Original airdate: February 16, 2009
Two Crazy Chicks Productions is pleased to present the final episode of The Adventures of Yumiko and Eden in Panama, an epic journey of discovery fraught with peril…
Not long after sunrise, the courageous company clambers into the canoe. Sea spray mists their faces as they cut across the gulf to the mouth of the Mogue. Their passage upriver disturbs herons, ibises, and shorebirds, which fly off with indignant squawks.
Upon docking, our fearless females and their fellows are greeted by a heavily “tattooed” Embera man in a shocking pink loincloth. He leads them to the village, which is home to some 300 indigenous people, many of whom live and dress in the traditional manner.
Chickens and painfully thin dogs scamper under tambos, thatched-roof houses on stilts. Half-naked children watch curiously as the daring adventurers slather on sunscreen and insect repellent and use the last of the masking tape to arm themselves against ticks.
Babú, a muscular, machete-wielding Embera guide, sets a brisk pace through the rainforest. Tiny purple flowers litter the trail and giant blue morph butterflies flutter amongst the trees. The distinctive liquid call of oropendolas echoes through the canopy.
The hikers are soon dripping with sweat; it runs in rivulets down their faces, mixes with sunscreen to sting their eyes, drips off their chins, trickles down their backs, and stains their shirts dark. Only Babú appears cool and dry..
Mercifully, there are few mosquitoes and no ticks to add to their discomfort as they make the two and a half hour trek to the harpy eagle’s nest.
There is no sign of the eagle. Hoping that it will soon return to the nest, Eden, Danilo (the 55-year-old Italian photographer who knows just enough English to tell dirty jokes), and Radek (the polite and well-traveled 30-something Pole) bushwhack their way to the ideal position from which to shoot photographs.
Babú repeatedly imitates the eagle’s cry, but the eagle does not appear. An hour passes. Still no eagle.
Disconsolate and disheartened, the group begins the return journey to the village. Disappointment, heat, humidity, fatigue, and the blistering pace upon which Deibys insists make it feel like a forced march.
Once back in Mogue, the brave band downs copious quantities of sweet soursap juice. Sugar, shade, and sitting revive their spirits and restore their strength.
They climb the notched log ladder of the communal tambo to watch the Embera perform traditional dances and music. Craig and Eden, fulfilling a vow made the night before at the dinner table, are “tattooed,” their skins painted with an indelible black dye made from the jagua fruit. The markings, a diamond pattern, are impervious to soaps and detergents and will disappear only when the external layer of the skin exfoliates, a process that takes approximately 2 weeks.
The sun is high in the sky as the group packs up its gear and makes its way toward the river. Eden, lost in contemplation, is pulled from her reverie by Deibys’ excited shout. “Sloth!”
It is the sloth. Close to the trail. Awake. Moving. Photogenic (well, as photogenic as a sloth can be).
Babú, a muscular, machete-wielding Embera guide, sets a brisk pace through the rainforest. Tiny purple flowers litter the trail and giant blue morph butterflies flutter amongst the trees. The distinctive liquid call of oropendolas echoes through the canopy.
The hikers are soon dripping with sweat; it runs in rivulets down their faces, mixes with sunscreen to sting their eyes, drips off their chins, trickles down their backs, and stains their shirts dark. Only Babú appears cool and dry..
Mercifully, there are few mosquitoes and no ticks to add to their discomfort as they make the two and a half hour trek to the harpy eagle’s nest.
There is no sign of the eagle. Hoping that it will soon return to the nest, Eden, Danilo (the 55-year-old Italian photographer who knows just enough English to tell dirty jokes), and Radek (the polite and well-traveled 30-something Pole) bushwhack their way to the ideal position from which to shoot photographs.
Babú repeatedly imitates the eagle’s cry, but the eagle does not appear. An hour passes. Still no eagle.
Disconsolate and disheartened, the group begins the return journey to the village. Disappointment, heat, humidity, fatigue, and the blistering pace upon which Deibys insists make it feel like a forced march.
Once back in Mogue, the brave band downs copious quantities of sweet soursap juice. Sugar, shade, and sitting revive their spirits and restore their strength.
They climb the notched log ladder of the communal tambo to watch the Embera perform traditional dances and music. Craig and Eden, fulfilling a vow made the night before at the dinner table, are “tattooed,” their skins painted with an indelible black dye made from the jagua fruit. The markings, a diamond pattern, are impervious to soaps and detergents and will disappear only when the external layer of the skin exfoliates, a process that takes approximately 2 weeks.The sun is high in the sky as the group packs up its gear and makes its way toward the river. Eden, lost in contemplation, is pulled from her reverie by Deibys’ excited shout. “Sloth!”
It is the sloth. Close to the trail. Awake. Moving. Photogenic (well, as photogenic as a sloth can be).
It is probably the most photographed sloth in Panama by the time Eden reluctantly puts away her camera.The last of the daylight disappears as the canoe commences the journey back to the lodge. In the darkness, the Embera at the helm navigates the waters of the Mogue with a skill that could only be born of years of experience. Fireflies flicker along the banks.
When our intrepid heroines clamber onto the beach at Punta Patiño under the same awe-inspiring spectacle of stars that welcomed them to the Darién their first night, they do so with the knowledge that it is for the last time. For tomorrow they will return to Panama City, say goodbye to their newfound friends, and begin packing for the flight home.
© Eden Feuer
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