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!)

      

     

    

     

The People of Panama; Side B

     After finishing side "A" of this report, I went down into town to replenish my depleted grocery supply.  When I returned I realized that my experience and interactions during this day were typical of a 'DP day' in Panama. So, I'd like to share those magic moments with you now, in part two of:

"LAS PERSONAS de PANAMA"

     My first and most pivotal stop was to an ATM at one of the national banks. After I punched in my PIN and requested some money the screen went blue and a string of characters appeared across the very top of the display.

I'm an old computer dude and I recognized the gibberish as a DOS directory command, something that looked like this:


Z:\err\holys\it\ursc\rewed.txt

Then the machine reset to its 'Welcome' screen.


       Like any money-wise adult would do, I

stood thoughtfully for a moment, then jammed my card in the slot and tried the transaction again - only to receive the same result as before. 

I scratched my sun burned head and decided I'd tell someone inside the bank that their ATM was out of money.

     At this juncture let me state (and I'm only guessing) that no bank in the history of Panama has ever been successfully robbed.  Allow me to explain.
      

     Immediately outside the locked, six inch, bulletproof, glass, entrance door of the bank, stand two giant boulders, each  wearing

badges, scowls, and weapons.  One of them scans you up and down, body and limbs with a metal detector.  The second boulder, assuming you have passed the WMD test, looks
you in the eye, holding your gaze, looking for any sign that you might be trouble in a Hawaiian shirt. A long moment passes, then boulder two unlocks the door and directs you in to the bank  'Click!', the door locks behind you and a third guard, standing just inside the building, grins a sinister grin and says "Buenos Dias", his fingers tapping the butt of an AR-15 automatic sub-machine gun hanging at his side.

 
From there you are ushered into a room where you can change your pants and pray the rosary.  

You are then free to return to the lobby and allowed to finish your banking.

     After a few clumsy inquiries I was directed to a woman whom I was assured would listen to my plight and would be happy to help me. 

She was pretty.  She was courteous.  She was no help.  She told me to call my bank.  In America.  On a Saturday.  My face smiled, I thanked her, rose slowly, so not to provoke

Senior Tappy Fingers into something we'd both regret, and calmly left the bank.  


     Undaunted, I went directly to 'el Banco' (that's "the bank" for you gringos) next door and tried to get money from their ATM.  This time the message read:

  "You have exceed your maximum daily withdrawl" 

    

"But... but, I didn't get any money!" I said to no one.

  Sweating now, and shaking some, I lowered the withdraw amount, hoping against hope that this time the machine would pull its electronic head out of its ATM ass and give me some money.  Same message.

"You have exceed your maximum daily withdrawl" 

    I looked around like I was searching for a hidden camera, or at least someone I knew who would laugh, slap me on the back and say "Ha! Gotcha!"  Then we'd laugh and go have a beer.

     No such luck. After a few minutes I closed my mouth and stood there accessing my situation.

    Let's see; Foreign country; Don't speak the language; Don't know anybody; Is it really hot in here?; No cell phone; Completely out of food; Man, I'm hungry; One machine has just robbed me in gibberish; And another machine, as if to mock me has confirmed it; not once, but twice - in English.  

     Fifteen minutes earlier I was a seasoned, happy-go-lucky gringo coming into town to buy groceries and treat myself to a sit-down breakfast.  Now I was flat broke, hungry, and 4,500 miles from home. 'No problem', I thought, 'I'll simply step in front of a fast moving bus and,...wait!'

     "Don't panic.  Breathe.  Mike's Global Bar and Grill has free wi-fi and a computer I can use!" I thought.  Easy-Peasy.

  

     I casually strolled down the road and into the bar.  I see a small, Panamanian boy of about 7 years old standing at the computer moving the mouse about.  I used the restroom and when I returned to the computer the child is gone, so I sat on the sofa. The screen had several windows open, and was asking permission to download an app of some sort.

"Looks like I got here just in time." I chuckled snidely.

    I closed out the session and logged into my on-line banking site to see if any money had actually been taken from my account by the evil gibbering ATM.  Nothing yet, a good sign.

 

      Suddenly the little boy walked up.  He had a shocked look on his face.  He threw out his arms, and rattled off a string of Spanish which I can only assume meant something like:

 "What the hell, old man?  Where is the stuff I was working on?"

     I smiled politely and reminded the boy that he left the computer, and I'd assumed he was finished.  Which, of course, made no sense to the child since I was speaking English. He stood there defiantly, glaring at me with his hands on his hips. 

     I gulped and flashed the international sign for "I'm sorry, kid!", you know, the 'dumb-ass grin with a haughty shrug' sign.  The boy exhaled sharply, turned and walked away, cussing me out in 'baby-Spanish'.

     Suddenly, I felt as if I was in a race against time!  My fingers flew as I checked my account balances and transferred money from checking to savings, all before the kid came back with his finger-tapping 'papa'.  The mouse was a blur!  "Hurry, DP, Hurry!"  I heard his tiny sandals approach, then stop and retreat when his mother called him.  I had bought some time.

     Then suddenly, silently he was back - appearing out of nowhere like something from "Children of the Corn!"  "Thank God!" I thought, "He is alone! No tapping Daddy!"

Still, his sudden appearance had rattled me, threw me off my rhythm.  I hesitated, losing the position of the mouse pointer for just an instant, then clicked the wrong icon!  DOH!

     I cringed, smiled, and held up my index finger. 

"Uno momento", I say confidently, then added, "Por favor, Senior" - just to charm the little fella.  He was not.  He folded his arms slowly and stood there, all two and half feet of him, giving me the "Stink eye...kid edition".

A message I am unfamiliar with popped up on the monitor with a chirp and broke the spell.  I looked back at the screen and froze, tilting my head like a confused dog, my mouth bent in befuddlement. 

    

"What the...?" I whined aloud.

 There I was, hunched over the computer, leaning low, squinting of course, because I am too vain to carry my reading glasses.  I rubbed my eyes and sighed a heavy sigh.

Then suddenly, a most unexpected sound.  The gleeful giggle of a child.  Apparently the sight of this bumbling, old white man had tickled the boy, and it cracked him up. The tension of the

situation had been shattered.  JFK could not have been more relieved after the resolution of the Cuban Missile Crisis than I was at that moment.

     I finished my emergency money transfer and closed my session with a theatrical flurry.  The little boy leaned back against the sofa, folded his arms, shook his head, and smiled. 

     I nonchalantly waved my hand, offering the computer back to him.  Then I stood, nodded my head in respect, and walked out the door.  I walked back up the road to the bank.

This time I approached the ATM cautiously, pretending to be someone different just in case the demon was good with faces.  When I inserted my card the machine paused for a moment in suspicion.  I could feel my heart pounding in my chest!  Then without taking its one big eye off of me, it asked for my PIN.  I entered the numbers slowly making sure there were no mistakes.  I swallowed and hit 'continue'.

         "Wait for it!  Wait for it!  BAM!  I'm In!"

     So far, so good.  This time I chose to withdraw cash from a different account, the one I so craftily transferred money too earlier at the bar.  I made my request.  Nothing.  Silence.

     Then with a blink and a churn the devil machine begrudgingly gave up my cash!  I had beaten the beast!  I had slain the dragon.

    "Bitch." I said, stuffing the money into my fat, sweaty, gringo wallet.

I swung open the portico door, slid on my shades, and walked in to the heat of the Panamanian morning.

 

End of side II...  To be continued...  yet again.

 

Ewww! It's a mini-series!

 

            

    

    
  
   
 

The People of Panama (Side A)

     Well, now that I have been in the tropics of Panama for nearly two weeks, I feel that I am uniquely qualified to speak for, not only the country of Panama, but anyone who has ever traveled here. It is time to get down to the

brass tax, separate the wheat from the corn, and get to the bottom lime. 

     Today the subject matter will be:" La Gente."

     Now, before you cover the screen and rush the children out of the room, La gente means "the people".  As in 'We la gente', and has absolutely nothing to do with a person's genitalia - although I am told that there are some women (and men) in Panama City were it is entirely reasonable to blend the two phrases, but that is a subject for another day.

     The Panamanian people are open, caring, and loving...to each other.  To the gringos they are suspicious, courteous, and tolerant.  Unless you were smuggled into the country in the hubcap of a Volvo you will have more money than they do.  Of course, that isn't your fault, but add to that the fact that you don't speak their language, are demanding (as only we wacky Americans can be), take pictures of

nothing, are constantly trying to be too friendly, and sweat profusely; and you will begin to get the picture.

     Don't get me wrong; gringos contribute a lot of money to the local economy.  So much, in fact, that there is 'special' pricing for us; 'Gringo Pricing'.  For instance, there is a Dollar Store here in Boquete that charged me $1.25 per item just to make me feel at home.  Sweet folks, really.  It's kind of like the 7th Calvary buying Indian blankets from the Lakota after

Wounded Knee.  Buyer beware! It is something about the twinkle in their eyes, and the 'Ventosa' sign they slap on your back when you enter the store.
     Of course, the young natives are much more tolerant than their elders.  An elder can be easily identified by the resentment in their dark, dead eyes which peer from the deep crags of their weathered faces - also by their colorful, festive dress!  They have been here long enough to understand that what has been gained by this influx of American dollars is out weighed by the loss suffered because of  the

influx of Americans themselves.  On the up side; you can rent an ATV to drive up into the hills and cut cookies in their dirt yards.  Yay!

To be continued...End of side "A"