PANAMA

In the summer of 2007, I found myself in Panama. How? Well, hereby hangs a tale.

A MAN, A PLAN, A CANAL, PANAMA 

Some of you will recognize the title as a very clever palindrome. If you don’t know what a palindrome is, you shouldn’t be reading this. 

Well, here we are in Panama. And why are we in Panama at the best time of year in Victoria? Because Alexandra entered her second childhood, being barely out of her first, and decided that she was right when, at age five, thought she would like to spend her life studying lemurs. At some point she changed her mind, but on the way to a degree in creative writing she took a course in anthropology, decided she liked it enough to do a minor, changed the minor into a major, then honours, and two days ago walked across the stage and was declared an official anthropologist. (It was all I could do to refrain from singing the Lonnie Donnegan song which starts “My Old Man’s an anthropologist, whatta ya think about that?”) Except one cannot be a practicing anthropologist without a couple more degrees, and in order to get a Master’s one has to go to field school, and if one wishes to study primates one has to go to a field school where there are primates, and apparently the Seattle zoo won’t do; they have to be wild primates. Hence Panama. 

So here we are in Panama. We left Victoria on Friday evening, and the trip took 15 hours: 7.5 in the air and 7.5 in airports. By and large, the airports are easier, but of course less productive, as one isn’t going anywhere. Panama can best be described as 90. Degrees , percent, kph, cents. (Temperature, humidity, driving, and beer. [Well, actually the beer is 50 cents in the stores, and 75 cents in the hotel lobby. Same price as soda. {Of which the most popular is Coke. What Else?}]) Spent Saturday flying, getting to the hotel, napping, shopping, and eating. The supermarkets sell booze, including carmenere starting at $4.00. I like this place. I also bought a bottle of something called Night Train Express, which carries the advice, Sirvase bien frio – Serve very cold. It’s pink, 16.5%, and tastes like cherry soda. Mixed one to ten with water, it hides the taste of the chlorine, which is about the best one can say for it. The carmenere, of course, tastes fine.

Sunday, Mary and I hiked around the Parque Natural Metropolitano, a 150 m hill in a couple of square kilometers that survives as jungle in the middle of the city. Steep, hot, and humid. Alex slept. Wuss. Visited the Miraflores locks in the afternoon, had lunch/dinner at the locks, back to the hotel. Sure enough, great big boats (we saw two panamaxes) go up and down. Just like TV, only much much hotter in real life. More crowded, too. And more expensive. Hmmmmm. Monday, Alex wanted to see the park, so she and I went, while Mary stayed in air-conditioned splendor. On both days, we walked both ways, to the shock of the desk clerk. That’s how to see a city, I figure. And we did.

Tuesday, visited the Museum of Anthropology, which is a huge building with very few exhibits, and all the signs are in Spanish. However, the Panama symphony orchestra was rehearsing with a guitar player, and I listened until Mary and Alex pulled me away. We then visited the headquarters of the Panama Canal Company, built by the Yanks just as they finished the canal. Still a very impressive set of buildings. (One great big one, and about fifty smaller ones, smaller as in three stories and 250 square metres on each floor.) Everything else in the country needs maintenance fairly desperately, but not these buildings. Then to Mi Pueblocito, a park in the middle of the city with re-creations of a native village (five palm-thatched huts selling tourist junk); a Carib-Afro village patterned after the one built for canal labourers (five small frame houses with scrollwork, all selling tourist junk); and a colonial village (five small stucco houses, all selling tourist junk). See any pattern there? Had lunch at the restaurant. We were the only three in the place, and it took 30 minutes for our food to arrive. Good food, but. Just as we were finished, a busload of people arrived and sat down. As I paid the lone waiter, I said, “Buena suerte, mi amigo. Usted la necesita.” (Good luck, my friend. You need it.) He frowned (“you need it” is not a Spanish expression) and then grinned wryly, and said, “Ésa es la verdad.” (Ain’t that the truth.) Alex was prostrate with heat, and whined until I agreed to return to the hotel. And so home. Eight thousand kilometers to sit in a hotel room. 

Wednesday, to the old town, which was allowed to fall into ruin (literally: many buildings are open to the sky with trees growing in them) until someone realized that it would be a great tourist trap, so it is now being restored. Looks like New Orleans: balconies and wrought iron railings. One of the restored buildings is the National Theatre, built in 1904. Paid our $1 each to look around, and heard an orchestra playing. Same as the one we’d seen yesterday, except this time the guitarist, who turns out to be one of Spain’s most famous, was front and centre, so we sat in splendor in one of the lodges and listened to some brilliant pieces. Best dollar I’ve ever spent. Alexandra picked a restaurant, and in the middle of dozens of little cafes where one can get a pretty good lunch for $2, picked a four star restaurant where I was lucky to get out for $20. Back to the hotel to cool off.

PANAMA PART TWO

Before continuing my travelogue monologue, I have an expiation. But first, an explanation. In the past, I have not included Mary in my list of folks to receive these thoughts. “That’s cause you like her more than you like me,” I hear you say. True, but not the reason. I did not include her partly because Mary is not addicted to e-mail (she made no provision to receive her e-mail while on this trip) but mostly because she was there, and so didn’t have to read about it. (Naturally, if you are an existentialist, you will not agree with that statement. In fact, you will disagree somewhat vehemently. “Just because two people observe something together,” you will say, “It doesn’t mean they are having the same experience. Experience is made up of the actual phenomenon and the past sum of your experiences, through which you filter your sensory perceptions. How do you know Mary experienced the same thing you did? In fact, she couldn’t have, as she is not you.” Taken far enough, one could argue that no-one reading this is reading the same thing, as each of you will take a different meaning from what you read. So why am I writing this? Why, indeed?) 

Where was I? Oh, yes. I’ve never sent these things to Mary. This time, however, I am accompanied not only by Mary, but also by Alexandra, who does not share Mary’s distain for e-mail. Alexandra’s idea of purgatory is no wireless. The more e-mails the better, so she asked, nay, demanded, that I include her in the list. (Either that, or she’s an existentialist, and wants to share my experiences, as opposed to her experiences.) Accordingly, when I hit ‘send’ yesterday, the message flew from my computer to the local server, 6,000 km through the lines to the server at UVic, to Alex’s mailbox, 6,000 km back to Panama City, through the local server and into her computer, two metres from mine, in about one second. Ain’t science wonderful. One minute later, she was complaining that I had ‘infantilized’ her profession by saying that she had taken it up because the subjects of study were ‘cute’. (I don’t remember saying that, but see the antepenultimate sentence of the previous paragraph.) Then she said that I had called her a wuss (to which I plead that truth is a defense against a charge of libel), and pointed out that I had not mentioned Mary, which was even more insulting. So I intend to atone for those errors in this missive. Be warned. 

Mary and I spent three hours wandering around the neighbourhood of the hostel. Once off the commercial streets, all of which bear a striking resemblance to Kingsway in Vancouver, Aurora in Seattle, and Sunset in L.A., there are areas of nice homes. Very nice homes. In Victoria, the neighbourhood would be the equivalent of Oak Bay. I did my best to convince Mary to let me phone the number of one that was for sale, but no dice. She’s adamant that we’re not moving here. Not that I really want to, given that I understand the weather in Victoria has been below normal for the past week, and isn’t expected to improve for at least two more weeks. Why would I want to trade that for 30 C every day? Alex stayed at the hotel, not being a wuss, of course, but to contemplate the universe. (Or at least that part of the universe of interest to anthropologists, who are all serious, dedicated scientists, who concern themselves with great matters.) Or to watch old movies she stored on her computer before we left. Whichever came first.

 As we are about to leave the hotel, let me give it a plug. It’s actually a hostel, which is, in Latin America, the equivalent of a pension or a B&B. This one is in one of the better neighbourhoods, as opposed to the real hotels, which are right next to the seedier side of the city. It has ten rooms, of which three or four are communal, with bunk beds. We had a double and a single bed, air con, and a bathroom shared with one other room, which was empty, for $40 a night. Bargoon. (I might mention that while Alexandra craves wireless in a hotel, Mary demands a private bathroom. What do I want? Pretty obvious, but we’ll make it the first contest of this trip. The usual recognition for all correct answers.)

 To the bus terminal. Three tickets to David, $36, and eight hours through the Panamanian countryside to David, 480 km north. The highway looks like B.C., but made of concrete. The vegetation looks like B.C. only tropical. And the houses are different. And the people. And the birds. Well, maybe not exactly like B.C., but there’s a lot of it. The movies were Spiderman Three and a pirated version of Pirates of the Caribbean Three (appropriate) both with the sound at 110 db. David (pronounced Daveed) is the second largest city in Panama, at ca 100,000, quite a drop from Panama City’s 550,000. We arrived Friday evening, and the next day, Saturday, saw every resident of the town and surrounding district crammed into the shopping area, about six blocks by six, chock-a-block with sidewalk vendors, meaning that the sidewalks are effectively about two feet wide, and people move along this narrow passage in both directions. Crazy. Have I mentioned that pedestrians have no rights at all, except the right to run like hell?

David has two outstanding features: more taxis and bars per capita than any place in the world. There are only a dozen or so in the downtown area, but every block of every street for three blocks on each side of downtown has two or more bars, ranging from ten seats to 50 or 60. Probably a total of 200 bars. I’m not sure when they open, but they were in full swing when we went for breakfast this morning, at 8:30. Again, I’m not sure how many cabs there are, but if you stand on any corner there will be at least two past every minute, and often more than two. (I was informed that there are 1,000 cabs, and I believe it.) As in Panama City, they beep to ask if you want a ride. And so does every other driver, not to ask for passengers, but just to let the world know he is there. If I ever buy a car in Panama, I’ll make sure to test the horn, that being the most used part of any car in the country. I won’t bother testing the brakes. They will never have been used. We went to David’s one attraction today, the Museo of anthropology, art, culture and civilization. It’s housed in the home of a guy with ten-names, two of which are Robert Obaldia, one of the major figures in Panamanian history; a small nondescript building which is falling apart, housing a motley collection of pottery, paintings, religious statues and a couple of swords. If you ever get to Panama, on the whole I’d advise giving David a miss. But if you ignore my advice, consider staying at the Hotel Gran Nacional, quite expensive, but boasting the only swimming pool in the city, so at least you have something to do besides drink while you’re there. Tomorrow, Bocas del Toro, if we can find the right bus.

PS

It is now several days later, and I was not able to connect to the wireless at hotel in Bocas. If you get this, it’ll be because I managed to find a connection at one of the cafes that offers free wireless. As you might gather, I’ve been having computer problems.

PANAMA, PART THREE 

Sometimes you get the bear. We arose yesterday morning at 7:00, figuring that we would have 40 minutes for showers and last-few-items packing, 15 for check-out, ten for a taxi, ten minutes taxi ride, get a seat on the bus, have a bite, and be on our way at 9:00. Things went a bit faster than we’d thought, and at 7:57 we got on the bus and at 8:00 it left, with 15 restless riders, three conductors and……..no, wait, wrong song. We had one driver, one conductor, four passengers, and several bundles of newspapers. And, of course, our luggage. I have one case, about 20 kg, Mary has one case, about 25 kg, and Alex has two slightly smaller cases, about 20 kg each, as she needs a lot of stuff used by serious anthropologists. And, of course, she’s staying three weeks longer than Mary and I. 

“Wait a minute. Why is she staying for three more weeks?” you ask.  

Because two weeks before we were due to leave the field school informed her that the course she was to be in had been cancelled, and she could either get a refund or transfer into the next session. She chose the latter. And of course changing our flights would have cost half of what we were paying, so we decided to stick to our original timetable, except that when we leave, Alex stays on in the jungle. Well, not really the jungle. More of that later. 

So there we were, four passengers in a 24 passenger Toyota bus, over the continental divide, four hours to Altamira, which is the port for the northern Caribbean side of Panama, and the terminus for the water taxi to Bocas town, on Isla Colon, the major island of the archipelago. This is a milk run, stopping for any and all passengers. By the time we’d gone 50 km, we had picked up five more passengers, and after that it was pick-up, drop off, until at some point, perhaps 100 km from Almirante, we became a school bus, picking up kids at isolated farms along the highway until we had about 20 of them on board. I can’t figure out how the schools operate, as these kids got on between 10:30 and 11:30, and got off (most of them) at a school at about 11:45. I guess the schools operate on shift, with one in the morning and another starting at noon. The fare for each kid was 25 cents. Ah, private enterprise. And half of them stood most of the way. Safety regulations? Whazzat? Got to the drop-off point, paid the $21 for the trip, were collected by a young tout who herded us into a taxi at three times the fare a local would pay, and then expected a tip, as did another young entrepreneur who helped take our bags out of the cab at the water taxi, and scowled when he got a quarter for his one minute’s work. The water taxi reminded me of why I don’t like power boats: 24 feet long, 20 passengers plus supplies (fortunately, we were the only ones with appreciable luggage), and just enough chop to bang you into the wooden bench every five seconds. $3 each for the ride, a good deal compared to the $3 the taxi charged us to go three blocks from the wharf to the hotel. Locals would pay 50 cents. Well, locals would walk, but if they took a cab it would be 50 cents.

 Bocas del Toro is the northernmost province in Panama, and is also the name of the principal town, also called Bocas town. There are few people on the mainland in Bocas del Toro, few on the other islands, and lots in Bocas town, which is a prime example of what happens when paradise is discovered. It was originally a native village, but was taken over by pirates in the 17^th century, then by Spanish grandees who had dreams of empire, then by three Americans who started a banana plantation ca 1900. They were bought out by United Fruit (security force courtesy the USMC) who then were taken over by Chiquita, which ships several hundred thousand TONS of bananas from the area each year. About 15 years ago Alberto, the gentleman who owns the hotel in which we are staying, arrived from Italy (the first European to locate here in recent times) and started a pizza parlour. He then added a couple of rooms, and now has five of varying sizes, and he plans to add more. Then backpackers discovered the place, then the general run of tourists, then the expat crowd, and now the joint is jumping. Thirty small hotels, even more restaurants, construction everywhere. Prices (for everything) as high as in Panama City, and way, way higher than David, or anywhere else in Panama. I predict the whole thing is going to collapse: the water system is not reliable; the place is starting to smell like an open sewer; God knows what they do with the garbage they haul off in open trucks, but most people just burn theirs in the back yard; and traffic is chronic. I can’t figure out why you’d need 20 cabs in a town about one by two km, but here they are, along with God know how many other cars, and even more bicycles.

 But the biggest problem is the sewer system. The main part of the town is on a peninsula about one km square. It’s as flat as a tortilla (or a chapatti from the Om café, the town’s East Indian eating place [motto: there’s no place like Om]) and maybe one foot above sea level. I don’t see how sewers work here now, and I’m damn sure they’re not going to work when the ten buildings, call it 100 condo and hotel rooms, currently under construction, are completed. Further, I assume they dump their sewage into the ocean, which is fine in Victoria, where the Strait of Juan de Fuca has a temperature of about 10 C, and the tides move an unimaginable quantity of water in and out four times a day, but not very good at all here, where the water temperature is 26 C, and there are no tides of which to speak. 

We lazed around for the rest of the day on which we arrived, and again the next day. The third day we took the bus to Boca del Drago, at the north end of the island, where Alexandra’s field school is located, and where there is a very nice beach. And a small resort, with a nice restaurant, where one dines beside the Caribbean Sea. Not exactly the jungle. Unfortunately, the area between the reef and the beach is mostly very shallow, and mostly dead coral, so the actual area with a sand bottom where one can swim is pretty limited, but I had an enjoyable hour or two snorkeling along the reef, and ended up with the worst sunburn I’ve had in years in exchange. Not to mention the sea urchin spine in my finger. And the something or other that stung my leg. However, on the whole a really pleasant day. And we got to see coconuts rooting and becoming palm trees, something I’ve never seen, mostly because in other tropical places I’ve been the coconuts get picked up as soon as they hit the ground. At Boca del Drago there are so many that they lie on the ground in heaps under every tree. 

As I write (type, keyboard) this paragraph it is Saturday morning, I am sitting on the (covered) deck outside our room, on the third floor, looking out over the water. The temperature is the coolest since we’ve been in Panama, about 22 C, because there is a nice breeze and it’s raining. Boy, is it raining. Ergo, this would seem to be a fitting time to talk about rain. We had rain most of the afternoons we were in Panama City: about an hour’s worth starting around 4:00 PM, and once in the middle of the night. Pretty heavy, lots of lightning. Same thing in David, but even heavier. But I’d never seen real rain until I saw it rain in Bocas. This is our fifth day in Bocas: the first day it rained an hour in the afternoon, the second an hour in the afternoon and an encore in the very early morning of the next day, the third day was sunny all day, yesterday was cloudy but no rain, and today, well, the heavens have opened. Is it ever coming down! I’d be surprised if it isn’t ten cm an hour.  

On to food. I’m actually getting tired of eating fish. The restaurants here fall into three categories: expensive, average, and local. There are three or four expensive ones, with prices as high as expensive Victoria eateries. I’m not keen on that. I don’t know how many local ones there are, because we’re not going to eat there either. (They tend to be tiny, dark, and I get the idea that the locals who patronize them don’t want gringo company.) That leaves the 20 or so average ones, mostly in connection with a bar. The bar prices are cheap: $1.00 for a beer, $1.25 to $1.50 for a rail drink (don’t ask me where the name came from, but it’s a simple mixed drink – 30 cc’s of booze and twice as much pop or juice), but the food prices are much higher than in Panama City or David. The only real bargain on any menu is the fried fish, which comes in one, one and a half, two, or three pound servings. They take a red snapper, clean it, and toss it in the deep fryer, head, tail, and all. Then they put it on the plate, along with papas fritas (fries) or patacones (plantain slices, flattened, battered, and fried), maybe a bit of salad, and there you are. Two pounds, $8. Shrimp is cheap compared to Victoria, at $10 to $12 for as many shrimp as you’d get in three meals in Victoria. Hamburgers, $1.70. Breakfast, just about the same as Victoria. The only real bargain, apart from the fish and beer, is fresh fruit. We have a fridge, so Mary made up a fruit salad, which should last several breakfasts, as Alexandra doesn’t eat fruit salad, on the theory that it’s depriving the monkeys of sustenance, I suppose. One 3.5 kg papaya, $1.80; one 4 kg pineapple, $1.80; several oranges, 10 cents each. Result: one huge tropical fruit salad, $4.

And that’s enough for this episode. Stay tuned.

PANAMA, PART FOUR 

I spent Saturday helping our host, Alberto, with renovations to the pizzeria. When we arrived, he said, “It’ll be ready in two, three days.” More like two weeks, Mary and I thought. We were right. It’s been a week, and he’s nowhere near finished, so I thought I’d offer a hand. As we were cutting the pipe so we could put in a new lavatory, I asked him what sort of permits were required. “Permit? Che cosa?” he replied. (He’s Italian.) Then he laughed. “You need a permit for major changes, or a new building, but it’s easy to get. For our little changes, niente.” “Inspections?” I asked. “Oh, no, no inspections. Now, we break this block, and put one part on each side of the pipe, and then cement it in.” I don’t think we’re in Victoria anymore, Toto. Later that day I rewired a couple of lighting circuits, Panama using the North American three wire 220 volt entry, rather than the typical two wire 220 circuits found in the rest of the world. They work the same way, but there’s more chance for disaster with only two wires. Inspection? Niente, even though it’s a commercial establishment. Each cat his own rat, I guess. 

And now for something completely different. In 1956 Central Junior High School, enrolling grades 7, 8, and 9 opened its doors in Victoria for the first time.  One of the ornaments of the 7^th grade was yours truly, who decided that band was cool and then chose a very uncool instrument, the flute. I wasn’t a very good flautist in school, being more interested in books, bikes, pool, hockey and TV, than in practicing. (And come to think of it, in boats, astronomy, amateur radio, stamp collecting, and a lot of other things.) (“Where the hell is he going with this, Myrtle?” Have faith. I’ll get there.) I got better later on, playing with the 15^th Field Artillery Regiment Band, the UBC concert band, a couple of pretty good jazz groups, and as an occasional  sit-in with the Cave Supper Club house band when I was MC there. But when the folk craze hit I gave up the flute for the guitar and banjo, and didn’t pick it up again until last year, when Brenda (thanks, Brenda) loaned me hers. Knowing that I’d never practice without compulsion, I joined the Sidney Concert Band, and when we came to Panama my music folder and my flute came along. I’ve actually been practicing every day, or almost. (See, it’s coming.) So Saturday night, when I heard a band practicing, I knew it would be the bomberos, and I grabbed my flute and headed down two blocks to the local fire station. Every fire hall in Latin America, regular or volunteer, has a concert band, everybody welcome. And I was. Welcome, that is. It was an interesting practice. In the first place, I was the first flute they’d had in the 40 year history of the band, and they have no flute music, so I had to transpose from the clarinet part; play one note higher and add two flats. First time I’d done that in, um, 40 years. Secondly, I’d never heard of any of the numbers, which were all marches, named (and I swear this is the truth) Panama March, Panama the Great, Forward Panama, Onward Panama, Panama Victorious, Beloved Panama, Panama the Free and at least a couple more with Panama in the title. The only one that didn’t have Panama in the title was the 16^th of November March, and I’ll let you guess the significance of that date. They have one tradition that I really like: they had a 36 flat of ice cold cervesas (Panama brand, of course) for the musicians to drink while practising, which came to two bottles each. At the end of the practice they asked me to join them downstairs on the sea-side deck for …….. right, a bottle or two of Panama. And then they asked me to march with them this coming Wednesday, 7:00 PM. At least, I think that’s what they said, as no-one in the band speaks English.  

(Why is it, in a town where virtually everyone has a fair amount of English, that not one player in the band has more than two words of it? When I sat down I asked for an A to tune by, and got [the next ‘?’ should be inverted, but I’ve spent 15 minutes trying to find it in the ‘Symbols’ pull-down, and I’m damned if I’m going to spend anymore time at it] “?A? A? Que esta ‘A’?” I finally said “La prima nota” and got an ‘A’ from an alto sax, which of course is my ‘C’, the alto sax being an E flat instrument, and therefore a 6^th below my flute, which is in C. [And I didn’t even bother trying to find the ‘flat’ symbol when I wrote that.]) Where was I? Oh, yes. Naturally, I accepted the invitation. I have no lyre, so I won’t have any music; I don’t know the numbers; and I don’t speak the language. I can hardly wait.

 Sunday was spent on a 13 metre catamaran, which takes groups out snorkeling. There were 12 passengers; we three, four from Montreal, one from Toronto, two Czechs, and two Austrians. Great reefs, pretty good sail, and pleasant company. More sunburn. Monday morning, rain. Four hours of downpour. Uffda. Two hours of no rain at 10 AM, and Alex and I took the chance to go to the one place in town where there’s a WiFi connection we can both access, a restaurant with a deck with tables and outlets, where one is welcome to use the wireless. Afternoon, more rain. Dinner at Om, an East Indian place run by a white woman and a black woman, both from Toronto. Woman in the kitchen looked like a local. Food was pretty good, though. Monday night, Mary set the aircon to 24° C, and somehow got the room down to 18. I woke up in the middle of the night freezing, complained to Mary in the morning, and she said, totally seriously, “I’ll ask Marcella for a blanket.” There’s some Irish there somewhere. 

 And now, until next time, farewell to our three adventurers. Tune in later for the next exciting episode: a hire, a scramble, and a march.

PANAMA PART FIVE 

As you all know (now) Isla Colon is the main island in the Bocas del Toro archipelago. It’s not the largest, but it has Bocas town at one end, with about 80% of the population of the archipelago. The largest island is Bastimentos, the main town of which, Old Bank or Bastimentos (slight lack of imagination in naming things around here), is about 15 minutes away from Bocas town. A trip to Bastimentos is virtually mandatory, and we took advantage of a non-rainy day to do that. (At least, not raining in the morning. We had 30 minutes later on.) We landed at the head of the trail that goes from the town to the west-side beaches, “an easy 20 minute walk through scenic jungle” according to the guide books. “It’s real muddy,” said our boat driver, who lives on the island. “Too much rain. I take you round to Red Frog Beach. $10 each, round trip.” For once, it wasn’t the money that deterred me. Well, not only the money. “I wanna see the jungle,” said the kid. “You bet,” said I.  

The boatman was right. The one km trail, which rises 100 metres before descending to the beaches, was awful. Muddy doesn’t even start to describe it. Shoes on and filled with mud, or shoes off and deal with sharp sticks and rock. Either way, mud to the ankles. And every ten metres a flip-flop lost in the mud: “Ah, bugger it. Leave the bloody thing, Gert. Only cost a pound, and that was two years ago.” (When I was younger, they were called thongs, but what are now called thongs would not expect to be abandoned along a trail. Well maybe along a trail to Wreck Beach.) But at the end was Wizard Beach, with the best beach break I’ve seen since I sailed Malibu outriggers in Southern California, and actually stayed up on a board for one complete ride. (Out of 20 or 30 tries.) The outer break at Wizard is about 100 metres out, gets a perfect right break with a five foot tube every fifth wave or so, and the bottom is all sand; no rocks, coral, or shell. You couldn’t get hurt. No rip, no under toad. The next break is about 50 metres out, smaller, but quite rideable. The inner break is great for body surfing. Wish I’d had a board. We walked along the beach for half a km, seeing only a local digging for something: we figured turtle eggs, as they nest along these beaches, but whatever it was he wasn’t very serious about it compared to the group we saw after rounding the point (another muddy trail) to the next beach. No wonder sea turtles are endangered. We also saw another thousand or so flip-flops, as they float, and at least as many plastic pop bottles. Then back to the trail, and up and over. Alex says that I’m to tell you that while Mary and I thought it was bogus, she thought it was an excellent adventure. We were lucky enough to catch our boatman on his afternoon milk-run, so we stopped in at several docks to pick up and drop off passengers, and got to hear Guari-Guari, the local equivalent of Chinook trade jargon, an amalgam of West Indian English, Spanish, and native language. You can tell it’s based on English, but there’s no way you can understand more than one word in ten.

 Home and a slightly rushed dinner, and I headed to the Cuerpo de Bomberos for the parade. Got there on the stroke of seven. Five minutes later the band leader showed up. Ten minutes later the rest straggled in, we tuned up (electronic tuner), and  headed back up the street to a local school right behind our hotel. So much for the rushed dinner. At 7:30 a hundred kids were formed up in three columns, carrying two metre staves with cans full of kero attached to one end. The organizer lit the wick of the first three, and they lit one from another back.  We formed up in front of them, with me front and centre. Literally. These guys have a lot of faith in someone they’ve never seen before. The drums started a 100 beat tempo, the clarinet player to my left nodded, and I stepped off in the approved Canadian Army pace, about 80 cm. Three paces, and the clarinetist said, “Senor!” I looked over, and found I was about two full paces ahead of him. Turns out these guys use the US high school or college band pace of about 30 cm, only they don’t bother lifting their knees. They do it almost as a shuffle. I wasn’t going to try to master that with all sorts of people watching, so I compromised by doing a sort of slow march check-step, with a short rather than a full stride. Down the block, around the corner, with frantic waving and yelling to get the cop car into position in front of us (slight lack of communication there) and away we went.  Down to the main street, around the Parque Simon Bolivar (every town in Latin America, no matter how small, has a Parque Simon Bolivar), all the way down the main street, right, right, right, and left onto the main street again. Everyone in town was out to watch, and I don’t think I’ve had my picture taken that many times in my entire life. Odd to think that around the world people will be showing their pictures of Bocas, and their friends will ask, “Who’s the old white guy in the front row?” “Dunno. Must be a local bar owner or something.” “Or maybe he’s the token gringo. 14 black guys, one black chick, and one old gringo.” The music was all right: every piece in B Flat, dead easy. The only bad moment came when I saw a dime on the street and automatically started to pick it up. I restrained myself, but it made me lose step, and I had to do the half-step shuffle to get back in time. Mary tells me that the three of us in the front were the only ones who kept step most of the time, so I don’t suppose it mattered.  All it all, a good time. My only regret was that of the thousands of pictures taken, not one was taken by my fan club. Alex couldn’t be bothered to leave the hotel, and Mary depends on Alex and myself to take pictures. Ah, well.

Thursday was hot. Hot. Hot. The average year-long 24 hour temperature in Panama is 80 F, and in Bocas I figure that’s composed of 75 at night and in the rain, made up for by 100+ when the sun shines. I spent the day helping with the reno, while Mary knitted and Alex watched serious, anthropological-oriented TV shows, like Nature. We moved from the room to the deluxe suite (well, the only suite) which features a living room with kitchenette, two bedrooms, and a very large balcony. Not as cool as the room we had, which was on the sea side, with more breeze. Can’t have everything. Much better view of the planes, but. Oh, right, we’re right on the flight path. They’re about 90 metres up as they pass over. Good thing there are only two flights a day. Now that we have a kitchen, we’ll be eating here once in a while. Three meals a day every day, if we’re going to eat all the food Mary bought. An empty fridge calls to Mary as an empty wine glass calls to me, “Fill me, fill me.” Which reminds me: breakfast cereal. We hardly ever eat the stuff at home, but here it’s a handy breakfast. Reading the boxes, I noticed that Kellog’s Komplete has just about as much sugar as the Apple Jacks that Alexander insisted we buy.

 “Aw, cummon. Look, it’s got pictures of Pirates of the Caribbean on the box. It’d be really appropriate.” Then she discovered that it was advertising last years movie, and the ‘Best By’ date was up in a week. Anyway, I’ve decided that adult serial is the same as kids’ except they sweeten it with honey, which they call ‘natural’, and ‘part of a complete diet’. I can hardly wait to get home, and start producing ‘Saanichola: Nature’s Own Breakfast’, with lots of honey, dried blueberries, and whatever grain is cheap. Yesterday we went to a local butterfly garden, where butterflies are raised for shipment to places like Butterfly World in Brentwood. Interesting, but the highlight came at the end of the trip. We had been told that one could not walk to the place, although it’s just the other side of the airport, so we took a water taxi. “Can we get a water taxi to come for us?” I asked the proprietor. “No need,” he said. “I’ll show you the trail to town.”  The trail to town led us across the runway, about half-way along. No fence, no signs, no guards. If you’re dumb enough to be on the runway when a plane lands, too bad for you. No nanny state here. Alex took a picture of me standing on the centre stripe.

 Last night, being Saturday, the bars stay open late. I woke up at 5:00 AM to hear the drums from a bar that has to be half a km from the hotel. “Noisy bar across the street,” says the guidebook about several hotels. Noisy! From across the street it would sound like you were living in a boiler factory. Well, it’s Sunday morning, and the 200 channel TV says that TSN has Yachting at 8:30, but it’s been replaced by Ivy League lacrosse. Yesterday it was replaced by car racing. They don’t even tell me why it’s being replaced. Lack of wind? It’s all over? Well, I’ll find out in half an hour, when I send this off from the Bar With A WiFi Which I Can Access. For the moment, farewell from Panama.

PANAMA, PART SIX 

Few words this time: pictures instead. One of your number asked for pictures: in a separate message you’ll find pictures. In fact, it may take three or four messages: we’ll see how the UVic Webmail system likes the first one. I have to do this because the pictures are all on Alexandra’s computer, as she has a nice, new, state-of-the-art camera, as befitting her status as a serious anthropologist, while I have a crumby antique camera, from the dawn of digitals (about three years), befitting my status of an almost-retired OF who (what was it again? Oh, right, “cares only for the comfort and well-being of his family”). Not to mention the binoculars. She also has a top-of-the-line laptop, while I……………. well, never mind. I’ve numbered the comments to match the pictures, and I think the numbers will come with the pictures, but if not, they’re fairly self-explanatory. They are in order of taking.

 First, Panama City.

 137:     Panamax in Miraflores
13:       Typical construction. Steel and concrete floors, fill in walls with jumbo blocks.
35:       Leafcutter ants. I could watch them for hours.
26:       Diablo rojo (Red Devil) Garishly painted, these are the main transportation in Panama City. They’re old school buses from the U.S. and Canada.
67:       Casco viejo (Old Panama.) Built by the French, during their shot at the canal. The whole area was allowed to decay to this condition, but is being re-built, or rather restored.

DAVID

21:       The only entertainment in David.

BOCAS DEL TORO

41:       The most common birds in Bocas.
54:       Had to include this.
25:       To understand your subjects of study, you have to share their experiences.
37:       The classic Panama dinner. One fish, fried. One potato, ditto. Dab of salad. Beer.
19:       Banana Republic architecture, ca 1910.
38:       Bastimentos trail. May not look it, but there’s 10 cm of mud there.
23        Mangrove.
32        Modelling Panamanian fashion on the runway. 

Until next time.

PANAMA, PART SEVEN 

Have I talked about the weather? I have? Well, brace yourself. (Those of you who don’t live in Victoria must think I spend an inordinate amount of time talking about the weather, but it’s not just me. Victoria was known as ‘a little bit of Olde England’ because of the number of Brits who moved there from 1850 to 1980 [or so], and they brought with them their obsession with weather. Everyone in Victoria thinks more about weather than virtually anything else, except maybe politics as befits a capitol city. It’s not just me.) It rains here. Jeez, Louise, does it rain here. It’s 10:00 AM, I’m sitting on the deck in front of our suite, which has a roof with a two metre overhang, which it needs to keep the rain off, and it’s coming down like there’s someone up there with a firehose. It started last night, about midnight, and has hardly let up. Just when I thought it couldn’t get harder, along came a gust of wind and it really pounded down. And thunder and lightning. (Or, to be more accurate, lightning and thunder.)  In fact, I’m so taken with rain here that I’ve invented the Cameron Scale of Rain, which owes quite a bit to Admiral Beaufort. The Signs are for Victoria and Panama (parentheses).

THE CAMERON SCALE

 Since we got here, weather events break down as follows: rain with lightning and thunder, 68.42%; rain without L&T, 27.51%; L&T, no R, 4.00%. (May not sum to 100 due to rounding error.) The most interesting weather event was the L&T, n R, which occurred two nights ago, when, around 11 PM, all the power in town went out. Well, almost all the power. There were some dim, flickering emergency lights in some of the larger hotels (larger as in 20 rooms), and one building lit up like a Christmas tree. And what building would that be? The fire hall? No, senior. Police station? No, senior. Airport? No planes at night, senior. No, it was the bank. And to add to the excitement, the constabulary drove up and down the streets to deter possible looters drawn by the darkness. Which brings me to the matter of guns. Panamanians love guns. At least official Panamanians do. I don’t know how many Panamanian homes have guns in them, but on the streets, they’re everywhere. Every time I visit the U.S. I’m struck by the fact that everyone in uniform has a gun, including dog catchers. Panamanian dog catchers don’t have guns, but that’s only because there are no Panamanian dog catchers. If there were, they’d have guns. In Panama City, every establishment with anything worth stealing has at least one armed security guard, including banks, jewelry stores, electronic stores, and car dealerships. And the headquarters of the Panama Canal, and the Miraflores Locks. Same in David, minus the canal. Here in Bocas, there’s not much worth stealing, so they depend on the National Police Force, which is comprised of 15 year olds wearing camouflage battle dress, combat boots, and a belt carrying (clockwise) a gun (chrome-plated 38 snub-nose or 9 mm Glock look-alike [or maybe the real thing]); ammo pouch; mace; handcuffs; large black flashlight, presumably of case-hardened steel with shatterproof lens; and 80 cm truncheon (billy, nightstick, whatever) which they often carry in their hand as they saunter up and down main street, ogling the girls. Their standard patrol vehicles are 4X4 pick-ups with big, chrome plated rollbars carrying two searchlights and a gumball rack.  The other day Alex and I walked past the bank, and it was being guarded by two of these kids carrying M 16’s, as seen in Der Governators best flics, as well as in such popular vacation spots as Afghanistan and Iraq.

 Which reminds me: as Ahnuldt can’t be president, how about asking him to run for leadership of the federal NDP? Jack’s not doing very well, and it would sure move the NDP to the right, which is where they’re going to have to go if they ever want to elect more than 20 members. Which brings me to CONTEST TWO. Without looking it up, name the U.S. president who was supposedly not born in the U.S.

 Onward and downward. Last night I found myself in a role I try to avoid: complaining tourist. (I hope these epistles don’t came across that way: I don’t intend them to. I find it interesting that different societies are so different [‘Doh’ {Homer Simpson}, or “Are you sure of that? I figure everyone is basically the same at heart” {George Bush}], but by and large ‘different’ doesn’t mean ‘worse’ to me.) Except last night. Mary having cooked dinner for the past three nights (best food I’ve had in Panama) we decided to go out. We’ve discovered three restaurants closed for no apparent reason in the past week, so while out shopping yesterday Mary stopped by one of the fancier hotels, with a restaurant on a waterfront deck, and asked if the restaurant was open. “Si, signora.” “Is it just for guests?” “No, signora.” “Will it be open tonight?” “Si, signora.” So the three of us walked over about 6:30 and Mary went into the lobby and asked the woman at the desk (same woman) if we should get to the restaurant through the hotel, or go around the side. “Oh, signora, the restaurant is not open tonight. Manana.” Down the street to The Olive Tree, featuring Greek food. Sit down. Waitress brings menus. Alex and Mary order cervezas. I order the especial, which is posted on a chalkboard: watermelon, green apple, rum; 50 cents. (Well, cincuenta Bolivar, which is the same thing. Panamanian currency is called the Bolivar, and they have their own coinage, but they use American currency for paper money.) I don’t really want the special, but the price is too good to pass up. “No, senior. Gabblegabblegabble.” I tried again, thinking I’d used Italian, which is close to Spanish, and which I’ve been speaking with our host and hostess, and therefore get confused with Spanish. Same result. The problem with speaking even a bit of Spanish, in a terrible accent, is that natives think you speak the language, andyougetaresponsethatsoundslikeonebigword. Finally, I figured out that the special was only available at the bar, which shares the building, and the deck, with the restaurant, but is a different business. So I ordered a cerveza. When she brought the beers, I started to order food. “No senior.” “No? Por que no?” Off to get an English speaker. “Kitchen close. Machine broke.” “So why did she bring us menus?” I felt like asking but didn’t.

 Drank the beers. Gave her a ten. Got $6.75 back. “Cuanto es una cerveza?” “Sentento cinco, senior.” “Tres cervezas?” “Dos dollar viente cinco, senior.” “Por que Usted do a mi cambio per nueve dollars, donde yo de Usted un diez?” (How much is a beer? 75 cents. Three beers? $2.25. Why did you give me change for nine dollars when I gave you a ten?) The waitress conversed with the girl at the till, which serves both bar and restaurant even though they are different businesses. I didn’t hear it, but I bet it went something like this: “The gringo can add. Give me another dollar.” Off we go to the Pirate Bar, where we’ve eaten before, and the food isn’t great, but they do understand the concept of selling food when you’re in the restaurant business. Interesting phenomenon: beer is cheap; mixed drinks are cheap (Alex had a Frozen Marguerita with at least two ounces of tequila for $3.00, a Cuba Libre is $1.50); but a glass of pretty bad wine is anywhere from $2.50 to $3.00 a glass. In other words, beer is 100% mark-up, as are mixed drinks, but wine is about 500%. Why? Alex figures that they know that wine drinkers won’t drink anything else, so they can charge whatever they want. Sounds reasonable to me. No more wine in restaurants for me. Cervesa is not only cheaper, but also better, as the restaurants don’t buy drinkable wine, even though it’s a bargain here: good Chilean wine, $7 a bottle. Cheap Chilean Cab Sauv in a tetra pack, $2.50 a litre.

 This morning I went to the mainland. Boat to Almirante to see what’s there, bus to Changuinola, 50 km north, look around, boat back down the banana canal to Bocas. Alex didn’t want to go, Mary figured there’d be less chance of being mugged if I were alone, so off I went, with a sign on my back saying, “Please don’t hurt me. My wife would miss me. If I am found murdered, call Mary at 560 757 5211. Reward.” You can’t trust tour books. The two we have make Almirante and Changuinola sound the same. Not so. Almirante is indeed nothing, but Changuinola is the archetypical Latin American market town: about two km long, stretched along the highway, and maybe 300 metres wide, one or two streets on either side of the main drag. The business district is maybe five city blocks, lined with hundreds of businesses, all selling stuff cheap, cheap, cheap. Wandered around, talked to people, had lunch (big scoop of dirty rice; four hunks of very salt beef, fried; fried sliced bananas; Cerveza; $1.75), took the colectivo to the water taxi, back home.

 Changuinola is banana country. Chiquita has hundred of acres of plantations, and thousands of workers. The bunches of bananas are bagged in blue plastic when about one hand long, and when ripe the workers cut off bag and all, put them in boxes, which go in containers, by truck to Almirante, into ships, out to the world. They used to go down a canal dredged at the turn of the last century, but then United build a railroad and the canal was abandoned, except by manatees and the taxi to Bocas del Toro. So I’m home, and it’s raining, Force 6, which is nothing in Panama. That’s it for now. I’ll try to get this off tomorrow.

PANAMA, PART EIGHT 

Further to my Cameron Rain Force ScaleÓ, I have an addition. At Rain Force 3 (Light Drizzle) approximately 30% of the mourners at a Bocas del Toro Funeral open umbrellas. How do I know that? Because as I was packing up my flute at the end of band practice on Saturday the band leader said to me, “Funeral. Manana. Dos triente. Aqui.” So at 2:30 I was there. At 2:40 there were five of us, and a Force 3 shower commenced. At 2:45 a few more showed up, and the band leader handed out the special funeral-music folders, in plastic bags. Naturally, no flute part. At 2:50 we wandered to the church. At 2:55 the coffin was carried out and loaded onto the back of a pick-up truck, we formed up, El Gringo Viejo front and centre again; the hearse moved in behind us, the 100 or so mourners formed up behind the hearse, and away we went. We played Come Let Us Gather By the River, Abide With Me, Lead Shining Light, Death Is Not the End, The Peace of the Grave, and other such popular favourites. When we arrived at the graveyard, about one km away (all on paved roads, thank goodness) we were met by another 200 or so mourners, we led the way into the graveyard and down ever-decreasing paths to the grave-site, where we played until the coffin arrived. The priest did his thing, we played three more pieces, people wept, and then we got into the ex-hearse, now back to its prime task of being a taxi, and were driven back to the hall, five in the front and seven in the back, including EGV. “Espera!” they advised, so I held on tightly, and a good thing too, as the one km back to the fire hall took no time at all.  

Next day I was pressed into service as a tour guide and we went to Changuinola. Walked through a banana plantation which, as our host said, is worth doing. Once. Alex bought clothes. Lunch at Mary’s Place. Not as good a cook as our Mary, but not bad food , and cheap cheap cheap. Interesting experience, being the only white faces among 10,000 or so. Obviously not a tourist town. Or a place that attracts ex-pats. Long wait for the water taxi at the end of the day. If you ever do this trip, make a reservation. Costs nothing, and means you don’t have to sit on the dock for three hours.  

It’s Thursday afternoon, and we’ve just returned from the ‘see all the must-see places’ trip. I arranged with a boatman yesterday to take the three of us to the north end of the island, to Swan’s Cay, a rock outcrop about a kilometer from Isla Colon, about two acres in size, but quite high, home to various seabirds; and then to a variety of snorkeling spots. “We stay out as long as you want, go wherever you want,” said the guide as we were negotiating.  It was a good day, although the seas were too big to allow us to swim at the Cay, or to even circle around it. Apparently from October to February (the dry season) the seas are glassy, and one can anchor there and go swimming. But it was interesting, and we went swimming at a lovely beach on the way back, and then to a couple of highly recommended diving spots, where we saw the usual reef fish: various butterflyfish, blue chromis, angelfish, damselfish, snappers, parrotfish, wrasse, trumpetfish; and the first fairy basslet I’ve ever seen. And a barracuda. And when we got back the boatman gave me the old “we went further than I usually go and used more gas” routine. I reminded him of the agreement, and he gave in with considerable lack of grace, thus lessening an otherwise great day. Once again, my back is much more red than I’d like – a whole lot more. I really should remember to wear a shirt when snorkeling – not something I’m used to, as where we live I’m always in a wet suit. Mary and Alex are also a nice neon red.

 Dinner last night at a French restaurant at a table over the water,  and to give an idea of  non-local food prices, I had crepes Bolognaise, Alex had pasta, Mary had octopus crepes (but I think she got lobster) and ceviche as a starter. Bottle of Chilean Cab, one Pina Colada. Total, $60. Cheap by Victoria standards, but no local could afford it, at an average labourer’s wage of $2 an hour. Back to the hotel, to find our hosts out and the door locked. I climbed in, and Mary and Alex sat on the steps until I found a key, which took quite a while. Next day was Saturday, so I went to band practice. Having figured out that Panama time is like Indian time, I arrived 20 minutes late, at 7:20. I was the second one there. Promptly at 8:30 the practice started. This time, no cervezas. Bottle of rum instead. A 1.75 litre bottle of rum. 120 cc’s per person, or about 4 ounces. Also two litres of Coke and a bottle of ginger ale. “For you, Canada!” they told me proudly. So I drank my Canada Dry (which, by the way, actually tastes like ginger in Panama: it’s more like English ginger beer than the ginger ale we get) and far less than my share of rum. At the end of practice, the leader said, “March tomorrow. 7:30. Aqui. And Monday morning. Ten.”

 Next day, Sunday, we took Alex and her luggage to the airport, where the field school bus was to meet the plane. Naturally, she didn’t want her classmates to see her being accompanied by her parents (she didn’t say that in so many words) so Mary and I left. It was hard for Mary to walk backwards to the hotel, but she did it. Spent the day in slothful idleness, and I marched at night, Mary taking pictures, having taken to heart my lament about lack of same at previous march. Went to the same church, waited for service to be completed (I don’t know about their theology: Catholics may have the best in the world, but they sure don’t have the best music. Boring.), kids got their torches lit, and we marched all around the town, almost literally. Right at the end, I thought I was in for another treat, as we were headed for the airport and I thought we were going to march down the runway. (In case you’re wondering about my fetish with runways, I was once detained at the Victoria airport for attempting to walk from one terminal to the other via the taxiway. I’ve wanted to walk down a runway ever since.) However, we turned around in the parking lot, to discover that the kids and priest had stopped ten metres back, in front of a house with a shrine to the Virgin Mary in front. The priest blessed the shrine, we formed up again, and marched back to the church. When I asked what was going on, I was told that they bless the shrine every year, to keep the magic alive, I guess. And why a shrine at that point? So travelers can pray for a safe arrival. Fine by me. Mary and I are flying out tomorrow, and a planeful of  true believers can’t hurt.  

Next day, Monday, back to the firehall at 10, to go back to – yes, the church – to repeat  last night’s route, this time with a statue of the leading lady raised high on a three-tiered platform, surrounded by flowers, like a groomless bride on a wooden wedding cake. The order of march was the band (twelve of us this time); seven or eight ninas in pink or white satin with matching wings trimmed with bright feathery stuff; ditto ninos in blue; the statue; and 100 or so parishioners. The event? The feast day of Nuestra Señora del Carmen, also known as Carmen of Victoria, the patron saint of Bocas del Toro. This time the post-parade libation was a dozen cervezas and another 1.75 litre bottle of rum. I had one beer and an ounce of rum, leaving the rest of the group still working on the bottle. “Come back in November, Canada! Big party, big parades.” (November is Independence month.)

It is now 7:00 AM Tuesday, and Bocas has given us a farewell gift in the form of solid rain for the past  five, six, who-know-how-many hours. The road in front of the hotel is not paved, so even if the rain does stop in the next hour the road will have three cm of mud on it, and getting to the paved road at the end of the block, which is two short blocks from the airport, will be a pain with our suitcases. So we’ll take a cab, and pay $3.00 for a one minute ride.  And as the connection in Panama City wasn’t reliable, I’ll send this off now, to be sure it goes. You might get a PS from Panama City, but if not, that’s it for this trip. By the way, not one person answered my question about the US president not born in the US. Guy named Chester A Arthur,  who held office from 1881 to 1885, was almost certainly born in Durham, Quebec, where his parents had moved from Vermont to farm. Either you people need to brush up on your trivia, or no-one reads these things.

 FINAL THOUGHTS

 As a wrap-up, I offer these thoughts on Panama.

1. Is it worth visiting? Sure. Where would I put it on my to-visit list? Well, if you just want to visit a tropical country at a reasonable price, pretty high. Or if you’re a keen snorkeler, or you want to see jungle. It’s hot, it has pretty good sanitation, language is a problem but not terrible, it’s cheap, it’s safe (from what I saw). On the other hand, if you want local colour or stupendous sights, not so much. Any little town in Bali has more local colour than does the Panama I saw.
    
2. Where to go? Two days for Panama City. Take cabs everywhere. Find a small town and spend a day or two, or more if you want to tour the jungle. Bocas del Toro was fine, especially if you’re a snorkeler, or you want to lie in a hammock and drink beer. In fact, if these two things are your idea of heaven, Bocas might be at the very top of your to-visit list. Colourful? Not very.
    
3. Wet or dry? The dry season is more popular and more expensive. If you’re coming for three days, come in the dry season: you won’t lose your trip because you can’t leave the hotel, which isn’t likely, but possible in the wet season. If you have a week or two, the wet season is great. It’s cheaper, fewer tourists to compete with for guides and rooms, and who cares if it rains ten cm in two hours, as long as you get ten hours of good weather? Of the five weeks we were here, there were about three days when it rained all day. The rest of the time it was cloudy maybe 75% of the time, but we still got cooked to a turn. I admit that getting away from Canada in winter is tempting, but I wouldn’t want to be in Panama in November, December, or January, which is the height of the dry season. October or February, sure. (Well, maybe November in Bocas, which sounds like a pretty good party.)
    
4. Retiring to Panama? Lots of folk are doing it, especially to Bocas. Panama has a deal to attract $$$: if you can demonstrate $500 a month in pension income, you can be a landed immigrant. And there are other ways of gaining immigrant status or citizenship. The ex pats  I’ve talked to have an odd (and not very rational) take on the experience. Cheap real estate, prices generally good, relaxed living, great diving and fishing. BUT every one of them is frustrated by the difficulty in getting things done, especially on time. Help is unreliable. Services are iffy. “Well,” I said to one of them, “Why should the locals all work like hell if one of the advantages of the place is the laid-back lifestyle?” He laughed, and said, “I’m retired. They’re not. At least, they’re not supposed to be.”
    
5. Tips for travellers? Bring money. I mean, money. Cash. US$.  Most places don’t take credit cards, small stores or restaurants can’t change a $20, and the banks don’t want to. No long sleeves. Golf shirts or t shirts. One pair of long pants for men, and shorts. No shorts for women. (Sorry, but that’s the way it is.) Buy an umbrella here for $5, and give it away when you leave. Don’t bring snorkeling gear: you have to take a boat to go anywhere you can snorkel, and they have gear.
    
6. Things I like?  The stuff above. The fact that people here are self-sufficient. Everyone here has a job, as there is no welfare system, and I haven’t seen one single panhandler. I imagine ‘street person’ is another way of saying ‘starve to death’. People are friendly. Everyone I met in Bocas smiled and said, “Hi” in one language or another. Mary met a woman who was pretty hostile, but she was an American ex-pat who didn’t like the fact that more and more Americans are moving into her paradise. (Can you imagine anyone being hostile to Mary? Must have been PMS.)
    
7. Gripes? Well, you’ve heard them, but here they are again. Whenever you make a deal for someone to do something, DON’T give advance payment, and DO have a witness, and expect to start late. Everyone works, but most people don’t work very hard. Some of them are dependable, hard workers who are as reliable as anyone, but a lot (maybe a majority) have a time system that isn’t much like mine, and in general ‘work ethic’ are just two words that don’t mean much. The thing that annoyed me most was the two-value system: if there are posted, fixed rates, everyone pays the same. If not, well, gringos are rich, and can afford more. Taxis are the worst: no meters, and a trip that would cost a local .50 cents costs a tourista at least $2, maybe more.

PANAMA – AFTERWORD 

We’re home, and I thought I’d add a couple of last thoughts about Panama. We had to pay $36 for overweight luggage in Bocas, even though the plane only had five passengers. They have a VERY low allowance. We arrived in Panama City after a 50 minute flight, to find the downpour in Bocas replaced by 32 C in Panama City. Spent a quiet day, and went off to the international airport at 6:00 the next morning. When we got there, we discovered that our flight was delayed for 90 minutes. Got our boarding passes, and went through immigrations. I won’t give you the whole story, but to make it short, it turns out that although the tourist visa we bought for $5 when we entered Panama says “90 days”, and the Government of Canada web site says “90 days”, one can only stay in Panama as a tourist for 30 days. The guy who collected the fines said, “They changed that,” when I showed him the part on my visa that said ’90 days’. We had to pay a $31 (US) fine each before they’d let us leave, and fill out a lengthy form asking things like our parents names, our eye colour, and on and on and on. The guy who collected our fine was apologetic, but his defense, “They should change that form,” was ludicrous at best. Alex, when you get to the airport, get there early because paying the fine takes an hour. And make sure you’ve got $31. And now, that really is it for Panama. And about time, too.

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