In Praise of Pueblos

Learn from me, if not by my precepts, then by my example, how dangerous is the pursuit of knowledge and how much happier is that man who believes his native town to be the world than he who aspires to be greater than his nature will allow.
Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, Frankenstein

To say the least, a town life makes one more tolerant and liberal in one's judgment of others.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


I could live quite happily in a small Panamanian town. And I’m not speaking about a community like Boquete, which has become a haven for ex-pats from all over the developed world. I mean pueblos where to hear the sound of English is a rare, and often blessed, occurrence.

I believe the reason for my fondness of pueblos is due to the years I spent, during my adolescence, in Granada, Nicaragua. At the time, Granada was a relatively small community of thirty-five thousand. What I loved about living in a pueblo that size was that I had the chance to learn—and intimately at that—the stories of the town’s most interesting citizens.

(Today, regrettably, Granada—an enchanting colonial city located on the shores of Lake Nicaragua—has become a major tourist attraction, thus distorting the "Spanish" culture of the place. As a result, my second hometown—the other is Los Angeles, California—has become a Mecca for wealthy ex-pats who have settled there, hoping to cash in on Granada's popularity, raising the prices of real estate to absurd levels, and making English the most commonly heard language in bars and cafes.)

But my love of Central American towns is also founded on the three years my wife and I lived in Nicaragua, which was five years ago. During our stay there, two pueblos became very dear to us: San Marcos, where we resided, and Cuapa, where we spent considerable time while I conducted research for the novel Bernardo and the Virgin. Small Central American communities have a timeless quality: when one returns after a long absence, very little has changed.

There are several pueblos in Panamá that my wife and I have visited and learned to love. On that list are Chitré, Aguadulce, and Parita. But there are two towns in particular where I feel most at home—I refrain from speaking for my wife here—and that bring back fond memories of my life in pueblos and where I think I could live happily: Penonomé and La Pintada, both communities located in the neighboring province of Coclé.

Penonomé is the capital of Coclé. It is located an hour and a half from Panamá city, along the Pan-American Highway. La Pintada is a far smaller community, twenty minutes northwest of Penonomé at the end a secondary, two-lane paved road.

Panamanians who live in the capital tend to smile indulgently when I tell them about my fondness for these places.

“Why?” they usually ask in bewilderment. For the most part, residents of the nation’s capital tend to think lovingly of Penonomé only during Carnival, for during this week the town has a much admired parade in which the floats literally float on the waters of the Río Mendoza, the river that runs along the outskirts of the town.

During the rest of the year, Panamanians drive through Penonomé on their way elsewhere.

Whenever my wife and I stay in Penonomé, we take a day trip to La Pintada. What first took us there is one of my vices: on occasion, I enjoy smoking cigars. La Pintada is home to Joyas de Panamá: a factory that makes cigars for exportation. Buying them at the source saves money, and what’s even better, the quality of their product is on the par with the best anywhere.

But my wife and I also love the friendliness of the people of La Pintada. Every time we’ve visited we’ve made wonderful acquaintances. During our most recent trip, for instance, as we walked back toward the center of town after buying cigars (my wife and I until very recently did not own a car), a pick-up truck, loaded with wood for the construction of fence posts, pulled up next to us.

“Hello. Where are you from?” asked the driver in perfect American English.

The person speaking was Louis Archuleta, a Mexican-American, native of New Mexico. When we told him that we lived in Panamá, Louis invited us, perfect strangers, to join him and his wife for lunch at his home. Although his spontaneous and generous gesture took us completely by surprise, we accepted.

Mr. Archuleta worked for the Panama Canal Company, from which he retired many years ago. He had first come to Panamá as an enlisted man in the US Army, and he first came to La Pintada with a group of Army engineers who were mapping the area. It was then, a little over fifty years ago, that he met his wife, Olda, a native of this pueblo. Louis fell in love with Olda and with La Pintada and, together, they bought a small finca. On this land, over the course of forty years, they’ve built a lovely home that’s surrounded by a breathtaking garden and with a pond in back that's worthy of a picture-book. Olda, who attended college in Iowa for two years, has exquisite taste in decorating. Their home combines, and to perfection, the styles of New Mexico and rural Panamá.

A German couple, friends of the Archuletas that have also fallen in love with La Pintada, joined us for lunch that day. They plan to build a bed and breakfast in the pueblo, which at the moment lacks overnight accommodations for visitors. The couple is also financing a small-scale a housing development in the hope of attracting other retirees to La Pintada.

The lunch was lovely and the conversation light and engaging. To top everything off, while we were having desert, I noticed a strange ripple on the placid surface of the pond. And then, suddenly, and to my great shock, I saw a crocodile emerge from the water, energetically flapping its jaws as it devoured something it had caught.

“Where did that caimán come from?” I asked with my mouth wide open in amazement.

“From a nearby river,” said Louis. “He just strolled over to the pond and made it his home.”

Because Central American pueblos are quiet places, where one has plenty of time to reflect on life, people have time for one another. In the nearly five years we’ve lived in the city of Panama, my wife and I have never been invited to lunch while we were out shopping. And we certainly never had the opportunity to share a meal with a crocodile and his owners.

And this is precisely what we like about living in a pueblo: the experience of sharing with others, even strangers, is heightened, reminding us how humankind is all connected.