island

I saw this horse on two different visits to Isla Bastimentos, in Panama’s Bocas del Toro archipelago.  Drawn to the salty taste of the surf, it would wade into the water and then mostly stand still, letting the occasional wave slap its face.  After maybe half an hour it would then return to the beach and slip silently back into the jungle.

It was a captivating scene: the clear and vibrantly colored water, the jungle-green backdrop, the horse maintaining such solid focus on its salty bath.  Its life didn’t seem that bad.  Certainly it was less stressful than many of its ancestors would have known, given that for much of human history horses have been instruments of war.  Since before 3000 BC they've been ridden in battle, and a training manual for chariot horses was in existence as early as 1350 BC.  It wasn’t until after the time of Christ, however, that the paired stirrup came onto the scene, revolutionizing yet again the tactics of war.  The English travel writer Colin Thubron, in his book Shadow of the Silk Road, explains its spread and significance:

The heavy stirrup was a Chinese brainchild as early as the fourth century AD, it seems, and as it travelled westward, stabilising its rider in battle, it made possible the heavily armoured and expensively mounted knight.  To this simple invention some have attributed the onset of the whole feudal age in Europe; and seven centuries later the same era came to an end as its castles were pounded into submission by the Chinese invention of gunpowder.  The birth and death of Europe’s Middle Ages, you might fancy, came along the Silk Road from the east.

Yes, this beach-loving Panamanian horse had it pretty good, as did the rest of us on the island.  We had put our shirts and stirrups aside, and the history of war felt rather remote.

In the Panamanian island chain of Bocas del Toro, theft is a problem on some beaches.  During the week of my visit, one couple described being approached by two young men who “asked” for their wallet.  They carried no weapon, but their demeanor was intimidating enough—and the travelers sufficiently isolated on their secluded stretch of sand—that they handed it over.  The couple did, however, ask if they could keep the non-cash items in the wallet, which the thieves amiably agreed to.

The theft happened on Wizard Beach, which is sometimes patrolled by police.   In this photo a policeman on the beach talks with an Israeli traveler, likely wishing to assure her that he’d keep a good eye on her belongings.  Later the officer would tell me that she was “very beautiful,” an observation with which I could not disagree.  He also answered my question about the ship that had been anchored offshore for two days: it was waiting to pick up a load of bananas.  (The province is home not only to pretty beaches but also the Chiriqui Land Company, which brings you Chiquita bananas.)

Bananas and beauty aside, one of the most provocative descriptions of theft I’ve ever read is in Khaled Hosseini’s The Kite Runner.  Here an argument is made that thieves include more than the two opportunistic men on Wizard Beach:

“Good,” Baba said, but his eyes wondered.  “Now, no matter what the mullah teaches, there is only one sin, only one.  And that is theft.  Every other sin is a variation of theft.  Do you understand that?”

“No, Baba jan,” I said, desperately wishing I did.  I didn’t want to disappoint him again.

…

“When you kill a man, you steal a life,” Baba said.  “You steal his wife’s right to a husband, rob his children of a father.  When you tell a lie, you steal someone’s right to the truth.  When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness.  Do you see?”

In a story by Wendell Berry entitled “Making it Home,” there is the following line: “And now, though he walked strongly enough along the road, he was still newborn from his death, and inside himself he was tender and a little afraid.”  Berry was writing about a man returning home from the carnage of World War I, but the words well describe any experience in which a person has peered closely into his or her own fragility.

This photo was taken on one of many steep grades on Ko Phangan, a Thai island home to the famous (at least in the backpacker world) Full Moon Party.  It is also home to hundreds of motorbike accidents each year.

The day after taking this picture on a good portion of road, I went against the advice of my guesthouse manager, the lady at the massage shop, and the local hair stylist, venturing down the infamous road to Thong Nai Pan.  For the full story click HERE, but suffice it to say that half an hour into my journey I flew headfirst into the jungle.

In the end, scratched and with a sprained ankle, I made it to the beautiful bay at the end of the road to Thong Nai Pan.  The water was so quiet, the beach nearly empty. As I walked along the water’s edge I felt the beauty but also the fragility of life.  I thought of how there are experiences in addition to motorbike accidents – a shocking turn in a relationship, the loss of a home, the news of one’s failing health – that can leave us tender and a little afraid.  Like the road to Thong Nai Pan, life can feel steep and rutted.