Dionila Mejia – The Dancing Aunt
A memory from our first trip to Maje, and one I’ll never forget.
In 2012, when we were just beginning our journey with RFB, I was deep in learning mode—studying the baskets, reading articles on the “basket economy,” absorbing as much as I could from books, research, and the baskets themselves. But books and photos can only take you so far, so we planned our first trip to Panama.
While Jen was off with the twins at a series of folk art markets, I flew south to Panama. We spent the first day meeting weavers near the city, listening to Wounmeu spoken in every conversation, and admiring the dizzying variety of patterns, stories, and stitches. I was overstimulated and exhausted—in the best way.
On day two, we headed out to Maje by boat. There were no roads back then—just tides, planning, and long stretches of open ocean. I met Jacobo that morning, who explained the logistics of getting fuel not just for our trip, but for the next one too. Every movement in and out of the village is calculated and collaborative. Just getting to the mouth of the river required watching the tide, waiting for the right moment. By the time we arrived in Maje, I was already beginning to understand the resilience built into daily life here.
After a few days of learning, photographing, and trying to take it all in, the community surprised me with a traditional dance performance at sundown. This wasn’t a staged tourist demo—these were girls who had learned the dances from their elders and performed them with laughter, nerves, and joy. Each movement told a story: jaguar, agouti, crane, crocodile—then came the dances about sun, rain, and mountains.
The final dance, a traditional courtship piece, got the most giggles. The rhythm picked up—boom-bap-a-boom—and hips were supposed to sway, but the girls were shy and collapsing into laughter. That’s when one of the older women stepped in. She scolded them in the most loving, funny way, and then started dancing herself—perfectly, joyfully, with total confidence. The entire group erupted with applause.
And then, she turned to me.
With a grin, she locked eyes, offered her hand, and started pumping her hips. Of course, I got up. Me at 6’5”, her maybe 4’9”, circling one another, dancing to the rhythm. It brought the house down—and became one of the best memories I’ve ever carried home.
I later learned her name: Dionila Mejia. Sebe’s aunt. Over the years and trips since, she’s always been there to greet me with a huge hug and ask how Jen and the twins are doing. Dionila is strong, funny, generous, and full of light. She takes care of her blind aunt in their traditional home, and somehow still manages to be the most energetic person in the room. On our last visit, she came to say goodbye, and I finally captured a photo with her—one I’ll always keep close.
