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"    
     

Whiteylocks 2

“Whiteylocks” continued…

I’d like to start this entry by entering my personal space; that is, a space between ‘Whitey’ and ‘Locks’.  This allows me to continue the story from yesterday without actually having to put any real effort into it.  Therefore, today’s entry is called;

"W H I T E Y   L O C K S"

As some of you are aware this reporter is currently residing in the Central American

country known by a single word, a word the locals call ‘Panama’.  The word "Panama"

itself means…well, I don’t know, but I’m sure someone does.  Panama has been around

in some form or another for centuries and used to be known

as;  "That Little Strip of Land that Connects Those other Two

Big Pieces of Land Together". 

Of course, it wasn’t until the 18th or 19th century, when "maps"

were invented, that the name of this little country was changed,

not only to protect the  names of the innocent, but because the

original name was way longer than the actual country itself.  Also, the name wouldn't fit on 

a "map".  And so, the tiny country that stands between North America and South America

officially became "El Dolor en el Culo", which translated from 

the original language means "Pain in the Ass", so called

because if it weren’t for this little, tropical country a ship full

of dirty, stinky pirates could cut their travel time from the

Caribbean sea to the Pacific ocean by roughly 2,500 years, thus

saving count-less buccaneer suicides. This also explains why

so many pirates buried their treasure among the islands of the

Caribbean. 

When Captain James T. Cook was

asked, in a 1724 "Pirates Life" interview,

why he buried his "booty" in the white sands of the Caribbean

and not the cold, gray sands of The Pacific he said

“What’s the point? We’d all be dead by the time we sailed

around South America.  Might just as well bury the stuff here

and hope we can remember where we put it."  Which they

didn't.  

      Then some other things happened and a couple of centuries later, a now 

forgotten country called "France" got tired of hearing the pirates whine and,  

putting their collective brain power to work, came up with the idea

of digging a long ditch through the jungles of ‘El Dolor en el Culo’,

a ditch big enough to walk through, while dragging gold, spices,

and long, hard loaves of bread behind them in rickety, old carts.

Well, in no time at all, France gave up digging and changed 

the name of the country to ‘Panama’.

      By the turn of the 20th century the “United States” had won its

independence from...well, I don't know, some other country - but,

my point is that the U.S. decided to pick up the challenge where

France had left off.  However, the “United States” took a different

approach to the project and decided to dig a ditch big enough to actually sail a

ship through.  They built a series of ‘floating stair steps’ which, upon entering, could

raise or lower a vessel by filling or emptying giant bathtubs full of sea water.  These

bathtubs were known as ‘locks’.  Today this series of 'locks' is called "The New Jersey

Turnpike" - no, wait...“The Panama Canal."  Yes! Its now

known as the "Panama Canal!"

      But the native Panamanians, reflecting on this steel

and concrete monstrosity that tore asunder their quiet, 

beautiful home, called it "Cerraduras Blanco" or

"Whitey Locks".  Which brings us full circle. 

I'm sorry, I don't write the news, I only report it.  Thank you, and Good Night.