Noche de los Muertos Vivientes!

       Well, Halloween is over, though my head would argue the point.  I attended two different costume parties, mostly filled with expats.  The first party was held as a fundraiser for the FUPUD or BPNAS or TDLWH, I don’t know, but it is an abbreviation for what is commonly known as “Animales”, an organization that spays and neuters cats and dogs, here in Boquete.

       It was held in the building where the procedures are actually performed.  The first thing I noticed upon arrival was the unusually high percentage of men dressed as baseball players.  My theory for this phenomena you ask?  Athletic cups.   

       As the crowd began to arrive, I began my second favorite pastime – people watching.  With cheap food and libation and a band playing rock and roll from the sixties (both the decade and the median age of the band members), the joint was aching, I mean jumping, the joint was jumping in no time.  As the strains of The Beatles, Credence, and the Stones rang out, the strains of hips, backs and hamstrings began. 

Though there are plenty of younger expats in Panama most are of them are adventurous retirees, here for the fun and sun. 

Consequently there were some interesting costume choices.  Zombies where out in force this year, and some of them even dressed up for the occasion.  There were men dressed as women, a woman dressed like a man (I’m not sure she was in costume), a hand full of accident victims, and a very thin man with a shimmering, green, skin tight body suit, topped off with a cowboy hat and boots (He is known as ‘Cowboy Dave’ and sells used cars in town).

There was another cowboy in the crowd as well.  He came in wearing an outfit highlighted by a silver nose and silk scarf, a character from the movie Cat Ballou.  There was a young couple dressed as hippies from the musical Hair. “Rosie the Riveter” made an appearance, so did a few dozen spooky, crazed, blue-haired ladies, along with their hunched over, slow moving husbands.

Finally, after the band could play no longer, and the only dancers left on the dance floor were doing a Mummy-like leg drag trying desperately to find their table, after all the red Jell-O shots had be slurped, and the fancy box wine was gone, the party was over and it was time to go home.  A wave of ghouls and goblins staggered through the gravel parking lot leaving a trail of crepe paper, glitter, and false eye lashes in their wake.  The Witching Hour was tolling.  It was eight o’clock – I kid you not.

The AADAB (Amigos Anamale de Panana Something Something) had made enough money to snip and zip another couple hundred cats and dogs.  To date, they have spayed and/or neutered almost nine thousand pets, which is roughly 4.5 pets for every man, woman, and child in Boquete.

Next it was off to the after party party at Mike's Global, an expat pub.  Compared to the Animales shindig Mike's was Studio 54 of the late 70s. There were also less people in their late 70s.  The costumes were more elaborate, and it was wall to wall revelers.  These were people who knew how to push themselves to the limit, which, in this case, is about 10:30.

We found a table and I headed for the restroom.  In the small hallway I came upon my favorite server.  She was dressed in a red and white french maid's outfit.  She was putting on the finishing touches of her make-up in the mirror that hung on the wall between the bathrooms.  When she saw me she straightened and said,

 "You like?"

All I could do was make a screwy face and nod.  She stood between me and the men's room, which was occupied.

I could not believe my luck!  There was nothing to do but watch this Panamanian goddess as she applied her make-up.  I leaned against the bulletin board with all its push pins digging into my back while I took in the scene.

I stood gazing at her loveliness for what seemed like an hour, committing each subtle move to memory.  I couple of times she looked at me sideways, smiling coyly.

The spell was broken when another man walked into the hallway. 

"Someone's in there" I said, glancing past her at the men's room door.  I took a double take.  It was open...the whole time.  No one had been in there.  I had been gawking at this poor waitress like some old pervert.  And why? Because my old man eyes were failing me.  I was mortified.  On the up side, I got to squeeze behind her on the way to the john.

Back at the table, I sat alone as I had the entire evening, drinking a beer and people watching. You see, like the party before, I had come with Marian, half of a couple I met the day I landed in Boquete.

Tracy (how ironic is that?) is Marian's husband, he works at home during the day, leaving me to be a surrogate girlfriend to his wife.  Halloween was on Saturday, which is Tracy's day off, but Tracy decided he would just as soon stay home. 

Marian is like a toy train whose speed switch broke off in the fast position.  She is a dynamo.  She thinks fast, talks fast, makes friends fast (almost before you're aware), and she dances fast.  I have never met another person who moves more than I - until I met Marian.  

Marian is a force to be reckoned with.  From the moment the music starts until it fades in your ringing ears she is dancing. 

She starts out on the first song, dancing alone like nobody's watching (I should put that on a bumper sticker).  I have seen her (I'm not making this up), I have seen her dance the first two sets that the band plays - entirely alone.  If it were not for the band's "pause for the cause" breaks you would think I had come lone.

At Mike's party more dead cheerleaders, and zombie cowboys came and went.  Clint Eastwood with his fist full of dollars was there, as were Darth Vader and his little Storm Trooper wife Heidi,  (she's Korean, he's from Boston and they met at the South Pole).  At the table next to me sat a Roman Emperor and his wife dressed as Cat Woman (he was bald,  she was drunk and they were

both too old to be out that late).

      It's kind of humorous when old ladies get drunk, especially when they have applied an inordinate amount of face make-up.  Cat woman's "meow" cat eyes were, by now, hanging on her cheeks, and one eye was half closed like a broken doll.

  Anyway, I watched people come and go.  Everyone was in a festive mood and happy.  You don't normally see that in the States.  Usually someone mouths off, or stalks out mad, comes back with a weapon and kills the wrong person.  The only mishap I have seen here is when Marian danced a little too...strenuously.

By strenuously I mean she drunk danced and she twisted her ankle (she has weak ankles) and fell on her butt.  So we took the ice out of our waters and filled up her sock.  It melted and she went back out on the dance floor.  That was a couple of weeks ago, and she has learned her lesson, she says.

I drank another beer while I "chair danced" and watched the crowd. Soon a young Panamanian man came up to the table and leaned in.  He was wearing gold framed Elvis glasses and a drunken grin (I'm not sure if it was a costume).

"Remember me?" he said in his heavy accent.

"From...?" I said.

  He whipped off his glasses like he was revealing the Arc of the Covenant instead of his blood shot eyes.

"Casa Esperanza!"  he shouted.

Sure enough he was a guide at the school where Marian and I have volunteered to teach English.  I was a bit humbled that he remembered me.  He was very gracious and mucho tipsy.  I pointed out Marian on the dance floor which thrilled him anew.  He was fascinated by her energy and mad dance moves.  The music was loud so I tapped him on the arm and motioned toward Marion.

"You should go dance!" I said enthusiastically.  

"Que?" he shouted back.

"Dance!," I said, "You should dance!"

He suddenly sat back in his chair and gave me a look as if my eyebrows had turned into tractors.  He shook his head and frowned.  Then it hit me.

"Oh God! Not me!" I yelled, "Her!  Dance with Marian!  No, no not me!" I laughed nervously hoping he didn't carry a machete tucked in his shoe (I have no reason to think men in Panama carry a machete, but I was grateful none the less).

"Dios Mio!", he cried.  Then started to laugh, his brown Elvis face smiling broadly.

  He was relieved, to say the least, and eventually went out to dance with Marian.  Alone again (naturally), I drank another beer and ate pizza until Marian got to hot to dance and we decided to go home.

next up:  Independence Day!

I would like to thank Marian for allowing me to tag along on her dance marathon, and Tracy for bailing on us and turning me into an unpaid  escort.  There is always next year, Tracy.  Mmmwwwaaa-ha-ha-ha!

DP