Last week, I joined Panama in the traditional last celebration before Lent. It was my first time in Latin America but it was the third country where I’ve done Carnival. I lived part of my younger years in Slidell, Louisiana, just outside of New Orleans, and have been to Mardi Gras many times. Last year, I enjoyed the unique Rhineland Karnival in Cologne, Germany so I was eager to see how things are done in this part of the world.
The celebrations in Panama are not nearly as famous as those in cities such as New Orleans or Rio De Janeiro, but from everything I saw the citizens here take it just as seriously, maybe more so when you consider that basically the whole population participates.
The party here in the capitol city of Panama is huge, and the one in Las Tablas seems to be the most desirable because of the competitive nature of the festivities there, but I chose to drive out to the little rest stop town of Capira about an hour North of Panama city.
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By far the most common question I receive from people (men) interested in moving to Panama or one of its Central American sisters is “What is the cost of living?” I´ve been in Panama for two months now and knowing that I would eventually do this piece for readers, I have paid careful attention to what it costs to operate.
I suppose I have had an advantage here because I’ve lived in several developing nations and it seems that once you can adjust to the financial aspects of one, it is that much easier in the next. People arriving here from Europe or the U.S. will immediately notice that this place is cheaper than home but it will take them some time to realize the available savings because the locals won’t necessarily give you accurate prices and will sometimes simply try to rip you off.
Whether its produce or prostitutes the two-tier pricing system is definitely in practice here for those bearing the mark of the Gringo. A good example would be a young man from Florida that came to the Miami Bar and had a few drinks with us. There were girls everywhere, all with services for sale. Eventually he took a stunning Colombian back to his room.
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My first trip to a strip bar in Panama was to the infamous La Mayor in San Felipe, Panama City. I had been lounging at an outside bar all day drinking Seko and O.J. with a guy from Sweden and another from Tennessee and we were all getting a bit fidgety. Big Swede (as they call him) mentioned that he wouldn’t mind going to a nudie bar and it didn’t take much arm twisting to get me and Tennessee to agree.
I had only been in the country for a few days so I wasn’t going to be much help in selecting a venue and Big Swede who has been to most of the skin dens said he just wanted to go some place different. This left the decision to the gentleman from Tennessee who sort of grinned and said “I know a place we can go to.” A few minutes later we had downed our drinks, paid our separate tabs and stumbled out onto the sidewalk together to wait for a taxi.
Although some expats complain about them, taxis in Panama are plentiful and relatively cheap. You never have to wait too long for one to stop for you and on this evening we didn’t either. The tiny Toyota pulled up looking like it had spent several years doing the derby circuits and sporting a paint job of several different shades of yellow. Tennessee approached the driver side window, leaned down then sort of grinned and said “We wanna go to La Mayor in San Felipe.”
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In the Kevin Kostner film a small, mixed race group of survivors eked out a meager post-apocalypse livelihood on a flotilla of old boats and buoyant garbage. When I walk the decks of our own little floating pueblo I can easily imagine such an existence.
To begin with, our band of unfortunates is just as colorful as those that Kostner encountered. The Captain is everything you would expect from an old-school Russian mariner. He prefers straight vodka in the evening and sports one of the most poorly healed broken noses I’ve ever seen. There are two other Kaliningrad sailors on board and neither of them stray very far from the stereotype.
The engineer in charge of repairing these two ships, which have been tied and anchored together off the coast for over a year is a Kiwi who after decades of repairing fishing vessels has come to hate fishing. I’m the only American and spend most of my time doing odd technical chores among the pumps and generators on the bottom plates or drinking rum and ginger ale with the only Jamaican.
The rest of the crew is a typical medley of a dozen Panamanians. Hard working young chisslers from the interior who make triple what they would back in the village and a gay cook who is quite fancy about it. We even have women on board and a cat!
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Editors Note: Adrale Holland is our new Correspondent for South/Central/Latin America. Adrale will write a few articles every week so be on the lookout…
I can see the lights of Panama City from the port windows in the Captains office of this ship. I just came aboard today and now I can’t get off again until Christmas. I arrived in the country two weeks ago and have made good use of my time getting accustomed to what promises to be one hell of a new playground. Looking out over the water makes me wish that I was still pursuing that effort.
I spent most of my time in a dicey part of town called Calidonia. Its one of those low rent areas that still manages to eat away at your finances while overloading your senses. My first impression of the place was slightly overwhelming. You can go out at anytime of the day or night and see the same panhandlers and chicle salesmen combing the blocks for customers. Sit at any of the outdoor cafes and you’ve got your life’s work ahead of you trying to shoo away one needy person after another.
Calidonia is teeming with other sorts of people as well. There are Colombian girls from the land of the $1000.00 boob job showing more cleavage than they cover while they play escort to their new boyfriend for the day.
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