Perhaps my favorite element of Latin American lounging….

It took me about two weeks to fall in love with the concept of a bed without gravity. As I swayed back and forth feeling both elevated and safe, I knew instantly that hammocks would be a vital source of tranquility and contentment throughout my time in Latin America. Three months later, I have managed to fall even deeper for this swinging source of Peace.

One always remembers their first love. Mine was born in La Camarka, and indigenous village of dark-skinned Ngöbe people and the self made hut of a rugged Peace Corps volunteer. In his one room abode, swung a hammock of faded red and yellow, tied to the rafters on muddy string. This hammock was never clean but neither was I. It was rainy season and I seemed to take red mountain clay with me wherever I went including into that glorious Panamanian hammock. We were fast friends as I sought refuge from the rain and respite from my own exhaustion; he supported my every need and welcomed my muddy toes without question. When the bats swooped too close to me in the night, he rocked me into a gentle slumber and with his perfect position beneath the wooden window; he woke me naturally with morning light.

Then there was Mal Pais where the Aer and I quickly learned that there were indeed hammocks made for two. Whether we were swinging with each other and our literary loves or with…let’s call them our new Costa Rican friends…it seemed that a hammock made for two was simply superior to the original. We languished in the refreshing realization that we could have both a hammock and a companion at the same time. From there we found the sturdy school-side hammocks of Nicaragua where we sat vigorously taking in our favorite language from the lips of the Nicaraguencies, and of course, the hidden hammocks of Honduras. These we had to seek out with stead-fast determination in Copan Ruinas for the sake of our own sanity as we therapeutically poured our hearts onto paper after surviving the nightmare that was Tegucigalpa, Honduras.


And this, my friends, brings me to my current swinging seat of awesome…a port side hammock in peaceful Puerto el Morro. In a small fisherman’s village in Eastern Ecuador it is incredibly appropriate that my hammock here is woven from black fishing net, which despite the mental image is incredibly comfortable. From here I can see the village in all of its glory. The way the small wooden canoes glide seamlessly across the glassy green water of the estuary. The cranes which sit frozen as if posing for a stoic oil painting in the mangroves. The pigs and goats that scamper like strays through the rocky sand.

I can hear the conk-shell call of the town crier alerting the village women that the men have returned from their last voyage with plenty of fresh fish to sell. The passing rain as it strikes the tin roofs of before spilling over onto the dirt roads for its inevitable muddy afternoon concoction. And when the sun makes its daily debut, I inevitably look out onto the main pier. The sun now beats down without relent and the kids break into a sprint from the street, never hesitating as the b-line head first into the cool water.

At night the tweens come to this same dock displaying that universal summer angst. The girls on one side and the boys on the other, the scene unfolds as if Coca-cola had scripted it. With vintage glass bottles of soda they all exchange looks before finally meeting each other in the middle and mumbling words of timid flirtation. The girls twirl their jet black hair between delicate fingers and the boys clumsily shove one hand in their pockets while the other takes a big bubbly sip of the 25 cent Western beverage.

Yes, this Puerto hammock has perhaps served me better than any of the others due to its prime viewing location. Integrating into the community is of course crucial and I have done so by working eight hours each day teaching English in the village schools and hauling buckets of dirt to build a new secondary school. I have eaten alongside volunteers, shared beer with the community’s president, and learned to cook ceviche with the owner of the largest restaurant in town.


But from gentle swaying cocoon, I have been granted the opportunity to be the silent observer. And in this way I have internalized more of the customs of this 1500 person pueblo than any amount of construction or teaching could possibly permit. Yes, my netted nook has served me quite well, a portal to Puerto, a swinging seat to slowly contemplate the intricate mechanisms of an entire village.