A Purist of His Trade: Anastacio Moreno, Cutarra-Maker

You cannot put the same shoe on every foot.
Publilius Syrus


I own a pair of cutarras. They are the traditional campesino footwear of Panama: open-toed with an intricate polished weave on top, an engraved polished sheet of leather as platform, and rubber soles. One needs to be careful when purchasing these since they’re handmade—trying on both the left and right cutarras until a pair fits perfectly. I find cutarras wonderfully comfortable. In fact, they’re what I wear at home most of the time.

Recently, however, I discovered that what most Panamanians refer to as cutarras are an aberration—that, in reality, the more popular version, the kind I own, are a grave violation of tradition.

“Genuine cutarras don’t have rubber soles. The bottom should a single, unpolished plank of leather with nothing underneath. The things people today refer to as cutarras are an insult to the craft,” says Anastacio Moreno, professional cutarra-maker.

When it comes to his trade, Anastacio (who spells his first name with a “c”) is a purist. And although he’s in his early fifties, he’s been making cutarras for well over forty years.

“I started making them when I was a little boy, living in the countryside near the town of Guararé, in the province of Los Santos. In those days, every campesino knew how to make cutarras. They’re what everyone wore back then. Today, though, making genuine cutarras is a dying art.”

Every single cutarra Anastacio Moreno manufactures is custom-made—woven especially for each customer. Señor Moreno practices his trade in an alleyway off Sal-Si-Puedes: the quintessentially third-world street off Avenida Central that’s cluttered with zinc-covered booths that sell a wide and odd assortment of things, including folkloric items.

For eight dollars, Anastacio will make a pair of cutarras, cut and woven to the measurements of each foot. First, the craftsman asks the client to sit on a stool and place a foot on a wood box, similar to that of a shoe-shiner’s. The craftsman then sits on the opposite end of the box and places a leather sheet under the foot. He traces a broad outline with a pen. Afterward, he marks several specific points, including one between the first two toes, and proceeds to cut the leather according to the outline. Once this is done, Señor Moreno punctures the sheet at the marks. He then takes two long, thin strips of leather, soaks them in water, squeezes out the excess water, and begins to tie the sheet onto the customer’s foot. Prior to tying the final knot, he asks if the fit is comfortable and, if necessary, makes the adjustments before completing the weave. He repeats the process on the second foot. After that, the cutarras are ready—fitting every customer to perfection. The entire process takes close to twenty minutes and is fascinating to watch.

Panamanian folkloric dancers keep Anastacio Moreno in business. “The true cutarras are the only kind that makes the slapping sound dancers require,” Señor Moreno says with obvious pride.

November, a month replete with Panamanian national holidays, is the peak season of his business year. And five years ago, in 2003, when Panama celebrated the centennial of its independence from Colombia, Anastacio barely kept up with the demand. “At one point, people were lined-up half a block down the alley to get a pair of cutarras. Suddenly cutarras became a symbol of national pride; it was incredible. If business was always that good I’d be a wealthy man. But as it is, I make enough to get by.”

My wife is one of the handful of foreigners who have come to him to have cutarras made. She’s bought two pairs so far, and she swears they're extremely comfortable.

“Would you like a pair?” Señor Moreno asks me. Feeling terribly guilty, I confess that I own a pair of the aberrations, the kind with rubber soles. The cutarra-maker stares at me without saying a word; his disapproving glare bears holes into my conscience. “But the ones you have don’t make the sound cutarras should make.” When I timidly admit that, contrary to my wife, I like to walk without making sounds, Anastacio Moreno shakes his head mournfully and, after a long pause, says: “As you wish; but I want you to know that those things you own aren’t cutarras. They’re nothing more than sandals.”

As we prepare to leave, my wife asks him to autograph the cutarras he made. Surprised by the unusual request, Anastacio smiles shyly, the hardcore purist in him tamed for the moment, and writes his signature with obvious pride on the right cutarra.

“You know,” he says as my wife gives him the eight dollars, “I may be the last legitimate cutarra-maker in Panama City. I’ve trained several young men to make them, but they’ve all ended up making those damn sandals because there’s more money in it.” He sighs, looks longingly at his workbench, and says in parting, “People don’t seem to care much about tradition any more.”