"...on a jet plane"

       Well, this is it – the final entry for “Panama Calling”.  I fly out of here tomorrow for Panama City, then on to home #1.  Yes, even with all the crazy stuff I’ve written about Boquete, Panama in this here blog, I will consider this my second home. 

Hell, maybe I’ll end up with many more homes in the future. 

I heard someone say “If it weren’t for the loneliness I’d spend my life travelling.” Maybe it was from Lawrence of Arabia – I dunno.

When I first started this blog my intention was to inform its readers about what life in the tropics is like for a gringo.  Of course, I have a hard time taking life too seriously, but there is some truth in almost everything I’ve written here.

 

If you do plan to travel down this way, don’t think it is like a Jimmy Buffett song (though Margaritaville does exist at the bottom of a Cuervo bottle).

You know those photos you see of a hammock tied between two palm trees?  Have you ever noticed that the hammock is always empty?  That’s because models are usually paid by the hour, and it takes two full hours to get out of a hammock – it is just not cost effective.

Then there is the Caribbean breeze blowing the long hair of a gorgeous model as she strolls barefoot down the beach.  What you don’t see is the

oppressive heat and unbelievable humidity.  By the time the model walks fifty yards she must be fitted for a smaller swimming suite, and her hair is hanging like a wet mop.

As soon as the photographer gets the shot he needs, you’d see the model screaming, and waving her arms like an epileptic have a grand mal seizure, bolting madly down the beach trying to out-run the mosquitoes and the vendors chasing her for her blood and money.

The reality of Central America can be wrapped up in a few words; Poverty, inequity, hope, and hopelessness, beauty and suspicion.  No wait – that’s North America.

 

My point is this;

I suggest that everyone thinks about visiting Central America.  Then after thinking about it, read my blog entries, then think about it again.  If you still decide to come to Panama, just remember that this is NOT your country, you pasty-white, arrogant, American! These are beautiful people in a beautiful country – their country.  Your country is The United States, and as fucked up as it may seem, remember WE fucked it up.  Let’s let these folks fuck up their own country, they don’t need our help.

Okay, I’ve gotta pack – So, Adios Amigos, I’m headed home.

                           DP

On this day in History

      Each year on April 15^th millions of dazed Americans wake to the realization that, once again, science has proven that prayer, mass alcohol consumption, and selective amnesia do not prevent their taxes from being due.  All across the nation, the

question “You took care of the taxes, right?” is greeted with a stern, indignant look and answered with a mumbled, “Of course, we can file an extension, whaddaya think I am an idiot?”

       But, did you know that the fifteenth of April is also the day that President Abraham Lincoln died.  He

was actually shot the day before, and may have even survived had his wife Mary Todd Lincoln, racked with grief, not leaned over her beloved Abe’s body and whispered into his ear “You took care of the taxes, right?”

       You know what else happened on April 15^th?  The RMS Titanic sunk in the icy waters of the North Atlantic, claiming 1,500 souls in the process.  The Titanic received no less than six warnings of sea ice before it plowed into an iceberg.  Recent discoveries have determined that radio man Jack Phillips was ‘preoccupied’ for hours trying to figure out how to write off ear muffs and Brandy as a business expense on his 1040A, and “simply ignored” the frantic warnings.

       April 15^th was also the day on which the great Jackie Robinson, walked onto the field as the first African American Major League Baseball player.  This had nothing to do with taxes, except Jackie was now able to pay more.

       The bottle opener was invented on April 15^th, which I’m sure has everything to do with taxes being due. 

      

The first American school for the deaf opened on 4/15, with the motto “No one shall whisper in our ears.”

       On this day in 1923 the first movie with sound premiered at The Rialto theater in New York City, attended by the students and faculty of the first American school for the deaf who clapped enthusiastically at the wrong moments.

       FDR was buried on April 15^th, 1945.

       The first ‘backwards walk across America’ started out on April 15^th (boy, was that prophetic!)

       Oh!  Two related things happened on April 15^th.  In 1923, insulin became available to the public, and in 1955 Ray Kroc opened the first McDonalds hamburger joint. 

       Finally, on April 15^th, 1992 the lovely billionaire, Leona Helmsly was sent to prison for tax evasion, proving once again that prayer, alcohol consumption, and selective amnesia sunk the Titanic.

DP

Psst!  You took care of the taxes, right?

Portland Calling

                

       “I’ll miss you, cowardly American, and how you are so afraid of insects, yet decided to move into the middle of a tropical jungle.”

        “Good-bye, goofy-looking, wandering man, may your diligent patrol lead you in circles forever.”

       “And you, Edwardo, you big, crazy, bastard, I’ll miss you wandering around in your underwear, and barging your way into my house! Oh, I think I’ll miss you the most!  Who is going to inspect my toilet, and tear open my food with their gross teeth?  I’ll miss that sweet, shark-like twinkle in your dead eyes when you reach out for my junk.” (I’d kiss you on the cheek, but you’ve got a little something there.  Not sure what it is)

                                      *  *  *  *

      

       Yes, I’ve made the decision to leave this quaint little town in Panama and go back to Portland, Oregon, USA.  The constant eighty-degree weather, relaxing rain, and vibrant rainbows here in Boquete are no match for the dreary, wet, cold winters of The Pacific Northwest.

       I will miss the way that trash lines the streets of this ol’ Boquete. It gives me something to look at while I walk with my head down, trying to keep my hat on, and the dust out of my eyes.

 

I will miss seeing the pile of beer bottles and rusting cans outside the club, “Taboo”, which is directly across the street from the recycling center.  

       I will miss standing on the many bridges that cross the streams which flow into the Caldera river. For,

they carry the human waste, plastic bottles, and grocery bags, which give that ‘boring bit of nature’ a little extra sparkle.

I’ll miss “Gringo   Bingo”, the game played by local merchants, involving the psychic ability to guess which foreigners have the most money, and how to separate it from them.  It looks like a hoot for the Panamanians, and after all, isn’t that all that matters?

       I’ll also miss the ubiquitous snotty, self-righteous, entitled, puffy, pale, Americans, who sit around bitching about the centuries-old traditions held by the local natives, and how “these people” are so ignorant.  I’ll miss that kind of give and take; Gringos giving the Panamanians shit, and the Panamanians taking it.  (Anyone for a quick game of Bingo?) 

       I will miss the constant singing of birds, sung by the myriad species calling from the surrounding exotic trees.  But, once I hear the constant chirping, beeping, and screeching of car alarms back in The States, that memory will fade too.

      

          Yes, all these are things that I will miss.

But there are things that I do miss now, like my family, and friends.  Things like; health insurance, hot water, going to the movies, Taco Bell, and washing machines – these things I miss now.

But the thing I miss the most is being able to have a meaningful conversation with someone – someone who understands what I am saying – someone who doesn’t lick her own butt while I’m talking to her. (Though there are gringos who would pay good money for those things)

I have had my adventure here, and I will have others in the years that follow.  But(t) first, there is spelunking to be done.  I should get a colonoscopy, and I sure as hell don’t want it to be done by someone who won’t understand my trepidation, or that licks their own ass.

 Because in the end ...

DP

Chairman of the Bored

“Aren’t you going to get bored?” my brother said.

I chuckled, in an all-knowing superior way.  It was the same snide chuckle that Thomas Andrews gave before he proclaimed,

“Trust me, gentlemen.  My design makes The Titanic pretty much unsinkable!”

Of course Andrews’ next recorded words were,

“Shit!” and then later, “Trust me, gentlemen.  I am a woman and/or children!”

I suppose the very fact that I’m sitting here composing a blog entry about being bored says it all.  I mean, how much excrement, er - I mean, excitement can one fellow handle in a 24 hour period?

First, I had to wake up, which takes a few seconds (at least).  Then I walk around making coffee, and giving Betty her pill, and looking at the dishes in the sink.  By then I’ve hit my stride, and I’m “in the zone”.  This eleven minutes is the most productive period of my day. 

Next, the coffee maker completes its brewing cycle (its most productive time of the day as well).  I scan the kitchen for a clean, or fairly clean coffee cup.  By now I am starting to get the three o’clock

drowsiness that tends to set in.  The clock on the wall says it is really about 7:05 AM, but in hamster years it has got to be around 3:00 in the afternoon.

Now, armed with a giant cup of coffee, I turn on my internet radio station, wait to hear the music, then push the button on top of my Bluetooth speaker - and wait for the music to come out of it.  Exhausted, I fall into my desk chair, and check my email.  "Skunked again."

This is where my day gets crazy.  I log in to Facebook, and the fireworks begin.  I usually (though not always) have some little comment or notification waiting for me.  Usually, it is a comment on a friend’s post from somebody I don’t know and probably never will. 

At this point I scroll through the posts of my friends, and friends of friends, and random posts from some political group that I could care less about.  I make witty comments on anything that looks like it might get me a response back.

 I figured it out once – if I want to get one or two responses back – I have to make 438 comments, post 16 pictures, and one political message from some group I could care less about.  That is way too much work, so I make a couple of cynical comments and take what I can get.

By this time, it is 7:30…in the morning, and I’m ready to refill my coffee.  It is also the end of my scheduled activities for the day. 

Now, I’m not saying that I spend the rest of the day reading on the porch, or binge watching T.V. series that I have no interest in (other than they produce a flickering image I can stare at).  No, I walk Betty (the wonder dog) every day…most, every day.  This occurs after our first nap.  A man has to regenerate!  Then, I spend the rest of the day watching Netflix.

Oh, I know some of you may be thinking,

“Wow, this guy is living the dream!”

But I assure you, it is not all beautiful weather, loafing, and tequila.

Ahh, who am I kidding?  Of course it is.

But, I still get bored sometimes.  So, my brother was right. 

“Oh, Look! Titanic is on Netflix!  That’ll kill three hours”.  Yawn.

DP

Carmen Karma Chameleon

       Sometimes, things kind of sneak up on you.  I’m not talking about the occasional scorpion, or giant, hairy spider, or la cucaracha.  I’m talking about something much slower – age. 

       This morning I was doing some writing and listening to Jimmy Buffett sing a song called “Holiday”.  I got up to refill my coffee, and on the way back to the computer, I looked down at Betty (the wonder dog), who lay on the cool, tile floor watching me pass.  From out of nowhere I started doing what can only be described as an old person dance. 

       Holding my cup of coffee in one hand, and the other arm extended, palm out, my rounded shoulders began to ‘roll’ to and fro.  Then, before I could stop them, my feet began to shuffle in a stiff rumba pattern.  I moved forward and back like Ricky Ricardo (he’s dead, by the way) on Quaaludes.  My bare feet shuffled like George Burns proving that he could still do the ‘soft shoe’ at ninety-eight years old. He too is dead, by the way.

       Betty looked at me with the same look on her little face that I must have had on my little face when my mother did the old person’s dance in front of me.  Was it embarrassment?  Can dog’s look, or even be, embarrassed?  Or was it pity?  It didn’t matter, not in that moment.  As if possessed, I did a slow spin, and smiled all the wider. While the Congo drums played, I did the old person’s dance, while my little dog stared at my feet with…was that envy?

       In the end, I am grateful to be alive long enough to do the old person’s dance, and I hope to be around long enough to embarrass my own kids (more than I already have), and maybe a grand kid or two.  Life is good.  Life is good. 

DP

"And they call the wind..."

...Annoying!

  The wind has been blowing steadily, strongly, every day, all day for the last 6 weeks here, and, to be honest, I am about to climb a clock tower.  Of course, even if there was a clock tower in Boquete, I would be hanging on for dear life, flapping in the fucking wind like a plastic grocery bag caught in a tree!

  When I first moved here I used to think “Wow!  This place is really progressive.  They do not allow firearms to be owned, sold, or shipped into this quaint little town.”  Now, I know the TRUE reason why these strict gun rules apply.  It’s not to keep violent crimes from happening (They still sell sharp-ish knives).  It is because they only have one funeral home in town.  If people here had guns, the suicide rate, especially among ex-patriots, would overwhelm the pathologist, or embalmer, or Francisco, or whatever they call him – and with the warm, tropical weather – well, you smell the picture.

Not me

The wind is so strong here that you cannot even wear a baseball cap without fear of it winding up on some kid’s head in Costa Rica.  That is, unless you look directly at your feet as you walk, in which case you run the risk of a bloody head-on collision with another idiot wearing a baseball cap.  Seriously, if your hat happens to blow off while you are out in public – you just want to pretend you weren’t wearing one in the first place and keep on walking.  You can retrieve it in a couple of months, somewhere in the Panama-Texas border area, known by the locals as “The Caribbean Ocean”.

Not the ocean

Environmentalist all over the world are warning about the use of fossil fuels creating a

“Global Warming”, and how the warming of the oceans is going to be the death of us all.  I’m here to tell you – it’s not the depleted “O-Zone” that is causing the oceans to heat up.  It’s hats from Boquete.  It’s an Un-cover-up, I tell ya!

A number of years ago, the legend of a tall hairy creature, known as “Boquete Bill”, which roamed the area at night was told.  I mean, the creature terrorized this sleepy little burg,

Police Sketch of Boquete Bill

wreaking havoc and haunting children’s dreams for nearly two weeks.  Described as over six feet tall (which by Panamanian measure is huge), and covered with hair of all shades and textures, this beast had a mournful howl that would send shivers down the spine of even the most macho men in the area.  At the same time “Boquete Bill” arrived on the scene, an ex-pat named Robert Weinstein mysteriously disappeared.  Robert Weinstein owned a “finca” (or farm) on the outskirts of town growing cabbage and raising bees, and never bothered no one.  No one, I tell ya!

Long story, short…

One particularly windy day, Robert Weinstein was collecting honey from his bee hives to sell at the Tuesday Gringo Market (which oddly enough happens every Tuesday). when suddenly a strong gust of wind came in from the north and sent all the hives skyward, scattering the bees and covering poor

Mr. Weinstein in fresh honey.  As he rushed to recover enough of the gooey, golden goodness to sell at the market, he neglected to change clothes or even to wash his hands.

  As he arrived at the Gringo Market the wind continued to scream through the trees.  Just

then a bus full of retirees from Miami emptied into the Boquete sunshine.  One by one, the tottering gringos stepped off the bus, and one by one, their toupees and wigs were ripped from their heads and blown down the street to where the hapless Mr. Weinstein stood covered in sticky, delicious honey.

   

Well, I don’t think you need to hear the rest of the tale, other than to say that for two weeks Robert “Boquete Bill” Weinstein lived on honey and musty, human hair.  His attempted to eat his way free from the inside out was almost successful – until a rare Panamanian Grizzly bear that had followed Robert’s trail of sweet hairballs – caught up to him and ate him.

It makes you reflect doesn’t it?  All we are is must in the wind.

   Also:  The wind is driving me crazy.  Seriously. 

HAPPY VALENTINES DAY, HONEY!

 DP

Like a Hola in my Head

Hola, amigas y amigos y familia!

Saying “hola” instead of “hello” is just one of the things that remind me I live in Central America.  Of course, there are other signs.

Like, this morning I was out on the porch drinking my coffee.  I hadn’t had enough coffee yet to be able to raise my

pumpkin head – my neck just couldn’t support it.  So, I settled for looking at the bricks and my feet.  But instead of my adorable feet, with their Flintstone big toes, there appeared below, feet belonging to a Neanderthal Man.  I tried to run away but they followed me, those hairy, callused meat-pads.  After I woke up (I quickly crashed into the side of the house because I still couldn’t raise my head) I realized that the feet were attached to my very own ankles.

After dismissing the alien transplant theories, and the idea that a crazy Panamanian cult needed my beautiful Caucasian feet for some sort of sacrifice to Volcan Baru, in whose shadow I live, I accepted that the feet were actually mine.  It was unnerving.  My toe knuckles each had sprouted little, wispy, black hairs.  Likewise, the tops of my feet had grown a comb-over’s worth of black hairs.

As I drank more coffee I was able to raise my head enough to examine my ankles which are peppered with tiny bug bites…and hair.  All of these new developments are, of course, the result of the onset of “GP” or Geriatric Puberty – and also of not wearing shoes.  I’m not always barefooted, that would be unwise, but in and around the house there is no reason to get dressed up.  Besides, every time I put on socks my little dog, Betty thinks we are going for a walk.

Another, related sign that I live in Panama is the constant itching that occurs between my calves and my caveman feet.  I guess “Medical Professionals” would call that area the “Ankle” but, it’s more of the Cankle.  Anyway, it is not my custom to

wear crew socks and no shoes, consequently my tiny, dancer-like cankles are either in the process of being feasted upon by “little buggers” (That’s what I call them just before I flatten their little bodies against my bronzed skin), OR my bites are in the process of healing, which takes about…, well… I guess I don’t know how long it takes because I constantly itch.

Eventually, I know my cavalier attitude towards shoes will come back to bite me (or more accurately – sting me) in the

form of a scorpion.  But, evolution is a curious thing, and by not wearing shoes the soles of my feet will slowly turn into a thick, rubbery under-coating (I can throw it in if you don’t tell my manager) which will protect me from the scorpion’s stinger.

 

I have a friend, or shall I say ‘had a friend’, who just got stung on the leg, or shall I say on the ‘stump’, and he lived (right up until he didn’t).  I know it hurts, but there is no evidence that it can kill you (God rest his sole, er, ah..soul)

Another sign that I live in the tropics, is that little rack of clothes drying on my porch.  The other day I went to visit a friend (Her husband had just passed away) and to show my respects I brought a couple loads of laundry.  Well, for some reason their dryer stopped working (welcome to Panama), and I had to bring my wet

clothes back home with me (How rude!)

After borrowing a bunch of plastic hangers from her I hung my laundry on any place that looked like it would hold, including my little drying rack.  Low and behold, the next morning, most of it was still there, AND almost dry!  Strangely, later that day, I found two of my socks in the empty lot next door.  They weren’t together, but they were a pair. 

 

I’m guessing the Volcano cultists discarded them as they ran from the crime scene with my feet.

                                           DP