to get through, I'm told, and we'll moor somewhere along Lake Gatún for the night, about halfway through.

I'll be singing for my supper on this one, so to speak, as I'll be working on board as a line-handler.  Each boat or yacht passing through needs a pilot and four line-handlers, one on each "quarter" (or two on each side) as per Canal Authority regs.

The bigger ships, including those called Panama-max as they are the maximum size that can fit into the locks, use a different system involving what they call "mules" (electric locomotives) for positioning and securing within the locks.  But the smaller ones, such as ours, still use good ol' fashioned hand power.

At any rate, this is all very exciting and the event will be duly recorded with pics and maybe some videos, so stay tuned.

Hasta Luego to you all from this, the most famous shortcut in the world.

Yours,

"Panama Jim"

   -- email that I sent out to various people Feb. 13 of this year, a Wednesday.  

The next day, Valentine's Day, I banged in a taxi over a pot-holed road winding through jungle and palms, up to the remnants of a U.S. Army base, Fort Sherman.  Most of its buildings had been stripped by scavengers -- an eerie ride-through, right out of the Twilight Zone, as generally only concrete hulks with roofs remain.  It was though a great civilization had been there and left.

We cleared through a check station manned by Panamanian soldiers in digitized camo and with automatic rifles, eventually arriving at Shelter Bay Marina, along the steamy Caribbean Coast.  After a brief search in blinding sunshine through the maze of slips, I found my boat -- the McPelican. 

That's Paul, captain and co-owner, on deck.  Note the tire bumpers along the side for "rafting up"with other yachts to go through locks.

Underway toward the canal entrance, Caribbean side.  These ships are anchored, waiting to "transit" -- sometimes for a week or even two!

About to "raft up" with Shellback out of Long Beach, CA.  Two or three yachts tie up into one unit and go through the locks together.

Rafted up to Shellback and a third yacht (out of sight) we creep into the Gatún locks.  Note lock door, weighing 650 tons, at right.

                                                            

It was trickier than I thought, especially when the locks flooded in with water.  It comes rushing out of huge pipes and causes a roiling, swirling current which snaps the lines taut and wants to twirl boats against the concrete walls.  This happens as warning bells clang, horns blare, seagulls and other birds flap about, and pilots and lock workers yell orders sometimes in two different languages.

Fortunately, Dillon and Sietst, two of the other line-handlers, had been through it all many times and showed me the ropes.  Bernadette, one of the owners of the boat, was a nerve-case the whole time.  McPelican was quite an investment for them and she was sweating any damage that might occur.  She put that energy to positive use, though, down in the galley where she whipped up some delicious meals.

Manning the lines in the Pedro Miguel Lock.  The towel on my head is protection from the blazing sun.  Dillon takes shelter from it under the sail.

Up, up, up to Lake Gatún...That's three "lock-ups" at the Gatún Locks to get you up to lake level.  This is the heart of the canal transit -- Lago de Gatún.  Note lower level of channel off in background, with the Caribbean Sea beyond.

 
It took us two days to get through.  What made it a true adventure was spending the night out on Lake Gatún, about eighty-five feet above ocean-level (that's what the locks do -- hoist us up to that level).  All night the water was as calm and quiet as a puddle, even though the lake's 35 kilometers (21 miles) long, and the sky bristled with stars.

An hour before dawn howler monkeys started up from various points, working up to a crescendo of ape-like grunts; roosters crowed from jungle villages; and the smells of coffee and bacon wafted in from yachts and massive freighters anchored around us.

About 0530 a pilot boat revved up in the distance, then steered our way to distribute pilots and guides to the various vessels for the day's transits.  One of the bulk carriers (freighters) was named simply the Lord, of Panamanian registry.  As I lay in my bunk in the forecastle of the McPelican, looking up through an open hatchway at the sky turning pale, absorbing the ambiance of the whole thing, came booming through the radio, in a deep, full voice...

"LORD OF PANAMÁ, GOOD MORNING!"

Someone from the Canal Authority, an incoming pilot perhaps, was alerting the freighter Lord as to his arrival on board.  I was jolted from my reverie, as if he had been talking to me directly.  Laying there like that, I had been feeling like the Lord of the Universe myself! 

Regardless, it was a wake-up call to all the sleepy yachtees in our group.  On boats all around us, lights flicked on, hatches swung open, heads popped out...It was time to head across the lake and to lower, "to lock down," as they call it, on the other side to Pacific-level and thus complete the transit.

Our lock time at the Pedro Miquel Lock was 1140, so no time to linger -- miles to go and an appointment to keep.  It was crank up the engines, take the guides on board, and away all boats.

Sunrise on Lake Gatún.

Meeting northbound traffic, as our little flotilla of yachts motors the lake.

We wait for this freighter to pass before rafting up with these two yachts on the port side.

 "Lord of Panama," a bulk carrier, working its way through a lock.  Note the two yachts tied together off to its right.

Now, a month-plus later, what stays with me the most about it all is the spectacle, especially on the Pacific-end.  Viewing the famous Gaillard Cut, where the channel had to be dug and blasted out through the Continental Divide -- no Rocky Mountains here, but an imposing ridge line nonetheless -- I came to appreciate the mighty effort put forth to make this thing.  And it was accomplished a hundred-and-some years ago!  In the heat and the mosquitoes and with olden equipment yet.  No wonder thousands died to the process.

The Gaillard Cut, with the Centennial Bridge in the background.

 

After descending the Miraflores Locks, the final obstacle to the Pacific, we putted silently along a miles-long corridor of exit buoys, everyone alone with his thoughts... 

Right on cue, freighters heaped with a thousand-or-so containers apiece steamed in out of the haze and under the soaring arches of the Bridge of the Americas.  They glided by a few hundred feet away -- pulsing, throbbing steel monsters.  We had passed dozens of ships coming through, but these were the biggest, and both humbled and amazed us.

Crossroads of the world:  Massive container ships steam in as traffic rushes overhead on the Bridge of the Americas, effectively connecting North to South America.  What a sight!  What a sense of x marks the spot! 

Paul, our skipper, concentrates on the exit channel as another monster passes astern.

With this passage, in a sense, I feel that I was granted a visa to a very special place -- a watery realm that, given the population of the world overall, few get to enter.

The way I saw it, it's a domain unto itself, populated with nautical giants and nimble elves, with its own laws, customs and rules of the road, all presided over by a kingly authority...A place with its own lingo and mythology; its own tales of heroes, great feats, and great tragedy.

And yes, even a place of some magic:  Watch as the stars come out over Lake Gatún or view the Centennial Bridge a-dazzle in brilliant sunshine and you'll know what I mean.  Maybe you can tell, the place had me under its spell!

All told, I spent three weeks in the Canal Zone, based at a hostel that, during the American days there, used to house canal employees.  I visited museums and visitor centers, watched ships pass daily from various shore points, frequented seafarer centers and clubs, browsed stores selling navigational supplies, talked with mariners and pilots.

As nice as these things were, I didn't really know what it was all about until I passed through on a boat.  When I got underway on McPelican, I went from observer to participant in the experience that is the Panama Canal.  Only then did I realize the energy, the real flow of this circuit between the seas.  It's a place, perhaps like no other, where you can feel the very international pulse of the planet itself.

Thanks to Paul and Bernadette and their daughter Finn, as well as others, I now have one of my greatest of travel memories.

Your humble correspondent approaching the Gatún locks.

Anyone with comments or questions can reach me directly at mordoman@yahoo.com   

I'll answer all queries as promptly as I can.

A key chain I brought back -- one of my favorite of all souvenirs.

THE END