During several visits on Maruba to Panama’s San Blas Islands in the early ‘90s, we acquired a small collection of molas . . . and learned some interesting facts of life.
Mola making—and
mola wearing—are deep traditions among the women of the indigenous Kuna (or
Guna) people of the San Blas Islands (now known as Guna Yala).
This is what a
mola looks like:
And this is how
molas are worn. (Photo credit included.)
Molas start out
as reverse appliqués. A Kuna woman stacks three or four levels of different colored
cloth, cuts out various shapes through into the lower levels, and stitches all the
edges. Then she builds more design elements on that base by adding layers of
direct appliqué and stitches.
Molas feature a
wide range of themes. Traditional mythic and symbolic images. Fanciful
representations of fish, birds, animals, and vegetation. Even modern ideas like
school and Christmas, helicopters and cruise ships.
The Kuna women make molas and wear them sewn
to their blouses. Gringas—and art galleries—buy molas, frame them, and
hang them on the wall.
Molas can be
purchased in many street markets in Panama, import shops in North America, and
even on ebay. We had the good fortune to buy our small collection directly from
the mola makers themselves.
The mola ladies
were all business. We’d hardly get the anchor down and the awnings up when two
or three women would paddle out to Maruba
in a dugout canoe.
Each would
clamber up the boarding ladder bearing a wrapped stack of molas, find a spot on
the deck to sit, grab the attention of one of us, and started flipping through
her offerings, quoting prices when asked.
The Kuna spoke
their own language. Their second language was often English rather than
Spanish. Many of the men had worked for the Panama Canal Authority.
At that time
molas cost from $5 to $50, depending on the quality, the complexity of the
work, and the bargaining skills of the purchaser.
We soon learned
that when a mola appeared from the stack that especially grabbed our eye, we
should ignore it. Then we could casually notice it later. Otherwise it would always
be among the most expensive molas in the pile.
After several
months on the Caribbean side of Panama, we sailed away from the San Blas Islands
for the final time. We had aboard a small collection of molas that now hang,
framed, on the walls of our house on Bonaire.
Each has its
own story.
This one, for instance:
The Kuna were
intrigued by the Northwest Indian design we’d had an artist paint on Maruba’s stern. They identified with the
style of expression. One woman proposed to sew the design into a custom made
mola. She had it ready the next time we dropped anchor off her island.
Everything was
different about this mola:
For one thing,
it wasn’t actually a mola. It was a design on the yoke of a t-shirt—a t-shirt
in a men’s size. And the applique was a single layer of figures sown onto the
cloth, rather than several layers.
Most
significantly, the design on the t-shirt had been stitched by the hands of a
man. He was the only male ever to show up on Maruba with a stack of molas for sale.
The t-shirt was
a beauty. I lusted to wear it as my own. Despite hard bargaining, it ended up
the most expensive mola we bought . . .
the higher price clearly approved by the mola ladies sitting on the deck with him.
Later we were told that the Kunas, like most indigenous people, provide inclusive niches in
their society for homosexuals. The design on my t-shirt was sewn by a man who did the same work as women. I was expected to pay more for the
t-shirt because, having been sewn a man, it was more valuable than a mola sewn by
a woman.
When we bought
this mola, we missed another cultural nuance:
“That’s a very
old design,” the woman said. “We call it the rainbow.”
“Humm.” Okay. It
didn’t look much like a rainbow. But what the heck? The lines were curved and parallel.
Only recently
we learned that the “rainbow” mola was intended to protect the wearer. Evil
spirits would be ensnared by the many sharp teeth in the design—just as evil
spirits would get lost in the mazes added to the design of our custom made Maruba mola.
So why did the
woman call it simply a “rainbow?” Maybe because she came aboard Maruba to
sell the Norteamericanos molas. She wasn't there to waste time engaging in ethnological discussions.
Much the same
thing apparently happened when, attracted by the powerful design, I bought this
mola, my favorite:
“That’s one of
our most ancient designs,” the young woman said. She paused, then giggled. “We
call it the paddle.”
I grew up
reading every copy of National Geographic I could get my hands on. I’d seen leaf-shaped
paddles before. But they were in stories about Africa, not Central America.
No matter. I was
enamored of the mola and the price was right.
Looking at it
closely one day (again, years later) I began to understand.
“Do you
suppose,” I pondered, “the two pointy things at the top represent a woman’s
breasts?”
“If they do, the
curved shapes each side of the breasts could represent arms . . . the lower shapes
would be legs . . . and the dominant feature centered at the focal point of the
design would be . . . Oh.”
Like most
indigenous people, the Kunas celebrate female fertility in their art.
 |
| A young Kuna woman. The ring in her nose indicates she is married. |
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