Final Word from Panama...for now.

I've decided to dedicate my final blog from Panama to  general observations.  No, not the once famous Panamanian General who fought and lost to the French in the trench wars of 1893,(though he is certainly worthy of such high standing.)  Rather a synopsis, if you will, of what I have learned from my stay in Central America and in particular Panama.  Okay, only Panama...in particular Boquete. 

     First of all, Panamanians have different words for almost everything!  For instance, their word for car is ‘caro’, which I get. But their word for Gel isn't Jello, or Lard isn't Lardo.

And, for instance, I do know for a fact that 'Estupido" means 'Sir' which makes no sense, but who am I to argue?  I like being called 'Sir', and will miss it when I return to the States.  

    Honestly, I wonder how Panamanian people can even communicate with each other.  They sure don’t understand me, and I talk pretty good English!

     Another thing you never see is somebody from Panama dressing appropriately for the weather.  The men all wear long pants and

dress shoes when it’s like 75 degrees outside.  And though I have never physically checked, I have a sneaking suspicion that they are wearing socks as well.  For all I know, they might wear men’s underwear under those “long pants”. 

     Hey, listen – It’s not my thing, but when in Panama do as the Romans do, right?.

Though, I’m guessing they do take off their clothes at some point, because I have seen Panamanian children walking around in little pairs of long pants and tiny leather shoes.  Also they have great tans.

     The monetary system here is also confusing.  The official currency is the American Dollar, which at first seems a little scary, especially if you are an expat, because as expats know, America creates money out of thin air, and that is exactly how much it’s worth.

   This system eventually leads to what economist call “A Major Shit Storm”, a scenario in which most of the known world begins refusing the American Dollar as payment, for things such as Housing, Food, shoes, and Trillions of dollars of loan debt.  But, Panama has its bases covered.

     For though Panama’s official currency is the American Dollar, they have their own money as well.  Their dollar is called a Balboa, named after a park in San Diego, whose denominations, like the U.S., range from one Balboa (Worth one US dollar) down to 1/100^th of a Balboa (Worth one U.S. cent).  These coins which are the same size and weight as U.S.

coinage (though instead of a dead President, they are stamped with some goofy looking guy in a conquistador helmet) they are accepted as readily as the U.S. coins.  And though the Panamanian currency rises and falls in value in conjunction with the U.S. Dollar, it is not connected to the U.S. Dollar.  In fact, the moment a U.S. Dollar is deposited in a Panamanian bank it becomes a Balboa. 

     So, in confusion, if you receive your money from the U.S. you deposit it as quickly as possible into a Panamanian bank where it magically turns into Balboas, which can then be spent freely on long pants and dress shoes.

My point is this; Panama is hot and muggy at the beach, and spring-like in the mountains.  The people are pretty nice.  At least I assume they’re nice.  I can’t understand a word they say. 

 

I’m going home now.  Thanks for reading this nonsense.  Love you all.  DP

SAND IN YOUR TUNA FISH...SANDWICH

    

I woke up this morning at 5:00.  Outside the wind was high, I could hear the trees blowing and feel the warm breeze coming over the veranda through the patio door.  The sky was still black and the lights of Boquete stood like jewels against the velvet that lined the valley.  I leaned against the door frame for a moment and listened to the familiar crow of an old rooster from somewhere down the hill.  I was content.  I had nothing to add and nothing to take away, and no reason to do either one.

     I've had fun over the past few weeks sharing my adventures here in this little blog.  In retrospect it has been invaluable for me to have someone to talk too, someone to laugh with.  That is how I handle the craziness that comes my way.  It comes in waves that can be unpredictable and often dangerous, as it does for everyone.  One minute you are walking along, splashing playfully in the water, and the next you can be tumbling in the undertow as your world is disintegrating beneath you.

     But you fight your way back to shore, frightened, exhausted, and a bit disheartened, unsure, after such an ordeal, if you will ever return to the water.

     Still, if life is the ocean then the shore is where its gifts are offered; and a decision must be made.  Do you sit on the beach, knees drawn up,  content to watch the wonders of life come and go?  Or do you risk being swept out to sea again by splashing through the water, adding treasures to your collection?  Either way you will end up dead, of that you can be sure.

     My point is this; I am going back to Portland with a heart full of treasures.  Treasures I would never have collected by sitting on a blanket under an umbrella.  I truly feel like I have found a home here in Panama.  I know, that if I decided to do so, I could step right back here and live happily ever after.  I will miss Boquete when I am gone.  How much I will miss her is hard to tell, especially while I'm still here. 

But, one thing I do know for sure, is that

SURF'S UP!

Whether you try a new food, consider a new

point of view, or move your funky ass to Panama - 

"Jus, get up offa dat thing; Dance and you'll feel betta!"

Live life to it's fullest

"And, when you catch a wave you'll be sittin' on top of the world!"  

 

Bien Padre

    

     Today is 'Father's Day'.  For years I scoffed at the idea of a holiday just for dads, writing it off as another ploy by retailers to milk the

consumer cow.  But the origins of this day are sweet.

The first annual Father's day was purposed by a woman named Sonora Smart Dodd from Spokane, Washington in 1909. There was already a 'Mother's Day' on the books, but Ms Dodd's own mother

Sonora Louise Smart Dodd

had passed away when she was small leaving her widower father alone to raise six children, which he did. Sonora Dodd's admiration of her father's sacrifice was the catalyst for what we celebrate today.

     Though there is no doubt that retailers were behind the idea from the start, and as usual turned something sweet into a way to profit, it is still a nice story, don't you think?  Here is another one:

*****

     The other day I hiked down the mountain into town as I have several times since I've been here.  At the base of the mountain the trail turns into a gravel road then intersects with one of the back streets of Boquete.  On two previous occasions I had encountered a Panamanian man walking towards me in the opposite direction (of course he was walking in the opposite direction if he was coming towards me!  Duh.)
     He walked slowly towards me, looking thoughtful with his hands behind his back. At first glance I thought he was smiling at me because he was looking right at me and his teeth were showing.  So, being polite I returned the smile and said,

     "Buenos Dias".  To which he naturally replied "Huh?"

     By then he was close enough for me to see that his teeth (well, his lower teeth) were indeed showing but not voluntarily.  His lower jaw was askew as if somebody had slugged him in the mouth and it stuck that way. His eyes

were not exactly smiling either, though he was looking at me. You know that look a shark has?  That whole; there, but not there thing.
     I, being the genius of the two, figured out quickly that this man was...special.

     The short conversation, which was made up of my repeating "Buenos Dias" and him repeating "Huh?", ended in a draw that day as I just kept walking, glancing back now and then to make sure he had done the same. 

     I ran into him a second time while I was taking pictures of some of the beautiful flowers along that stretch of road. I think this little stretch of road is his 'stomping grounds' and he patrols his turf diligently.  When he saw my camera he acted a bit agitated or curious, it was hard to tell.  He had the same look as before only more insistent, if that is at all possible. 

     This time along with the 'Buenoses' and the 'huhs?' he threw in some Spanish words and raised his chin rather proudly, which naturally I took as meaning "Would you like to take my picture?" After all, he was smiling...kind of.

 

  However, when I raised the camera and asked if he would like me to take a photo of him, he said "No! No!", turned and quickly shuffled off frowning...I think he was frowning.

     I didn't see him again for a couple of journeys, until a few days ago.  This time he must have been feeling comfortable enough with me to make direct contact, for he walked right up to me and, using international sign language, began asking for money.  This included him pointing at the bulging pocket of my shorts (yes, where my wallet was),

then reaching into his own pocket and saying something in Spanish that ended with the word 'Panama!'

     He repeated this combination several times, while I began to stammer and stutter, throwing out various Spanish words and phrases.  All the while I was inching backwards hoping he'd get the hint.  But he didn't.  Of course I was smiling nervously and starting to sweat (more than usual) which just seemed to encourage him somehow.  

     Finally, and I have no idea why, I blurted out,

     "Bien Padre!" which is a brand of tortilla

chips. 

     Luckily "Bien Padre" doesn't mean "get away from me you poor, crazy bastard!", instead it means "Good Father." 

     It was as if somewhere behind those dark, dead eyes I tiny light went on and his rant ended.  So, of course I said it again, and this time he looked at me as if I had just said his name.

     "Are you a Padre?", I asked.
     To which he nodded his head and said softly,
    "Si, si." 

     His eyes softened and his jaw relaxed just a bit.

     "You," I said pointing to him, "Bien Padre."

Again he nodded, and though it was hard to tell, I think he got a little teary eyed. Then, though I would not have thought it possible, his gaze went somewhere further off, back into some lost memory maybe.

     "Bien Padre." I said again.

     Then like a father who finally got his child asleep, I quietly turned and walked away, leaving him there alone with his thoughts

*****

     As I sit here on this Father's Day I realize that that man and I share something special, something that transcends language, a deep love for our children.

     Though my own Dad is gone now, I still celebrate Father's Day in my heart.  I do so because I am eternally grateful that I was given the opportunity to be a father, and experience the rapturous joy of being able to hold my daughters.  

     It is more than I deserve, to be sure, but I would not trade that gift for anything under heaven.

 

     

 

Whether the Weather

     I've been sitting here at the computer, staring out the window trying to come up with any topic of interest to write about.

  Granted, I am a bit foggy this morning, not only because my coffee is still perking, or because this is the second time I've attempted to get up and function in the last few hours, or because I finished off the tequila the first time I got up.  Well, okay - it's all of those things, plus the view directly in front of me is three, tall trees, each different but all blowing in the late morning breeze and making it easy to just stare.  I'm going to turn this 'tablet' around and take a photo. 

Hmm.  It looses something in the translation.  

But, my point is this;  Everybody complains about the weather, but nobody (except perhaps some black-ops government agency) does anything about it, and the reason, at least here in Panama, is because you can't keep up with it.  So, I've decided to write about the weather.

In Oregon for instance they have a thing called 'an extended weather forecast', which the

meteorologists put together in order to justify the millions of dollars they spend on gadgets, and to give them something to fill up their share of the news broadcast, which is somewhere around 97%.  These 'extended forecasts' are supposed to predict, with relative accuracy, what the weather will be like in the upcoming week or so.
     Of course, this extended forecast is shown every day, which saves the weather person from having to be the least bit accurate for more than two days at a time. 

If, lets say, on Monday, weatherman 'Matt' shows that his extended forecast for the upcoming week is going to be clear and sunny 'right on through Friday', then actually looks at one of his million dollar gadgets and discovers a giant hurricane will slam into Portland on Wednesday, he can simply change his 'extended forecast' to reflect this new discovery in Tuesday's extended forecast. 

Now before I get cards and letters regarding the predicted hurricane hitting Portland, we both know I'm only kidding.  Weatherman 'Matt' never really looks at the million dollar gadgets.
That is why Panama, like most Central American countries, only has two seasons; dry

and rainy.  Sure, the so called 'experts' at NOAA will tell you it has to do with being closer to the 'equator', and the 'oceanic flow', and 'jet streams', but the real reason there are only two seasons in Central America is because they are smarter than us.  Let me explain.

In Panama, for instance, in what is known as the 'Dry' season, in rains more that it does in the 'Rainy' season.  Don't believe me?  Look it up.  Every day since I have been here in Boquete we have had warm spring days - with cleansing showers, high winds, thunder and lightning.  Last evening a bolt of lightning struck the ground so close to the house that sparks fell into the yard and you could hear the electricity crackle in the air.  Then it cleared up and the sun is out this morning.  

 My point is this; I don't think Central America even has 'meteorologist'.  What is the use? 

I got your 'extended forecast' right here!  Enjoy the sun until it rains - or vise versa.  My advise is to visit during the dry season.  But don't forget to bring your goulashes.  Don't bring a parasol to keep the sun off, because you'll loose it!  The wind can whip up in an instant, and poof! There goes the $25.00 you spent on that umbrella up and over a mountain.  Here is a little known fact; Scientist have discovered a reef, larger  than The Great Barrier reef, made up entirely of umbrellas and parasols. 

It is on the Caribbean side of Panama near Bocas del Toro.  It makes for good snorkeling.  So you see, not only do these guys save millions of dollars on gadgets and meteorologists, they also are more relaxed, and make a fortune selling parasols.  Therefore, who's the smart one now Matt?!

The People of Panama: Epilog?

     When we last saw our zer...hero, he had just claimed victory over the world's technology gone rogue.  We pick up the story 10 minutes later, in...

"LAS PERSONAS de PANAMA"

Side B - Part2

Scene 1

     After leaving the evil ATM smouldering in its stuffy, little alcove I walked over to the Central Park Cafe where I sat and gathered myself over a cup off coffee and checked to see if they had found my video camera which I'm pretty sure I left in a cab the day before.

     They hadn't found my camera, which was confirmation that one of Panama's upstanding citizen's had found it and intended to find it's owner as soon as The Virgin Mary instructed them to do so by forming the words "You must find the true Owner" on a burnt tortilla on the fifth Sunday in February.

The news did nothing to abate machismo, still roaring from the hard won victory at the ATM, and now 'juiced up' on good Panamanian coffee.  I was feeling pretty full of myself; the 'cock of the walk.'

I swear I could hear the Bee Gees "Stayin' Alive" begin playing as I left the cafe, and strutted across the square.

"Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk, I'm a woman's man, no time to talk..."

     I could see the heads turn and feel the eyes watching my 5'10" husky frame, adorned in an avocado green Hawaiian shirt (with pineapple pattern), its collar rippled and curled with that 'I live alone and don't even own an iron' look.

"Ah-ah-ah-ah Stayin' alive, Stayin' alive..."

The warm breeze kept the shirt pressed against the front of my rolling torso, accentuating my giggling 'man cans' and highlighting the rippling one pack and smart spare tire I have worked so hard to attain and wear just so.

The shirt, long enough to hang well passed my waist, made my upper body look freakishly long and my muscular legs short and squat. The line of my bulging calves led to my swollen ankles sheathed in fluorescent yellow socks that bunched up unevenly atop my hip, dirty Nikes.

"Stayin' Ali-i-i-i-i-..."  
But, I digress.

     At Romero's, a chain 'supermacado' here in Panama, I shopped carefully, choosing items that 'looked' like what I needed but bore labels in Spanish.  It is one of the first lessons a gringo learns.  Imported American brands are much more expensive than localized, though you must get used to the fact that what you thought was Cream of Wheat turns out to be strawberry flavored cream corn.

      Upon checking out (at the register operated by the cutest girl) my confidence was high.  I'm pretty sure the checker was 'checkin' me out' (if you know what I mean).  

My too long, straw-like hair, worn in an Albert Einstein cut, caught the light of the dim,

overhead fluorescent lights, and sent rods of yellow light bouncing off my considerable, sweaty bald spot.  

     "Buenos", I said looking over my crooked sunglasses.  I must have looked like the love child of the Quaker Oats man and Colonel Sanders...with crooked shades, an earring, and nursing a hangover the size of Detroit.

The bag boy at Romero's is a young man who is always friendly and smiled genuinely when I nodded in recognition.

The total cost of my groceries came to $32.02.  I handed the girl two twenties, to which she

said "Tiene dos centavos?" which I assumed meant, "Did you steal Andy Rooney's eyebrows?"

I nodded at her and stood there smiling until I realized she wasn't flashing me the peace sign.  What she really wanted was to know if I had two cents.

For some reason I panicked and shook my head "no", then said "Wait!"  I dug deep into my pants pocket, trying to feel around my keys and wadded up receipts.  I pulled out my fist which contained a quarter, and a receipt from the dollar store for two items totaling $2.50 (see 'gringo pricing')

The cashier rolled her eyes. By then my new friend, the bag boy, fearing that his entire youth would be spent waiting for me, produced two pennies from his own pocket and handed them to the cashier.

     "Gracias!" I said.  And I meant it.

Just then, to my left, a shrill American voice said,

     "They don't throw pennies away like we do."  Which was insulting to everyone on many levels.

I turned and started to say "I don't throw pennies away." but the woman shrieked excitedly,

     "We're Michiganders! Where are you from!?"

I looked past her at her husband who stood leaning on their shopping cart. The blank, pitiful look on his face spoke volumes, but mostly it said "There is no hope for me, you are on your own, dude.  Please shoot me." 

     "Portland, Oregon." I said, then turned back to my transaction. She continued to speak/screech something about the Pacific Northwest.

     "We've been here a year and a half.  How

long have you been here?!"

     I turned my head toward the siren's wail. 

* Here I use the word siren, as in air raid, not as in beautiful woman of the sea.

     "Ah, two weeks." I said.  The husband hung his head then looked up as if to say "Run!"

I took the bills and coins (often you receive one dollar Balboa coins in lieu of paper dollars), stuffed them in my pocket, snatched up my bags and was beginning my hasty departure; but not before remembering to tip the nice young man who bagged my groceries and went out of his way to donate his own two cents to round off my bill.

I sat my bags down, reached in my pocket and gave him a one dollar Balboa, placing it in his hand with a wink and a hardy 'thanks again!'  

He smiled.  It was the quarter.  I just picked up my bags and left.

I walked over to a trendy cafe just adjacent to the town square called 'Baru'.  The outdoor  patio is shaded by tall palms and each table has an umbrella.  I sat at a small table and ordered the 'Baru Nacho' and a Coca Cola Light, while soft jazz in the style of Sade played overhead.

After a moment I recognized the sleepy little tune being sung by the sultry female vocalist.

     "I know, it's only rock and roll..." scooby-dat-dat-yeah, "but I like it." Blat-bloop-diddly-do-wah.

The Rolling Stone's 'Only Rock and Roll'.  I had to smile.  Only in Panama.

My nacho was delivered and was clearly meant to feed an entire drunken bachelor party. 

     "Good God!" I said, to the sound of random chuckles.  "We made the same mistake!"  Someone hollered.

My real mistake was ordering the carne y pollo topping.  Instead of beef or chicken I accidentally ordered both. When my bill came I went pale.

You see when I was messing with my bank accounts earlier I was really just testing the theory to see if it would work and only took out $50.00. After coffee (+ tip) & groceries (+ extravagant tip) I knew I had just enough to pay for lunch...less the added charge for carne y pollo topping. 

The only thing I could do was pay for the food.  I wasn't about to wash dishes in a place blaring rock and roll all day!  The bill included the $1.74 gratuity, so I couldn't save anything by stiffing the poor waitress.

**************************************

Here is the funny part;

     The whole reason I started the story of this day (which now is 3 days ago) was to tell you about the cab ride home!  I am not making this up.

     I left the Baru cafe with a one dollar bill and a few coins.  The taxi ride home cost $3.00; my once good mood - went flat.  Summoning the special power of positive thinking and attraction (sometimes called 'prayer') I dug in my pocket so deep I almost stripped my shorts off, and came out with the three coins; one dime, and two Balboas!

"Where did I get this Balaboa...?  Ooohhhh"  

If I hadn't accidentally given the bag boy a quarter instead of a dollar I would not have enough to get a ride back up the mountain and the whole day would start over at the ATM.  I think I peed a little in gratitude.

I stood with my 5 bags of groceries in the sun trying to get a cab.  Just because I looked deranged, angry, and broke was no excuse for not picking me up, dammit!

Finally a cab emptied out across the street from me and before he could run away I yelled to the driver.

     "Volcancito?!" 'Cause that's where I live.

The driver waited while I crossed, and I fell into the sweltering cab. I smacked my noggin on the door jamb, threw my bags on the back seat and scooted in next to them setting the little car rocking. Then I did something that I will regret for the rest of life.  I slammed the door shut.

Somewhere the sun was shining, somewhere hearts where light. Somewhere kids were smiling, somewhere things were right.  But not there in the taxi.

The driver, a forty-ish Panamanian man, with dark stubble and mirrored sunglasses, spun around and said sternly,

     "Blah, blah, yellatme scoldinme, in spanishtyrade, pendajo!" 
 

I could see my reflection in his sunglasses.  It was the first time I caught a glimpse of my hair and knew my chances with the cashier at Romero's were slim.
    I don't like being scolded. My brain waves get all goofed up and I do something that just doesn't make sense - ask my family.  I'm not sure why, but I thought maybe the driver was trying to tell me that the door didn't shut all the way.  So I grabbed the handle to open and slam it again.

"No!  No!" he cried in frustration.

Suddenly I could understand Spanish.  He was telling me NOT to slam the door.  My own stupidity made me laugh and I nervously chuckled,

"I know, I'm sorry!  I'm such an American!" which I was hoping would break the tension.

Of course, all he heard was "American!" he turned back in his seat and using his hands like an Italian said through his teeth what I

interpreted as,

"It is obvious sir, that you are an American!  But you are in Panama!"

He gripped the steering wheel to keep from exploding.  I swear I saw steam shoot out of his ears.  I apologized again, but could not control my goofy grin. 

  

The rest of the ride was in silence.  To prove that he was the boss, the driver drove around the backstreets for a while, honking and waving to people I'm not sure he even knew.  Then he saw a woman across the road and motioned for her to come over.  They chatted casually for a few minutes while my steam bath continued in the back seat.  On the up side, I lost 3 lbs.

Finally, after cooling down and urinating

several times on his territory, the driver took me to my destination.  It doesn't help that I am staying in a ritzy area (meaning the building has a roof), or that the road leading up too it is unimproved and tosses the little cars to and fro, and bumps them up and down.

When we stopped I handed the driver the $3.00 tariff (fare) and stepped out of the cab.  I sat my bags in the dirt and gravel to show submission (I wasn't in the mood to roll over on my back).  I grabbed the door and leaned over smiling at him while gently closing the door.  He smiled back and in English said,

     "Thank you."

It is all about respect and needing to be heard.  Isn't that all anybody wants? 

THE END

(Now go to bed!)