The Panama Hat Odyssey

Panama hats were never made in Panama, though that country does produce some small and unimpressive straw hats worn only by peasants. Nothing comparable to what such famous people as former President Franklin Roosevelt, Humphrey Bogart, and Al Capone once put in vogue.

Panama hats got their name from the place that first sold them to the world at large, namely the Panama Canal. During the canal’s construction, workers used them against the fierce sun. But the hats had been made in Ecuador.

Americans started buying Panama hats when traveling across the United States through the canal before the transcontinental railway offered them a shorter route. In 1898, during the American-Spanish War, the U.S. government ordered 50,000 hats from Ecuador for Caribbean-bound troops. They were so popular in the 1940’s that they were Ecuador’s main export product for a number of years.

Panama hats originated in Ecuador’s Manabi Province, around the towns of Montecristi and Jipijapa, as far back as 1630. The best hats are still woven there, though much of the production of Panama hats has moved to the Andean town of Cuenca.

I had just gotten off the bus in Montecristi one early sunny Sunday when I saw a man sitting at the front of his shop. He was finishing a Panama hat he had bought from someone. I stopped to photograph him, and he presented himself as Galo Pachay

He explained that he buys unfinished hats from weavers out in the country and then finishes them for resale to one of the town’s exporters. Weavers always sell their hats unfinished, with the straw dangling all around the brims, to be handed later to an array of specialists like Pachay, starting with the rematador, who back-weaves the straw into a strong bindings.

To earn extra money, whole families around Montecristi and Cuenca weave Panama hats at home or while walking to their fields. It’s hard and patient work, taking at least 12 hours to produce the cheapest model, one that pays the weaver only about one dollar, Ecuador’s currency, minus the cost of the straw.   

“The finest of the finest may take six months to weave,” Pachay said, “and fetch up to in $1,500 in the United States. For wanting the best one available, England’s Prince Edward VII once paid his Bond Street hatter 9,300 pounds.

“But it’s a dying craft,” Pachay sighed. “Too much work for too little money, and a shrinking market. Now Brazilian peones, who used to buy our cheapest hats, buy them from the Chinese. Made of paper, they’re even cheaper.”

Flattered by my interest, Pachay stopped weaving and closed his shop to take me on an educational tour. I hired a friend of his to drive us to the village of Pile. On the way there I photographed a man hanging paja toqilla, palm leaves used in Panama hats, on a rope to dry.

Later, inside the unfurnished front room, the man and his seven-year-old daughter pulled nascent palm leaves out of their green sheaths and agitated them vigorously to separate them before laying them on the floor. Their next step would be to remove the veins and other hard parts. Younger children sat on a pile of the palm leaves.

In Pile, a woman guided us to a café’s back room, past men reeking of beer and aguardiente (sugarcane liquor). In that room another woman accepted to work on a hat for my camera. People don’t weave on Sunday. And they don’t weave during any day’s hot hours, which make the straw brittle. The best weavers prefer to weave by moonlight, or at least under an overcast sky.

Pachay took me then up the street to a split bamboo hut on stilts. An old man there was weaving a “fino,” a fine one. It would take him a month to complete. and probably earn him $40. Meanwhile, a younger relative sold Pachay an unfinished hat.

Returning to Montecristi, we stopped at a poor desert settlement near the sea. Here Pachay purchased another hat. The seller was the wife of a fisherman. Her three good- looking girls stood around as we talked to her. Though the eldest was only twenty-two, and none were married, they already had eight children among the three of them. Though inevitably poor, they appeared very happy.

Before bringing me back to a bus, Pachay and his friend took me to a jipijapa palm plantation.  A worker there cut a young shoot, split it open, and showed me the tender green leaves inside waiting like chicks in eggs to come to light.

   

“That’s the stuff of panamas,” Pachay said. “It grows only on the coast, helped by the humid gárua, the mist that the cold Humboldt Current causes to shroud this area for six months a year. But to use it you must first boil it for five minutes, dry it, separate its fibers with your fingernails into thin even strips, wash it in cold water, and whiten it by hanging it over the smoke of burning sulfur in closed containers, like oil drums.”

The sun was much lighter early the next Sunday, when I got off another bus at some eight thousand feet up in the Andes. I had arrived at the small town of Chordeleg, a forty-minute ride from Cuenca, Ecuador’s third largest city (280,00 inhabitants). The fruit and produce market on one of the large squares was in full swing, and the mixed aromas of vegetable soups, chicken stews, and roast pork attracted hungry early risers to scattered food stalls.

Along a side of the plaza, a row of women was selling paja toquilla. Buyers examined it closely, going from one vendor to the next to compare the quality and haggle over the price. On the opposite side of the market, panama weavers, who had come down from the countryside, were selling their families’ production to comisionista (brokers of both sexes), who would resell them to factories in Cuenca. Those buyers also haggled and examined the products carefully. 

By taxi, that afternoon, I went to several farms to watch hats being woven. The three-generation women in one house reminded me of women of old who embroidered while enjoying an afternoon of conversation. At one house, a 12-year-old boy arrived from school to pull a chair outside his adobe house and resume his own work on a hat. At another farm, a woman was spreading paja toquilla to dry.

Back in Cuenca, I visited the Homero Ortega Panama hats factory. “You should not have bothered going to Chordeleg to photograph weavers,” Ortega said... And he led me t a corner of his factory where he had built the front part of a wattle-and-daub farm house. He asked one of his female employees to sit there, weaving a hat, and I politely took her photograph. However, she was dressed way too elegantly to look as genuine as her background.

Ever trying to help, Ortega assigned a driver to me, who took me to a number of Panama hat finishers working for him in their own houses around town. There I watched them wash, dry, shape, iron, and finish hats.

At Ortega’s factory I also watched the paja toquilla being dyed in various colors, and hats being shaped and market with the company’s logo. 

Last but not least, I observed Ortega review the many hats a comisionista had brought him. I could not have gone any faster if I had just counted them. “Experiencia,” he shrugged, when I asked him how he could spot so quickly the defects of hats he discarded.

While he finished his most urgent work, I was guided to the showroom. A couple of middle-aged American tourists were posing in the mirror, trying on various hats.

 “How much is this one,” the man asked the saleswoman, “Three hundred dollars? Would you have anything finer than that?”

 “Americans only want the best,” the sales girl told me later, something I had already heard once at an Ecuador banana plantation.

To read a more detailed story, please go to www.victorenglebert.com and click on Articles

Ecuador Book in Progress

While living in Colombia for a number of years, I self-published nine photo books on that country. Now I’m working on a photo book on Ecuador.
  
Colombia is one of the most stunningly beautiful and varied countries in the world, and I explored that country’s every wild corner. But to do that you need much off-road travel and time.
 
Ecuador is much smaller and not as varied, but has over Colombia the advantage that its own beautiful sites are all easily accessible. From Quito, the Spanish colonial capital and Unesco World Cultural Heritage Site, you can drive to snowcapped Andean Mountains, Pacific Ocean beaches, the Amazon rain forest, and Indian villages and markets within a few hours. That explains why I like to teach photographic seminars and safaris in that country.

 
 I will dedicate my next few posts to give an idea of that wonderful country, starting today with photographs of the Otavalo Indians, who live in and around the towns of Otavalo and Cotacachi, a two-hour drive north of Quito.

A few decades ago, many Otavalo Indians were still attached to sprawling lands of haciendas as serfs. Or they drudged under hard masters, weaving from dawn to dusk in sweat shops, as their forebears had done since Spanish colonial times. They had been renowned weavers since before Inca times.

Today the Otavalo Indians are free, and their tradition of hard work and cooperation, their weaving skills, and their business acumen, have turned them into Ecuador’s most prosperous Indians. Those of my pictures that show them walking barefoot date from before that recent prosperity. Their textile market has long been world famous, attracting throngs of international tourists. Some of the more enterprising Otavalo Indians are now selling their textiles and gripping Andean music overseas. I have seen them in New York, Dusseldorf, and Paris.

The Otavalo raise sheep, and their textiles used to be made exclusively from the wool of their herds. But as sales exploded, and there was no longer enough wool around to satisfy the demand, the weavers also started using artificial fibers.

Living on rich volcanic soil, the Otavalo were always farmers too. But their focus is now mainly on exploiting tourism in every possible way. With hand-woven and knit textiles, handicraft, music, and even with food and beds, all in lovely surroundings. Under no pressure to change their ways, as other Indians are, Otavalo Indians have proudly retained their way of dressing, even when overseas.

Domestic chores still take much of the women’s time.

The Otavalo are devout Catholic, who lose no opportunity to celebrate Catholic festive days besides several Saints’ days.

 

The Amazon: Eden or Green Hell? It’s our Choice

Of all the many hundreds of children I have photographed around the world, those of the Yanomami Indians of the Amazon rain forest may well be the happiest and freest. They had no toys but for those they built themselves. Only the boys built them, and they were mostly bows and arrows. The children’s games copied their parents’ activities, though on a smaller scale. They learned by watching.

The boys hunted small game and fished. The girls painted each other with roucou or baked tiny manioc flat breads instead of the pancakes-sized ones their mothers prepared. All the kids climbed trees to pick wild fruits. They also climbed the tall posts of their yanos, or communal houses, pretending to flee from jaguars, played by other kids. They played many games and never got bored. They lived in a world of their own where I never saw adults intervene.

Boys and girls mimicked the presentation dances that a clan offers on arriving at a neighboring yano when invited to share in a harvest in the form of a plantain, or manioc, or peach palm soup. The boys rolled in mud or plunged down from high branches into the Tootobi River. Boys and girls occasionally played war too, but always in good humor. Never did I see a child beat another or even shout at one. On the contrary, the bigger children always cared for the younger ones.

The Yanomami had dogs, and they treated them well. The kids' pets included the young progeny of the animals their fathers had hunted for food--monkeys, sloths, opossums, parrots, and other colorful birds. Those animals would remain pets and die of old age, never to be eaten.

The children under four accompanied their mothers to the forest gardens. An older child sometimes followed them to watch over the younger sibling while the mother dug out manioc, slashed down plantain or bananas, used a long stick to bring down some papayas, or hacked wood for the fire. The younger children also went along on gathering expeditions. On those, several women joined to hunt frogs, sweet-water crabs, termites, grubs, or mushrooms.

The surrounding forest was like you would imagine the biblical Garden of Eden. It was nothing like the Green Hell of some authors. Unless, perhaps, you had wandered through it, lost and hungry for weeks, fearing you would die there alone, like a wounded animal, unable ever to find your way out of it. This happens, of course, But the Indians never get lost in the forest. And they live very comfortably in it, working only an average of two and a half hours a day. I lived comfortably in it myself while in their company.

That was a long time ago. Since then, the Yanomami have seen their land invaded by heavily armed gold miners who have polluted the rivers with mercury and caused many deaths by spreading diseases against which the Indians had no natural defenses. In that way, the Amazon could indeed become a green hell, as it once was, when Indians were enslaved by rubber barons.

For more pictures of Yanomami children, please go to http://pa.photoshelter.com/c/victorenglebert, click on Galleries, and then click on the picture of a Yanomami girl at the bottom of the screen. Clicking on the picture of a Yanomami woman at the top of the screen will open to you the world of the whole Yanomami society.

A Fleeting Moment

     In 1971, I spent seven months traveling around Latin America, from Mexico

to Argentina and Brazil. At some point, pressed among a crowd of Indians at

the back of a dilapidated bus, my itinerary was taking me from Ayacucho to

Cuzco, in the Peruvian Andes. Holes and stones in the unpaved road shook

the bus in a cloud of dust, and a pot flew off the roof.  The driver stopped, and

a passenger ran to pick up the pot.

      Less than a minute earlier, I caught sight of a little girl sitting by herself along

the road, and could have cried with frustration for being unable to photograph her.

The flying pot was a miracle. The bus’s central aisle was crowded with people sitting

on bundles, but I scrambled over them toward the door, just as the passenger was

returning with the pot.

     “Where are you going?” the driver shouted."

     “To urinate,” I lied, almost unconsciously.

And I ran with a Leica in hand.

     “This is not the moment!” the driver yelled.

     “But what the devil are you doing? Come back!

     “…All right. Stay here and wait for tomorrow’s bus.”

And having said that, he pulled off.

     My luggage and most of my film was on that bus, but I refused to worry

about them just then. I shot three quick pictures, gave the little girl a bag of avocado

pears I carried in my camera bag, and ran back. The bus was far already,

but not going very fast, and I was a runner. Even so, my heart was in my

mouth by the time I got back on board.

     The driver shrank in his seat, but the Indians applauded. For a moment I stared at the driver wondering what to tell him. But I kept my mouth shut and went back to my seat.  It had occurred to me that for a small tip this man would have given me all the time I needed. That lesson would serve me well on future occasions

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