Back to city living. . .oh and another island

The plane’s tires chirped as it touched back down in Panama (city) on Wednesday afternoon. The air was heavy with humidity that I had grown to expect. After going through a rather interesting airport routine, the baggage claim consisted of one gentleman calling out claim numbers off bags and insisting on seeing people’s claim stubs, we strolled out to the Peugot and to the Vallarino casa. The house was buzzing by the time we got there. All of Bosco Sr.’s politico staff were scrambling around the house to get ready for the big TV interview. I had never seen a news interview in person before, let alone a Panamanian news interview. Needless to say, a lot was lost in translation. While Bosco doused his pretty little face in fancy make-up I poured and consumed several Jack n’ Cokes. The cameras started to roll and I sat in the corner of the room, watching, mindlessly, the chaos that was taking place; cameras on rollers, make-up artists, people playing with colored lights on tripods, and one excessively overdone news anchor woman. The heat in the house turned unbearable so I stepped outside into some slightly fresher air. The interview had been going on for a while when the time came that I needed another drink. My path to the kitchen through the house had been blocked with wires and camera men and the like. I resorted to walking around the side of the house and entered through a side door. On my way to the cocina I passed on the wrong side of some lights that were positioned outside a window to help with some “soft” light. Apparently on the other side of the window the shadow of a scrawny gringo passed behind the ensuing interview. I found out the following night, while watching the interview on “live” TV, that they edited out my Panamanian television debut.

Bosquitto looking all GQ and the like.

The A's, Alina, Alannis and Annie.

The noise and commotion grew to be too much for me to bear. I have a hard time dealing with a lot of people speaking in my native tongue, but in Spanish, a language I only understand a few dirty words, was just too much. I snuck around the side of the house, avoiding the menagerie of lights, and grabbed my swim trunks and a damp towel that didn’t seem to want to dry the entire time I was there. I poured another beverage and headed over to the pool to soak my slightly roasted skin. Bosco had apparently finished his interview and joined me poolside with plenty of beers and the mini soccer ball. Being the boys that we are, and soccer players at that, we started up a friendly little competition. The pool had an arching bridge that spanned a narrow portion of the pool. About twenty feet away was the pool deck and small grassy area. The challenge was to shoot the ball past the tending goalkeeper and through the archway of the bridge. The biggest challenge proved to be avoiding any of the other pool goers, trying enjoy a (formerly) quiet poolside evening. I’m not really sure who won (it was me I think) but the highlight was when a school aged boy, who was helping shag our stray shots, was struck in the leg by one of Bosco’s many strays and violently fell to the paved pool deck. The three of us laughed until tears fell from our ducts. It was quite funny. After the poolside competition it was time for the old man to hit the sack. All the late night partying in Bocas had put a serious dent into my required sleeping time.

Escaping the chaos on the back patio.

. . .and a lovey shot for the ladies.

The next day Bosco entertained some of my touristy needs and we headed to the second oldest city in Panama, Casco Viejo. Casco Viejo was the Panamanian peoples attempt to reestablish the city after Casco Panama was burned down by the drunken, barrel posing, pirate, Captain Morgan. The old city is tucked just a few blocks from one of Panama’s most notorious ghettos, we pulled to ol’ “rollem’ up” routine as soon as we turned down a shady looking side street. Once in the historic city the narrow cobbled stoned streets and deep gutters are framed by multi-story Spanish influenced buildings. Although I’ve never actually been to New Orleans, (and realize that it’s call the “French Quarter”) it looked very similar to pictures I have seen. We wandered around the old city and soaked up the classic feel of the neighborhood. The old town provides a pretty good view of the new city across the bay. While strolling down a side street we popped into a touristy shop where I proceeded to take a page out of Bosco’s book and haggled for a variety of items, including but not limited to: a Carnivale mask (very scary), a local painting, a mug for my admin, a box of dominoes (which I don’t know how to play) and a grass wallet). I want to say I walked out of the shop $80 poorer which isn’t bad considering they wanted $70 for the mask alone. If now I can just get the roomie to let me hang it up, I think he’s scared of it.

Driving into Casco Viejo.

An old church in Casco Viejo

The new city through the foundation of the old city.

I scrambled over a tumbling wall to get a picture of the old University Club of Casco Viejo. The old city in the background.

A lone trubador with the new city in the background.



A monmument to the workers of the Panama Canal. . .and a cock.

The mask Dan doesn't want hung anywhere by my bedroom.

We continued to wander the streets and made our way into the National Theater (I took pictures but the poor lighting and weak flash [or my hatred for the flash] didn’t work too well). There we, being Bosco, sparked up a conversation with some young Swedish ladies. They were on a 4 month tour of Central and South America. Bosco began asking them what they had seen in Panama so far. They apparently hadn’t seen much because they only ventured a few blocks from their hostel to that point. Bosco offered to give them a tour from a bonafide Panamanian (with no accent mind you. So many people had a hard time believe Bosco when he told people he is Panamanian because of the lack of accent when he spoke English. Apparently his “Yankee” accent is very strong when he speaks Spanish though). Like any unassuming tourist, the ladies agreed to Bosco’s offer. Just as the car doors were closing the light bulb went off. They both started talking in their foreign tongue, apparently about how unsafe their recent decision was. We laughed about it and went on with the tour.

Tuning the piano at the National Theater.

Ceiling art at the National Theater.

Our Swedish friend’s choice came into question again when, only a few blocks into our trip, we are flagged down by a cop on the street corner. Of course, it was my fault again. Really, I think having license plates dated 2007 in 2009 may create a bit of a target but so does not wearing your seat belt when you’re a gringo. The girls seemed excited to have been stopped by the cops and couldn’t keep their faces off the back window of the Peugot’s hatchback, watching the action unfold. To further complicate measures, Bosco had misplaced his license and identification card. All he had was a Virginia’s driver’s license, hoping his name would get us out of trouble, Bosco handed that over to the cop, a long explanation in Spanish followed. If I had to guess the officer was not a supporter of Bosco’s father. As the ladies and I sat in the idling car, waiting for Bosco to do his thing with the cop, I had to confirm Bosco’s story to the ladies. I went into a little more depth than he had and finished with, “I couldn’t make that story up if I tried.” Which, for those of you who know me. . .i totally could. Bosco hopped back into the car, shared a few choice words for me, and we were back to the stuffing cash into my passport and passing it along to the officer, $20 this time. I’m not really sure how a DUI pay off is $40 and a seatbelt violation is $20 but I wish this system worked in the states. Hell. . .i’m looking at a $260 fine for a speeding ticket. I wonder how much that would cost me in Panama.

After the officer induced intermission we went about our tour. Bosco careened through the side streets of Panama until we made our way onto the Causeway, a spot we had visited on my first “day” in Panama. It was dark by this time and the city’s lights speckled the calm bay. Having already taken the Causeway tour I offered up some of my own input, including historical significance and the engineering it took to create. Bosco chimed in with more local flavor on restaurants and bars. On our way back to the Swede’s hostel we pulled into a rather dark and empty parking lot. At this point I started to get scared for the ladies. . .and myself (Bosco had been strutting around in those Mankinis a little too much for my taste). Bosco slowed the Peugot to a stop under a tree, a mango tree to be more specific. We all jumped out of the car like a band or starving, homeless travels, which three of us actually were. The Swedes began to fill their pockets until the seams nearly blew out, and then moved onto shopping bags and towels. After the mango “picking” we headed down the street to catch a glimpse of the “once far more significant than it is today” bridge (it has a much better sounding name). We discovered that Panama was a lot more green that any of us had expected. With energy consumption in mind, the city had turned off many of the bridges lights, leaving us with a sparsely lit structure hanging over the entrance of the canal. Bosco turned the car back toward the ghetto and we left our ladies to their own devices while we headed out for some dinner and a good night’s rest.

Panama from the Causeway at night.

The next morning started in typical Panamanian style, with a 11am breakfast. We darted off from downtown Panama and headed to the nearby, 2 hour drive, costal town of Colon. Our actual destination was not Colon as Colon is a massive ghetto filled with gangs and thieves. The road to Colon was hair raising, not because of anything that happened during our trip but because of Bosco’s tales about some bandits that cruised the highway in blacked out Scion’s terrorizing unsuspecting drivers. We saw one blacked out Scion but they didn’t seem to interested in terrorizing us. I did do my best to look less white during the drive, however. We reached our planned destination after a long drive down a dusty and rutted road, Isla Grande. We actually had to take a water taxi over to the actual Isla Grande. I’m not entirely sure what the “port” town, really just a dock with a few long wooden boats, was called. Isla Grande, a location as new to Bosco as it was to me, proved to be a very small beach littered with “locals” and no shortage of garbage. We drug our bloated, beer filled cooler over to a quiet spot on the beach and relaxed for a few minutes. Shortly after our arrival a couple of local began juggling a soccer ball behind us. Like a junkie waiting at the doors of a methadone clinic, I can’t turn my back on a soccer ball. We asked to join the group and they happily obliged.

Fully stocked for our "day" trip to the island.

The funny thing about being white and wanting to play soccer in Panama if not all of Central/South America, is that everyone expects you to be crap. There is a particular smile that is cracked every time I asked if I could join a game. A game of 3v3 started up, using sticks in the sand as goals and the incoming water as the sideline. Bosco and I were teamed up with a kid from a neighboring group who I suspect our hosts figured wasn’t as good as themselves. After smacking a nice side volley, via my lovely service, through the sticks, they watched him a little more closely. I managed to upset a few of the locals after one of my shots ran astray and smashed into their tent behind the goal. I smiled and waived as the man yelled at me in Spanish. It obviously didn’t bother him enough to get off his fat, Pringle eating ass, to walk over to the game and share his opinion of my complexion, which was just fine by me. The beach was rough and the sand consisted mostly of marginally broken up coral, which managed to get itself lodged into my foot as the game went on. About three-quarters of the way through the game, after Bosco buried a nice shot between the sticks, someone recognized my famous travel companion and began shouting his name. . .every time he touched the ball. We sent the other team walking after I put away the team’s fifth goal, my second. As soon as we shook hands the crowd began to encroach on Bosco, I made a run for the ocean, mostly to rinse away some blood and sand but also the hide from the crazy, loving locals.

I was hailed out of the water by a larger woman, the same one who noticed Bosco’s presence in the first place, “Hey gringo! Hey gringo!” she shouted. I sloshed my way up the coral filled beach until I was standing next to my superstar friend. Feeling quite thirsty I immediately opened up a beer as I was berated with questions from all angles. I don’t really remember, or understand, many of the questions that were being asked but I do remember having several, illegally young ladies, taking pictures of themselves and me with their cell phones. I didn’t really want to ruin the moment but I wondered if they knew that I was just some pasty, truck sleeping, bike riding, collared shirt wearing hippy from Oregon, a state they have probably never heard of. I took the photo shoot in stride, along with the “Panama loves you!” and the “God loves you” comments. Our admirers left and Bosco phoned for a boat to get us the hell out of there. We were looking to take a rid around the island to see what other, hopefully less populated, beaches existed. Our original taxi driver wanted $25 to drive us around the island, just then, a boat pulled up along the shore and we haggled for a $15 island tour.

Rough seas and sunlight, Isla Grande

The famed Black Christ of Isla Grande (warning: you can't climb on it. . .i tried and it's not stable the last thing you want to be is the gringo who broke the Black Christ of Isla Grande)

As we drove along the coast of the island the waters began to get a little rough, not rough enough to make anyone nauseous but rough enough to have me question the integrity of the boat and my ability to swim in rough waters. We also found that the beach that we were on was in fact, the only “beach” on the entire tiny island. It took us about ten minutes to circle the island. Our driver dropped us off along the shore near a ocean front row of restaurants and small hotels. Just as we stepped foot onto the dock Bosco’s name was being called. “Not this shit again!” I thought to myself. Thankfully it was a group of Bosco’s friends from Panama (city). Conveniently, he also knew the proprietor of the hotel and restaurant that we were left to search for food. Shelter was not a concern of ours as we had planned on making the trip back to Panama so we could make my early morning flight. As the night wore on. . .shelter did become a “concern” but Aladino offered up a great deal on our food and board. And when you’re hammered and the last boat has left the island for the night. . .that deal sounded even sweeter. We had the entire hotel and seemingly island, to ourselves. Large volumes of alcohol were consumed, our cooler was emptied, dancing took place, lots of drunken photos taken, several wades through the water out to “kick it” with the Black Jesus and some minor destruction took place. I don’t clearly remember much of the evening other than I was kissed by a fat girl. . .twice, the food I had was tasty and so was the rum. Bosco and I nearly took a scuba like dive into ocean behind us as the PVC railing we were sharing snapped underneath us. Thankfully, like a hamburger patty in the 80’s arcade game “BurgerTime,” We fell to the next railing. Thinking ahead like any good, seasoned, responsible drunk would, I called the airline to see if I could change my flight. The six million dollar cost to change my flight did little to slow our consumption; instead we got the promise of an intoxicated hotel proprietor, to have a boat ready for us at 5.30 the next morning.

No hermit crabs were harmed in the taking of this photo.

Looking back on the hotel from the Black Christ of Isla Grande

The night getting fuzzy already.

Loco Gringo.

Property damage.

. . .and the drunk group photos start. . .

. . .and continue. . .

. . .and continue to continue. . .

Salsa dancing in the eyes of an intoxicated gringo.

I snapped this picture while i was gasping over the cost to change my flight. Not bad for lazily laying on my back while being molested by Panamanian toads.

I don’t really remember when or how I made it back to the room but the important part is that I did. The less important part is that I woke up with a passed out lady in my bed with me. All signs led to the fact that she was later placed in my bed as my shorts and shirt were still in tact. I woke up with Bosco’s hand shaking my shoulder. I had apparently slept through my weak cell phone alarm and we were dangerously approaching crunch time to catch my plane. This wasn’t that hard seeing as we still hadn’t seen a boat, our car was locked in a “secure” parking lot and after those to obstacles were overcome, we still had a drunken ride back, through bandit country nonetheless. I rolled out of bed, careful not to awake the chubby lass laying beside me, we paid the proprietor, and thanked him for the hospitality just as a boat came sputtering up to the dock. We scrambled onto the boat and bounced our way back across the choppy surf to the mainland. We were met at the dock by a stout man in board shorts and a key in his hand. He led around behind a stucco building, presumably a house, and unlocked the gate that separated the Peugot from the road back to Panama (city).

The boat ride back the next morning.

Bosco charged the little Peugot down the dented and dirty road until we saw signs of civilization. Then it was time to push the overgrown scooter even harder. The ride back to Panama was nothing memorable; no blacked out scions or police buy offs, just a mellow, half drunk cruise back to the city. We arrived at Bosco’s house with about an hour left before my flight’s departure. I hurriedly stuffed every possession in sight into my luggage. I wished love filled goodbyes to the sleepy bodies roving about the house and we headed back to the car for the short trip to the airport. I bid my beloved Panamanian guide and brother from another mother goodbye with hopes that our paths cross again soon. Like any good tourista, I head bobbed my way through the doors as I lugged my items into the airport jamming out to some urban hip-hop. The flight back was about the least eventful part of my trip, quiet, sleep and reading filled.

I know I’ve said this before and I’m sure I’ll say it again but there is something about this city, Portland, that just feels right. As the plane planted its wheels on the tarmac I felt a sudden overwhelming ease pass through my body. . .i was home. As much as I enjoyed my time in Panama and will certainly return, nothing can replace my beloved city. Now I’m back to my same old antics, smiling my way through bike crashes, attending civic events and enjoying a few pints through it all.

Seriously. . .when you call call this home why would you live anywhere else?