notyoubob takes on Panama

[notyoubob]

Panama Red Beer
Column 1

Hed: A 1,000-mile trek begins with a single step and stays there

Last call for boarding the plane out of Atlanta brought out panic and dread. My old time running mate Greg McDonald had not shown up. He was traveling down from North Carolina to meet me on our latest adventure to Panama but was nowhere in sight. I had been sitting in the airport bar across from the gate scanning the gathering crowd while talking to a man named Gabby from Toronto. Noticing my increasing concern, Gabby, who was also flying to Panama, told me not to worry; we had plenty of time. A half-hour before departure time, I still had not seen Greg. Acidic juices began snacking on my stomach lining like a desperate Weight Watchers refugee. The woman at the counter said she couldn’t tell me whether Greg had checked in — National Security, don’t you know. I tried using the public phones to call Greg’s cell, but the soon-to-be extinct contraptions refused to take either coin or credit card. More minutes ticked away. What if I had to board alone? That was out of the question. In a near panic I asked the crowd if I could borrow some one’s cell phone. A young man nearby quickly surrendered his but I could only leave a message. Menacing winter storm clouds had been brewing over the Atlanta skies since I had landed from Wichita earlier and a rare snow and ice storm was settling in like an out-of-work brother-in-law.
As only a handful of passengers remained in line to check in, a familiar voice called out. Greg had been sitting there all this time, chatting with a dark-eyed Panamanian beauty flying back home from Minnesota. We had briefly eyed each other, but since Greg and I hadn’t seen each other but briefly a few years ago and before that for nearly three decades, our gazes had passed unknowingly. The last time I saw him in North Carolina he had a long ponytail and full beard. I, unfortunately, had gained excess baggage. Unknown to each other, we both had received GI buzz cuts in preparation for the humid, hot conditions of Panama. After a hearty relief laughed, we ambled down the chute and into the plane. This is great, I thought. Good grist for a story that will bring peals of laughter later on.
I sat between a Panamanian woman and a real estate agent named Pepper from Nantucket, preparing to take off for who knows what adventure ahead.
But wait. Old sages long ago had pondered: If you want to hear God laugh, tell Him your plans. A chuckle descended from the darkening clouds.
Our takeoff had been delayed — just a few minutes, we were told.
And then after the minutes had crawled by, another announcement said that we were in line to be de-iced. The swirling snow and accompanying ice was as rare in Atlanta as an honest politician or unbiased radio talk show host. Another hour passed and the grumbling began to take on the shape of an impending volcano deep inside the Earth’s crust.
“Here comes the doubled-edged sword,” Pepper said, nudging me to look up the aisle. The attendants had begun pouring free drinks to soothe the savage beasts. Little bottles of liquor and wine came forth, marrying up with soda, ginger and tomato juice. I had a nice miniature decanter of Finlandia on the rocks. It seems the center of the plane was loaded with those of us with wilder eyes and gnashing teeth. Those to the back of us were a group of Work and Witness missionaries from the Church of the Nazarene and were more willing to accept God’s will, or in this case, the lack of preparation for an ice storm, than the rest of us heathens.
Another hour passed, then another. And the aisles were crowded with the Unwashed, chatting, getting to know each other, embracing the age-old concept of banding together to combat a common enemy.
The attendants decided to try another tactic to stave off the would-be mutineers by starting the in-flight? movie. A cheesy comedy about a ping-pong champion disgraced as a boy began showing on the tiny dropped screens and the crowd uneasily settled down once more.
It seems we had only earned one round of free drinks for our “inconvenience” so I attempted to lead a chant of “More drinks, more drinks, more drinks,” but the missionaries would have none of that and chose to ignore my attempts. Of course the First Class passengers got their free drinks, so it was foolish for them to join in. I think they were all busy text-messaging their lawyers anyway.
To make a long story short, SEVEN HOURS later, we took off, landing in Panama City after 1 a.m. It was then we were told our reservations at the hotel had been cancelled.
With the weariness of being up for 24-hours plus beating at my soul, I was reminded why I never carry concealed weapons.
(To be continued)

[jeezeweeze]

(tapping fingers on desk)

Waiting for the rest of the story ( tap tap tap )

[Made in the USA]

Bob, you've been reading too much, or drinking too many free drinks! Kinda like asking an "old person" how they feel-------------

[notyoubob]

Panama Red Beer
Column No. 2
21 Jan. 2008

hed: I’ve always depended on the kindness of strangers

After spending 11 hours stewing inside a nightmarish gastric-juice volcano as hostages inside Delta flight No. 305, we found ourselves in front of a rather large ominously looking woman at the Tocumen Airport Hotel and Spa.
“Sorry,” she explained in not-so-good-so-berry-much Spanglish peering over her glasses. “You late, so we cancel room.” Welcome to Panama, we hope you enjoy your stay. I think I had read that on a billboard somewhere during the taxi ride to the nearby hotel. Or it could have been just another in a series of unwelcome obstacles cruelly dumped in our path by a chortling trickster bent on scrambling my brain.
It was 5:30 a.m. on Jan. 17 and Greg and I were as frazzled as a couple of toothless meth cooks fried on the backside of reality. Approaching a full 24-hour day on wide-awake mode, we were in no mood for such foolishness. “Dammit,” Greg muttered. “We had reservations.” I had paid for two nights in advance, enough time I had figured we could get our feet adjusted to the new landscape that was Panama City and begin living life under our control again.
“Sorry,” the woman shrugged turning her attention to the small line of vacationers checking out. Here we were, a couple of grizzled veterans of life at a stupefied loss, trying to comprehend the fact that I had seemingly reserved the last hotel room in Panama City but fate had intervened, kicking us to the curb. No amount of pleading with the hotel clerk seemed to work. We were SOL.
A Panamanian bioengineer on her way to Amsterdam to visit her husband’s family had overheard our plea. They were on their way to the airport to fly into Atlanta before taking an international flight to Holland. She asked us about the ice storm that had precipitated our late arrival. I told her the storm had most likely moved on and she seemed relieved. She then tried to help us with our predicament. I pulled out a hard copy of Travelocity’s reservation acknowledgment, hoping against hope that would somehow suffice. I was grateful bioengineer took up the fight. But she too soon got The Shrug.
Then I remembered my ace in the hole. Okay, I said to our newfound translator after my cerebral engine began to sputter to life for a while. Tell her we might have been late for the Wednesday reservation, but we were early for the Thursday one. Spanish was being batted back and forth like a Forrest Gump ping-pong match. After what seemed like forever, we were informed that our room would be ready at 10 a.m. I glanced at my watch. It would be another three hours or so before a firm mattress would be my friend.
Then a lagniappe moment arrived. The Amsterdam-bound woman gave us two free breakfast tickets, noting they could not use them.
After breakfast a hot shower and a few hours sleep, we felt refreshed enough to take on Panama City.
And that’s when we met another Guardian Angel, a taxi driver named Rafael.
(To be continued)

[notyoubob]

Panama Red Beer
Column #3

Hed:

Things were starting to look up in Panama City when we met up with Rafael, the taxi driver. When we slid into his cab, a small pickup, and introduced ourselves, there was no hint of what a treasure we had inadvertently uncovered.
After short introductions, we told Raphael we needed to go to a store to buy local cell phones and service. He drove us to a mall, helped us get a number in line and explained the different services available with a few helpful suggestions tossed in. When we tried to cut him loose so he could earn other fares, he turned us down flat, saying he would stick around to help us — just in case we ran into trouble with language. I think he instinctively knew we were a couple of rudderless ships in this new storm of life in a city with almost 3 million souls and not all of them were nice.
After getting the cell phones and a rest, Rafael returned at the appointed hour and asked if we were hungry. I pointed to my overblown belly and he just laughed. He took us to a locals’ place where we were the only Gringos. We were introduced to the woman cook and said we’d have whatever she recommended. It was to die for. A special dish of various seafood, special spices and a savory sauce. The side order of coconut rice would have sufficed but I was taught never to waste food and I seemed to have learned that particular lesson only to well.
Rafael dropped us off at the airport hotel and we made plans to meet up the next day at 10 a.m. Greg and I were both starting to develop a taste for the local beer, Balboa, a buck in most places but double that at the airport bar.
The next morning, I noticed after breakfast that the maids had taken all of our towels and not replaced them as they did the morning before. When Rafael arrived, I explained my fear and he talked to the counter people and sure enough, our time was up. So I had to pay for another night, but at the Friday price of $115. I knew we had to get out of there as soon as possible or my meager savings would disappear faster than a politician’s promise.
Rafael took us to the bus station and we purchased tickets to Bocas del Toro. It was a 12-hour bus and water ride for $23 and left at 8 a.m. the next morning. We spent the day buying snorkel gear, swim trunks, etc for the trip. I knew we had to call it an early night in order to get up at 5:30 a.m. or so to get to the bus terminal in time. However, after a while Rafael came up with a better plan. Why not leave on the 8 p.m. bus instead? That was we could spend the day with Rafael who wanted to introduce us to his family. We would then tour the Panama Canal, downtown and other nearby places, then arrived tired enough to sleep on the bus.
That turned out to be good news and bad. After another great locals lunch at a downtown hotel, we rode around a bit getting the feel of PC from a long-time local’s perspective. Later on Friday, Jan. 19 we met up with Rafael’s first son, Rafael III, whom Greg quickly nicknamed Trip, short for Triple. We spent a couple of hours shooting pool and drinking cervezas and eyeing the beautiful girls and women that seem to proliferate in PC.
That, of course was the good news. The bad news was because we didn’t need to get up at milking time, Greg and I headed for the airport hotel’s bar and spent too much money and time there. A band played and a beautiful Panamanian woman was singing. After the band stopped for the night, we met up with a Brit TV cameraman for Fox News, who was in PC to follow up on a story of a Brit who had pretended to be lost at sea, but had hid out in PC for almost a year before his “widow” joined him. After a while, I jogged over the line and questioned why TV especially needed the “If it bleeds, it leads” mentality of news coverage. Why not do some investigative work and find out the truth of Halliburton’s skimming of cash from the Iraqi War? After a few verbal skirmishes, the cameraman tied of this and told me to cool it, he was just doing his job.
I need to learn to keep my big mouth shut.
Anyway, the next day Rafael picked us up at the hotel and took us to his house, where his wife was preparing barbecued pork chops for lunch. We had just ate a late breakfast and explained we weren’t very hungry but knew better than to insult our hosts by refusing the meal. It was delicious and I had as much as I could. After a couple of hours, we took off for the Panama Canal tour, then downtown, both the old and new sections of PC. Rafael showed us the tidal mud flats where airborne troops had landed during the invasion to get Noriega. He said the US troops were mired down by the mud and the weight of their fighting equipment and many were mowed down there. I don’t remember reading about that in the US media.
We stopped at the fish market and had some fresh cerviche. We also noticed no Gringos were there but the food was fantastico. We noticed some heavy-looking Army-types and were told they were part of the PC mayor’s security.
At 6 p.m. we headed off to the bus terminal to exchange our tickets and then wait for the next adventure.
It was not long in showing up.

[notyoubob]

Panama Red Beer col

Hed: A pirate looks at 60

“I’ve been drunk now for over two weeks
Passed out and rallied and sprung a few leaks
Got to quit wishing
Got to go fishing
I’m down to rock bottom again
Just a few friends, just a few friends.”
— Jimmy Buffet in A Pirate Looks at 40

As I approached my 60th birthday in the tropical up-and-coming resort of Bocas del Toro, old memories triggered by familiar smells put a damper on my celebration. New found friends at Bohmfalks bar, a watering hole for American ex-pats, aging pony-tailed Boomers, global trekkers, retired rockers, former drug smugglers, business men and women, airline attendants of a certain age and other neer-do-wells had promised a night to remember. I was quickly dubbed “Drinker Bob,” for some unknown reason and the entire bar sang “Happy Birthday” to me when Sharon, who along with her husband, Bill Bohmfalks own the popular bar, came out of the kitchen bearing a rum cake and I do mean RUM cake. I think she used a whole bottle of rum in the recipe because the cake got all those who dared gnosh a wet slice even more intoxicated. My old running mate Greg was late from a snorkeling trip and when he showed up several hours after he was supposed to, he showed me where he had possibly broken his ribs when he did not see a missing plank on a nearby dock and fell through like a hanged man. Feeling stunned and in shock from his injuries, Greg couldn’t get up but a young man ran up to help him. From Greg’s description, he was Will, son of Mike Rozicki, the San Miguel County Planning Director. If so, thanks Mike for raising such a responsible man. And, Will, thanks for helping out a stranger in need.
Anyway, after Greg limped back to our hotel room, I began to reflect on the fact that my constantly overworked Guardian Angel had somehow overtaken the odds and had seen to that fact that I was now 60 years old.
The memory is a funny thing and some things are just too weird to remember accurately, but here goes.
Forty long and dusty years ago, I found myself on my 20th birthday being shot at for the first time. It was Jan. 31, 1968 and up until that time my tour with the 4th Transportation Co. at the Saigon Port was full of boredom, interspaced with frenzied partying and $3 illicit carnal knowledge that was heady for this Kansas dairy farm hick.
Then Charlie came to town for Tet and traditional fireworks morphed into mortars, rockets and RPGs and the ultimate buzz kill was underway.
A series of mishaps and SNAFUs led to me being armed with an M-14 but with no ammo. As I was making my way down the darkened hallway of the Le Lai Hotel, someone screamed, “They’re in the hotel.” Instantly I heard a cadre of rifles being locked and loaded in front and back of me. “It’s me,” I pleaded. “I ain’t no Charlie,” hoping my jumpy comrades-in-unfamiliar arms would decide not to light me up.
Then one of my buddies ejected a 3.62 mm round from his weapon and I pounced on it like a starving cat on an unsuspecting mouse. At least I had one round between me and Eternity.
Then as luck would have it, I was assigned guard duty in the alley behind the hotel, guarding a CONEX. I knew that we had no guard bunker set up and I would be exposed, hiding between rays of lights. I tried to explain that I only had one round but things were starting to heat up again and rational thought appeared AWOL for the moment. So there I was, just turning 20 years old, alone in an alley with no help in sight and the entire city seemingly under fire. Just little old me, and my terrified thoughts and ultimately Charlie. I spotted him popping up and down from a whorehouse window across the alley just a few feet from my position. He’d pop up and let loose a few harassing AK-47 rounds, which luckily hit the nearly impenetrable hotel wall just above my head. The eerie feel of ground up concrete grit pouring down the back of my sweaty neck injected whatever leftover adrenaline into my now quacking body. Tet was inordinately cold for Vietnam, as I remember, but the shivering I did was due to impending doom, not the cold.
Should I return fire and reveal my position? But I only had one round and that would be the end of me, I was sure. Besides I had in my possession an M-14 I had neither fired nor sighted in. I figured I was done for and vowed to at least wait until I had a reasonable chance of doing damage before I got wasted.
Then something extraordinary happened. A feeling of inner calm welled over me as I accepted the fact that I was probably not going to live to ever the sun rise again.
So, in an act of total insanity to keep me from going insane, I began to sing “Happy Birthday” to myself. I started out soft and low, then little by little began belting it out stronger and louder. The sound echoed off the nearby buildings and crept down the alley like a thief on the prowl.
After what seemed like forever, Charlie in the window slipped away into the Saigon night, joining others who were wreaking havoc all over the country.
The next day I found out why I had to guard the CONEX.
“It’s where we keep the extra ammo,” a grizzled NCO grunted at my naïve question.

[notyoubob]

Panama Red Beer col No. 5

Hed: Walking on water not an option


After a 12-hour bus and water taxi ride from Panama City to Bocas del Toro, I was ready to sleep for a day or two. However, that was not in the cards. Greg and I met up with Sharon, a Canadian woman on vacation from their winter. She had been to other places and was on her way to Bocas when her traveling companion, a surfer dude from Israel, decided to just leave on his own. So we offered to let her join the posse and away we went. But I will refer to her as Panama Annie, the Canadian Cougar, for reasons that will become evident later.
We arrived at Bocas on Isla Colon at 6 a.m., bleary eyed and hungry. We called up the owner of the hotel where we had reservations and he came down just as bleary-eyed as we were. His named was Ferrocia or some such, a mixture of Italian, German, and who knows what else. He apologized for his appearance, saying he had fallen and broken his shoulder and was high as a kite on pain meds and quite excited in his speech patterns. I quickly and probably unmercifully dubbed him The Rusty Iron Man, a combination of ferro and his meandering speeches about how much property he owned and why he wanted to sell out and go fishing for the first time in seven years and how his wife, Olga, a stunningly beautiful and sultry woman from the Dominican Republic, always needed more and more money “for to shop.”
At his suggestion, the Posse went to a nearby restaurant for breakfast to give the Rusty Iron Man a chance to rest. As we sat down awaiting hot café con leche, Panama Annie suggested we add a shot of brandy “just to take the edge off.” I should have known a drinking companionship was born.
After a couple of days getting our lay of the land, Rusty Iron Man took us to dinner on a nearby island. We got on a water taxi for Bastimentos with Rusty Iron Man, Olga, two Irish louts and The Posse. A few minutes later we pulled up to a dock outside of what looked like somebody’s house. It was when I tried to disembark that the troubles began.
As luck would have it, I was like a two-day-old Krispy Kreme doughnut. I guess I needed a good dunkin’. Not having spent much time on the water in decades, I forgot the physics of water travel. As I tried to hop off the water taxi, I didn’t notice no one was holding the line and with my one foot on the dock and the other just leaving the boat, I tried to do the splits. Not being in the least bit of shape as a young cheerleader, I found myself up to my forehead in salt water. Everyone started yelling excitedly to help the Big Gringo back up, but I was tired and embarrassed so I just started trudging along the bottom to the shore. I felt my newly purchased cell phone start to vibrate. It was still vibrating as we sat at the table, awaiting a scrumptious meal of seafood. The girls had fun holding the vibrating cell phone and making lewd remarks. I then noticed that my vision had gone bad and when I found out I had lost the only contact I had on this trip knew things would be different from now on. I even attempted to see if any fish scales laying about the various plates happened to be my prescription contact, but no such luck was to be had.
So there I sat, blind as a bat in the middle of some beautiful islands without the means to appreciate the sense of vision.
But I figured the next morning I would begin my quest to find an eye doctor nearby and, voila, I would be able to see soon enough.
Besides, Carnevale was quickly approaching and I sure wanted to experience that celebration before Mardi Gras up close and personal.
However, that thought was wrong on so many levels but ignorance is indeed bliss.

[notyoubob]

Panama Red Beer
Col No. 6

Hed: The devil came down to Bocas

The devils intimidated me somewhat. The first time I saw one, I had to shake the cobwebs from my brain. He/it was lumbering away from me and due to my lost contact blindness, I wasn’t sure I was seeing correctly.
A hideous mask with many horns bounced menacingly into the air. The black costume completely covered whomever it was who walked in that skin. Hmm, maybe too much fun is possible.
But when I caught the sound made from his whip, a crackling snap not unlike that of a bullet whizzing by too close for comfort, I decided it must be real. For a couple of days, I noticed Bocas filling up with tourists, but also a lot of Panamanians from the mainland. The flavor of the small town changed almost overnight, kind of like Telluride does the week before the Bluegrass Festival. I came home one night and two young but not very attractive hookers approached me. “We wait for you,” said one, her gold tooth gleaming under the night lights. Two young street thugs stood nearby, eyeing our hotel room through the open door. I think these were a group of criminals from the mainland here to prey on vacationers. I quickly shut it and gave them the stink eye and they slinked away.
The next day I saw the Diablo again, this time storming towards me and lashing out at the flock of children scurrying underfoot. So I decided what I had seen the night before was at least real. Or as least as real as a somewhat confused Gringo can get while trying to absorb the unfamiliar sights and sounds of the festival leading up to Mardi Gras and the attendant privations undertaken by good Catholics worldwide from Ash Wednesday to Easter.
I told the Canadian Cougar of my sighting but she pooh-poohed me, saying I had spent too long at the pub again.
“Really,” I said. “I think I saw un Diablo, dressed in all black and scaring the beejesus out of the screaming children, who flocked around the Beast, taunting and jeering it, running to beat all when the whip came cracking down.” Snap, snap, snap.
“Get out,” she said, opening the door to our hotel room onto the second floor landing. “No really, get out!” Such humor she has.
Just a block from our hotel was the park, the gathering place for locals wanting to escape the noonday sun or families of Indios taking in the cool evening air. This time the park was packed with children, old men and women, young pregnant mothers, touristas from all over the world, and a few scampering dogs.
Under a blazing tropical sun, children of all ages gathered in front of the stage. A tanker had been filled up with water and as the MC rattled on in Spanish, a young man sprayed the appreciative crowd with cooling water. The water had a chemical smell to it, I noticed as I approached the crowd, keeping a wary blind eye toward the water hose. I didn’t want to get my camera drenched, sending it to an early demise.
Then I read the words painted on the tanker. “Inflammable.” No two ways about it, this was a gasoline tanker, drafted into water duty.
There are a lot of things here in Panama that make me go, hmmm. I doubt if San Miguel County Environmental Officer David Schneck would have allowed such goings on, but hey when in Panama…
Lawyers here are mostly busy with real estate deals and have little time or inclination to file lawsuits abrogating self-responsibility that seem all-too-common in the States. Besides, that would be a colossal waste of valuable time.
As the days and nights drew closer to the climax of Mardi Gras, more and more Diablos appeared on the streets. One or two even came into Bohmfalks Bar, but left after the ex-pats showed more interest in slaking their thirst than saving their souls.
Three new neighbors from Salt Lake City arrived and stayed in the next hotel room. One, a Bostonian pilot for Delta, had one thing to say when I told him to be careful of the Diablos and their whips.
“If he touches me, he’s going down for the count,” he said, without a hint of humor, making a fist that seemed to be familiar to the task.
Each night of Carnevale, local talent crowded the downtown stage, for karaoke or live performances. I must admit some of them reminded me of the old TV talent program, The Gong Show and I looked around for the Hook. But it never made an appearance.
And then the devils would take up their cause and harangue the crowd. I was sitting besides the beer and food stand of my favorite bartender, Jorge, from Bohmfalks, when a devil came over and tore off his mask. His face was covered with sweat and he seemed to be babbling. I haven’t picked up as much Spanish as I had hoped by now, mostly due to my laziness, but even I knew the words made little sense. He looked like he was suffering from heat stroke and a quick glance at the mask showed it had to be a steam bath inside.
A bottle of water was shoved into the man’s hands and he gulped copiously. Then he was offered a hamburger, which he quickly wolfed down. I felt something on my left shoulder and found out he had used my sleeve to wipe off some mayonnaise and tomato that had slipped from the burger onto his hand. At least the hand wasn’t cloven.
The finale for Carnevale really whipped the crowd to a frenzy on Tuesday night. All of the Diablos formed a gauntlet and one by one, each would run, leaping high like a deer to avoid the stinging whips from the colleagues. A couple of intoxicated college kids from the US also ran the gauntlet and earned sore calves and reddened ankles for their trouble. A local asked me if I wanted in on the Big Hurt, but I politely declined, saying I was too old and too fat for such shenanigans.
The atmosphere changed again and I smelled trouble brewing as hard voices were being raised. A fight broke out among several of the devils when one apparently got beat harder than he thought he deserved and the crowd parted like the Red Sea to make room for the pugilistic display. I felt myself go into survival mode, backing up to the outskirts of the crowd and decided I had better call it a night so I could survive to report what I had seen.
Back to the hotel, I found the Cougar had picked up another young Panamanian man. A few days after we met, Panama Annie told me of her inclinations towards younger men. She said that’s just the way she was. I could take it or leave it, she said. So I took it, enjoying my time with her during the days and evenings before her hungry eyes locked onto another victim in the tourista bars late at night. I think she told me that specifically so I wouldn’t get any foolish ideas in my thick head about any possible liaison. She was 36 and a blue-eyed beauty and I am, well, me.
So I began to think about the meaning of Lent.
What would I give up for Lent, I pondered on Ash Wednesday while sitting at a nearby beach, letting the soothing sounds of the waves crashing on the shore slowly lull me into La-La Land.
I was thinking of maybe giving up good taste and common sense, but those of you who know me understand I gave those up decades ago.
I’d have to give up something else.

[notyoubob]

Panama Red Beer col no. 7

Hed: A cast of characters, some shady some not so much

Like any good reality TV show, Panama Red Beer’s Excellent Bocas Adventure needs a cast of special characters. So here goes.

Panama Annie: A global trekker, Panama Annie is approaching middle age with a special zest for life. She is a self-described “Cougar,” an older woman who likes younger men, especially Panamanians. Owns her own business in Toronto which specializes in colloidal silver medicine for rare diseases in horses. Also believes the medicine can cure humans of all kinds of ailments. Studied yoga in India from a swami. Smart, pretty, yet seems a bit wary of true love.

Bill and Sharon Bohmfalk: Owners of Bohmfalk’s Bar, a favorite watering hole of American ex-pats, graying Baby Boomers, retired businessmen and women, aging rockers, treasure hunters, a few local Bocasites and all sorts of neer-do-wells. Bill and Sharon moved to Bocas from Key West. The bar is a classic dive, with mousetraps glued to the bar to keep currency from blowing away. Sells collector t-shirts. Some of the signs in the bar: What Kind Of A Show You Running Here? The Only Way You’ll Get a Better Piece of Chicken Is If You Are A Rooster. Oh My God, We Realized Our Panama Dream — Now What Do We Do?

Steve, The Magic Man: Another global trekker, Steve owns his own roofing business in Akron, OH, mostly to finance his global adventures. Loves Fiji and is well known there. Specializes in sleight-of-hand magic, which he performs for wide-eyed children, hard-edged cops and baffled bar patrons, leaving all entertained and scratching their heads. Due to his free magic shows for kids and cops, he has an aura of protection where ever he goes. An all-around good guy, he also plays mandolin and has friends in the music business in the US.

Milana: The Magic Man’s office manager. She is a crack up, smart and quick as a whip with a sharp retort. Specializes in being a “bird dog” for The Magic Man, pointing out great-looking women for her boss and sometimes lover. Celebrated her 44th birthday at Bohmfalks on Feb. 15 by dancing on the bar with friends.

Diver Jim: Retired treasure diver/salvager who helped the late Mel Fisher discover the Atocha, a sunken Spanish galleon loaded with treasure. Has written his life story and is looking to get it published. Used to run a bar in the Keys, has loads of stories of the drug business there in the early years. Is 72, has had heart problems managed by a pacemaker. Rides a “Hardly Davidson,” a cheap Chinese knockoff of the US classic. Has lived in Bocas for 17 years back when “there were only four outsiders and nothing going on.” Has his “office” at the Golden Grill, an American-owned restaurant, on the main drag and holds court there each day for any passersby who have an interest in history. Is awaiting his “ship to come in” which is a salvage ship he will use to uncover more treasure. Is pretty closed mouth about any future prospects, as he should be.

Costa Rica Joe: A window washer from San Diego who has lived in Costa Rica for 12 years, three in Bocas. Travels back and forth between the two countries as his passport requirement dictates. Classic street hustler who gets a cut of the action when he brings vacationers to various tourista businesses and hostels. He only spends three months a year in San Diego to earn money to return to Central America. Is fluent in street Spanish but claims he cannot read Spanish.


CD: An original member of Quicksilver Messenger Service, wrote and performed under many pseudonyms, including Chuck Steaks. Plays out and about at various clubs on occasion, but seems more interested in helping the local Indios develop and sell their lands for their profit, not Gringo Speculators. Some people think he’s a fake.

The Brit Twit: I nicknamed him such due to his at times arrogant holier-than-thou attitude toward other musicians and run-of-the-mill people he meets. He is an excellent blues guitarist in the same vein as Eric Clapton and Keith Richards. Rumor has it he could have been a Rolling Stone, but isn’t, which seems to have gnawed at his craw. He whines that he’s the only true musician on the island. Can’t seem to get a band together for more than a couple of gigs and he has no idea why other than they are not “professionals.”

(to be continued)

[notyoubob]

Panama Red Beer col 8

Hed: Cast of characters, redux

Bobby G, aka Bobby Love: A New Joisey Boy who neither denies nor confirms the rumor he’s the son of Beach Boy Michael Love. Did a google check and he’s not, but hey any pub is better than none. He sports a wild boar’s tusk on a necklace and claims he and his buddy speared the marauding beast when it attacked them in Nicaragua. Don’t know where he gets his money to stay down here as he’s only in his mid-50s. Plays a mean piano and can sing the oldies, which he does on open mic night and other places around Bocas. When he gets deep in his cups, he can be a real pain in the patoot as he gets too catty for his own good, ya know what I mean, ya know what I’m saying? For that reason, I’ve nicknamed him Bobby Brycreem, ‘cause a little dab’ll do ya. But after I’ve been ready to put him on the back shelf due to his misbehavior in treating people, he does something to redeem himself. One night before Magic Steve left for the states, Steve, who has always treated all he’s met with respect and encouragement, was complaining about how the Brit Twit was arrogantly telling Steve to “bugger off,” “get a life” and “Why are you talking to me?” “Watch this,” Bobby Love said. “I’ll have him eating out of your hand in 10 minutes.” Actually, what he said was much too graphic for a family newspaper involving knees and all, but you get the idea. Bobby Love told the Brit Twit that Magic Steve was really a music producer from LA down here to look for some talent to record. And sure enough, within a few minutes the Brit Twit came sauntering up all nicey nice to Magic Steve, trying to schmooze him. Magic Steve listened to the obvious butt kissing for a while then retorted, “When you learn how to play guitar, look me up.” And then he walked away, leaving the Brit Twit utterly aghast. My assignment is to keep the legs growing on that story, so every week or so I’ll try to drop a hint about Producer Steve. Ah, sweet revenge. A lesson taught is a lesson learned.

Andrias: A 30-something Rumanian who grew up in Germany, Andrias was a successful TV, movie and documentary producer who sold his business for beaucoup bucks and has spent the past year traveling the globe with his wife, Allum, checking out the world for a new home. Has formed a corporation in Panama City and is looking to start up another business here.

Allum: Andrias’ wife, she was born in Eritrea, by Egypt and a successful businesswoman in her own right. She speaks several languages and is eager to settle down and start her own family. She, too, spent a lot of years living in Germany and recently turned 31. She is knock ‘em dead gorgeous, with skin the color of café con leche, and movements worthy of a ballerina. Sweet.

New Jim: So named to differentiate from Diver Jim, aka Old Jim. New Jim is in his late 60s, retired from his own excavating business in Michigan, now run by his son. Has been on 17 cruises, but somehow ended up in Bocas for a couple of months and now claims he’s done with cruising. Still an old goat and is constantly is looking for the young(er) ladies. He shared a one-room flat with Costa Rica Joe, next to mine. Brought home two Columbian hookers one night. Uses Viagra, but “I only take a half at a time.” Has lost a lung and a kidney to cancer, but after watching his son’s father-in-law get so sick with chemo he couldn’t enjoy life and die within six months, New Jim has twice refused to go on chemo after his two cancer surgeries. He’s beaten the odds so far and enjoys each day of his life, which is exciting by most any measure. He’s my hero and if I providence lets me live long enough, will try to mimic his Dirty Old Man attitude. Si, no problemo.

Gustavio and Enrico: Two Peruvian musicians who are really good and despite the Brit Twit, are true professionals. Gustavio plays the keyboards and is the lead singer and Enrico plays sax, flute and congos. Street talk has it they were the top act in Peru three decades ago but when the government changed, they were on the wrong side, so had to leave. They live in San Jose, Costa Rica, where they have a recording studio.

Vicky Roses: A 52-year-old Charro clone, she’s got a dynamite body for “an old hide.” Born in Central America, she has lived in the US and is a singer/dancer/masseuse/realtor. She can belt out the hard blues and old Spanish love songs and can still get the male of the species’ blood boiling over the top. She is a great entertainer and the sister of Gustavio, one of the Peruvian Musicians. Walking down the streets of Bocas with her entourage is quite an experience, as “everybody loves Vicky.” Lives in a house on the water she built with Ronnie, but they are having legal disputes over who owns what.

Ronnie: An American ex-pat who also was in Viet Nam during the Tet Offensive of 1968. We had comparable stories. He “inherited” a great blackmarketing scheme from his supply sergeant and made beaucoup bucks there. Is involved with Vicky Roses but they are in the middle of a heated legal dispute over who paid for what and who owns which part of the house they share on the water.

Butcher Carl: A self-taught butcher from the Spokane area, he has turned over his business to his family and travels the world to avoid the winters. Will go to Thailand next year before returning to Bocas. A combat engineer Nam vet who got busted down to private after he tried to “eliminate” his First Sergeant, who was getting ready to force his unit into an obvious killing zone toward the end of America’s involvement in Nam. His commanding officer pulled Carl off Top before too much damage was done (I really wanted to kill him, he says) and despite being cheered on by the other regular GIs, lost his stripes. The First Sergeant was transferred out of Country within three days. Carl is 57, still feisty and is a good man to have watching your back. When he was home from Basic Training, a local bad cop taunted him, saying, “If you hit me, it’ll cost you $50.” So Carl, who had just over $150 in Army pay, hit the punk cop three times, breaking his nose, knocking him out and spilling his handgun onto the floor. Carl tossed the cop’s .38 onto the roof and only told the judge where it was because they are old family friends. Had to pay $50 a hit on the cop, but got his revenge when the cop, who earlier had been released from some California town’s squad for being a jerk, got fired.

Hardware Rick: Carl’s friend who owns his own hardware store near Spokane. Likes a good time and really enjoys Bocas but had to leave after only a month as he is going through a nasty divorce. After he landed at the airport in Spokane, his soon-to-be-ex-wife’s two lawyers met him at the airport. He said he can’t wait to return.

Rebecca: A hard-drinking ex-pat who is going through a divorce down here. She used to be a top-notch consultant for prison systems across the US. Her husband also lives here, with his brother, so it’s a bit complicated, as she’s living “platonically” with Richard, from Loveland, CO via Kansas City, MO. She just turned 52 but has been “rode hard and put up wet,” as we used to say. When I first met her, she got behind the barstool I was sitting on at Bohmfalks and whispered, “I’m here to kick the living s…t out of you.” I told her to go stand in that long line over there. To this day, she doesn’t remember that, but I do. Skinny as a rail but with a distended liver. I wish her luck.

That’s enough for now, but will return to the cast “maybe later,” a favorite answer of locals when asked when something is going to happen.