Panama (Part 1)

 

Find the province of Veraguas. It is the only province with exposure to both the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. Find its bottom panhandle or tail. Follow that down almost to the bottom tip. I am there, on the west side of the peninsula atop a high hill overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

 

My plane had landed on a balmy Tuesday afternoon around 2:00 PM. I cleared immigration and customs with perfunctory nods and caught a taxi to Grand Terminal de Transit, near Albrook Mall in Panama City. The driver had asked for $35. I said I’d give him $30, and off we went.

 

Once at the station I went to the window labeled “Santiago” and purchased my express bus ticket for $9. Panama uses U.S. currency. The country mints its own coins (though I understand they accept U.S. coins as well). Getting to Santiago was the first leg of my journey; my friend would then pick me up the following day to complete the second leg of getting to his place, located in a remote area.

 

I was directed to the right bus, checked my bag, and climbed aboard, sitting in the front seat across the aisle from the driver. It seemed I was the first one on the bus. This meant a wait of perhaps 20 minutes while a handful of other passengers trickled in. Soon we were off, pushing westward through the city traffic.

 

When the bus started off the boy attending the driver asked me if I was going all the way to the station. I answered that my destination was the Hotel Plaza in Santiago. I didn’t know at the time if the bus stopped wherever a passenger wanted to get off. Neither did I know if our bus passed my hotel on its way to the Santiago station. So I had prepared something in Spanish ahead of time: “¿Pasamos el Hotel Plaza?” (Do we pass by the Hotel Plaza?—if the answer was yes, then I would say—“Por favor, indique el Hotel Plaza cuando lo pasamos.” (Please point out the hotel when we get there.) I’m not sure the attendant understood. But after I repeated “Hotel Plaza” a few times he wrote something down. So I thought he finally understood my final destination.

 

Santiago is the capital of Veraguas Province and is located more or less just above the top of the tail. The “express” bus traveled down the PanAmerican Highway, two lanes going each way divided by a median strip. It would pull off to various stops along the way to pick up more passengers. And indeed, the bus would stop to let anyone off at pull-offs if they wanted to disembark before the Santiago station. My friend here had told me that I might wear something warm because the air conditioning can get a bit chilly. So I kept my light green Peters jacket with me. Sure enough, I had to put it on later during the four-hour ride.

 

There was a window curtain. I pushed it forward to watch the scenery go by as we barreled along. It varied, from thick leafy greenery to dusty bus stop corrals set amid jumbles of roadside shanty-businesses or weathered and stained concrete structures. As the bus would stop I’d watch the folks, searching their faces, and I looked to see how they moved their bodies and reacted to things around them. Of course I had an eye for the ladies.

 

At one stop stood an exceptionally beautiful girl with long, black, flowing hair. She wore blue jeans and a white and pink, floral-patterned halter top, exposing her lovely shoulders. She smiled a few times acknowledging our driver (no spring chicken). They seemed to know each other. The driver soon asked her if she was coming aboard and she replied in the negative, adding something I could not decode.

 

There were children too, some in school uniforms, and parents carrying sleeping kids in their arms. Young guys hung out here and there or walked along, streetwise and very aware of their surroundings. Everyone was just going about his or her daily business. Sometimes hawkers would come aboard the bus trying to sell dried banana snacks or agua while passengers loaded in. In most of them I sensed a solemn, work-day routine. They seemed simple and relatively carefree, exhibiting a sort of floating sociability among their compatriots. And I saw no purple hair or tattoos or body piercings. These people hardly went-in for such pretentious frivolities.

 

I sort of sat there in a daze watching it all go by. I had eaten no breakfast (except of course my tall steel mug of coffee) and I declined the airline snack-food along the way. I had a bag of almonds in my bag (along with two pounds of Quartermaine’s finest house roast) but these were packed away and stowed. I had decided to fast throughout the day. It was a good thing I had because there was no bathroom on the bus and it made no comfort stops during its four-hour journey.

 

Around 6:00 PM the sun was setting. The bus traveled on for maybe another hour. By my estimation we were quickly approaching Santiago. Sure enough, as I looked out from my perch I suddenly noticed some large letters that spelled out SANTIAGO. Then, not but a few blocks after that, my eye caught the sign of my hotel, Hotel Plaza. Obviously the bus was moving on. So I blurted out to the driver, “Aqui, señor!—Hotel Plaza.” He was unprepared to stop but slowed down considerably and inched over to the next pull-off. He seemed a bit irritated. The young attendant came forward and he too seemed a little confused. Of course I was confused too because I thought they knew where I had wanted to get off. As it was, I got off, picked out my bag but from the stow area, then had to walk back about a quarter mile, feeling lucky that I had seen the sign at all. The boy said something in Spanish while giving me my bag. I had no idea what he was saying, so I just said “Adios!” and humped my bag back along the road.              

 

Winding my way down the long entranceway I felt relief that I was about to check in. I had already dug into my bag for a few mouthfuls of almonds but I was looking forward to a good supper. I entered the officina and handed my pre-printed reservation and passport to the woman there who smiled warmly and welcomed me in Spanish. She booked me into Rm. 4, then handed me the key and the AC and TV remotes. I thanked her and gladly handed the TV remote back to her. Non merci!     

 

It was no hi-rise. The room was the fourth in a long line of cabañas, each with a driveway for parking. All of them were on ground level. It was all white inside and very clean. On the wall between the two double beds hung a framed picture of a pink lotus flower. I settled in a bit, then set out for the restaurant. (I’ll try not to get bogged down in tedious details.)

 

I entered the hotel restaurant, sat at the counter, and began a conversation with the waitress. She handed me a menu and I ordered a cold beer and something that looked interesting called chiletas, I think. It turned out to be two nicely prepared pork chops with a sweet orange sauce, thick potato fries and a small salad. I soon ordered another beer as I noticed the wine. Soon I chose a cabernet from Mendoza, Argentina. It cost $18. I asked her if she would like a glass. She answered, “No puedo.” I can’t.

 

As I worked through my plate of food the waitress seemed interested in trying to communicate with me. There were no other customers there. Her English was about as good as my Spanish. I learned that her name was Ilka. She was 30-years old and a single mom with a six-year old daughter. She asked me how old I was, guessing that I was maybe 50. I said that I am an old man. But she said I didn’t look like an old man. The more wine I drank and the longer she stood there doing some paperwork while we shared our thoughts, the more I began having “thoughts” about her. About then, a fellow came out of the kitchen, the cook maybe, and was fiddling around nearby. She said that they close at 9:30. Before long it was closing time. I finished the bottle and decided to turn in. I paid the check, tipping her well, and then, wishing her well, I turned around and left.

 

The night was spent in clean fresh sheets under a white comforter. I slept like a dead man until about 4-something. Then I got up and took 600 milligrams of ibuprofen. I would have made my coffee but I had no hot water kettle and no cream. So instead I went back to bed for a few more hours. Around 7 AM I made my way back to the restaurant where they filled my 16 oz. stainless steel mug with steaming coffee.

 

My friend, Clyde Whelen, wouldn’t arrive until about 10:30. Until then I surfed some of my usual sites and went for a walk. I felt kind of suspended, with pangs of alienation (being in an alien nation) and I wanted to get out of there as soon as I could to begin my planned adventure in Quebro (pronounced “kay-bro”). That’s the name of the district where my friend had established his homestead-far-from-the-coming-catastrophe. 

___________

 

I was wondering whether I’d recognize Clyde. We had only hung out for a few days back in late March of 2015. That was in Cuenca, Ecuador. We were both using the same dentist there to remove our mercury dental fillings. In talking we had discovered that besides being attuned to this particular insidious form of poisoning we shared other interests concerning how humanity has been hoodwinked and enslaved. So we had kept in touch by email over the past three+ years.

 

I had been privy to the discovery of his property from the beginning. Here’s the realtor’s old link to the property: https://www.panamarealtor.com/property/4377 And here is a link to the seller’s own website that had advertised the property: https://panamaazuerolandsale.wordpress.com/

 

The initial sale price was $340,000. Clyde got it for $210,000. He had asked me to come in with him in a kind of joint venture to further develop and live on this property. I had offered a very guarded and conditional “Yes.” This trip was for the purpose of exploring the property and the area with a view toward considering it as my own place of refuge. But please note: It is not for myself that I would do this but for future generations of loved ones: my granddaughter, Faith, and my nephews and nieces (and their progeny). Should the state of things get so bad that life become intolerable in the states (and especially near any big cities) this place might offer a much needed refuge. (That, of course, presumes that it would still be possible to find air transportation out.)

 

When a white Toyota Hillix 4x4 truck pulled onto the hotel grounds and passed by the officina where I was sitting I knew it was Clyde. When I saw this wiry frame-of-a-man climb out and saw his face I immediately recognized him even though we had met only briefly. After a hearty handshake a few words, I wasted no time throwing my gear into his truck. Off we went to buy some staples at a supermarket named Rey and home improvement items from Panama’s version of The Home Depot, called the Do It Center. According to Clyde he intended to stock up on stuff in Santiago that he can’t otherwise get closer to his home.

 

At the Do It store we had an awkward encounter with a clerk when Clyde was trying to determine the best insecticide for ants. He was a young guy and slow to respond to our pigeon-Spanish prompts. We eventually managed to settle on what seemed like the optimal choice. After a few other items we were just about ready to check out.

Clyde also wanted 10 bags of Concrete mix to build a pad for a water storage barrel. Each bag was 80 lbs. In my broken Spanish I asked a clerk to help us get it loaded in our truck. Next I offered to fetch the truck and Clyde hesitated to hand me the keys until I reminded him I was a professional truck driver. I soon had it parked out front and we loaded it in with the help of the clerk.  I tipped the guy $3 and we then re-parked so we could head into the Rey.

 

In the supermercado I was elated as I browsed the aisles. I wanted to buy some postcards (tarjetas postales), asking a clerk or two whether they had any—no luck. Then I needed some cream for my coffee. There was no half-and-half, as I had expected. There was only milk and whipping cream and nothing in-between. I again asked a clerk about crema por el café. That clerk involved another clerk. Then they brought me first to the powdered milk aisle and then to the condensed milk aisle. I had some fun with them. I finally returned to the buy the whipping cream saying “Fresca es mejor.” (Fresh is better.) Next I found a tooth brush and some toothpaste, both of which I had forgotten to bring. I more-or-less found them on my own. All this time Clyde was putting some choice items in his cart. Finally, I purchased a plump piece of filet mignon from the butcher. And as I placed it in the cart I told Clyde, “We’ll eat like kings, at least while I’m here!” Clyde smiled and we soon finished up and headed for the cashier.

 

The trip to Clyde’s homestead was two hours down a pot-holed road. Just over half way we stopped in a town to buy a few more assorted food items. Clyde told me the grocery store is owned and run by a Chinese family who had been here since coming to work on the Panama Canal when it was first built. We soon scooted out of there and continued on our way another 30 or so miles toward his home-on-a-hill. So far, so good.