The Sick Horror at The Lost and Found (3 page)

To get to the San Blas islands, you
have to take the boat from Portobello, not far from Panama City.
But traffic was a nightmare of stale, stinking moments of gridlock
followed by sudden, seizure-like fits of jerking and weaving. At
times I wished I had trusted her and swallowed the pill. She was
out cold before the bus hit the main highway -- her head resting,
sometimes bouncing, on the lip of the open window. When we finally
made it to the highway, even more people crammed onto the bus and
every last bit of space was filled with one fluid mass of human
flesh. The last of the oxygen was consumed. The singing stopped.
The honking and roaring of engines in the traffic jam took over,
and everyone was silent and devoid of expression again. They looked
as though they were hoping elevator doors would open soon so they
could become reanimated. But we held like this for hours. So long,
in fact, that the old man in the seat in front of us who had to
urinate took the matter into his own hands -- he had a plastic
Pepsi bottle that he pissed into. Aside from me, this drew no
attention.

Then the spindly old man held the
bottle out the window and began dumping it out. It would have been
fine if the bus hadn’t suddenly jerked forward causing the piss to
spill down the man’s arm and through the window back at
us.

The bus suddenly roared forward again,
and although there was only a ten meter stretch in the road, the
bus driver mashed the pedal down, and the piss splashed back right
into the face of the Latina Lolita next to me. She was too stoned
on valium to even feel it. I tapped on the pisser’s shoulder, and
he made one feeble attempt to turn back, but the lack of space and
his old joints wouldn’t permit turning and facing his
mess.

I took her pack and did my best to use
her flippers to shield her face. I have never been so attracted to
a piss soaked girl.

Then the bus driver shouted a jaw
dropping string of offensive words in Spanish at the traffic. He
stopped the bus and pulled up the emergency brake in defeat. The
bus reluctantly unloaded. When the kid to my right got up, I moved
over slightly and the girl’s head flopped onto my lap, still
completely unconscious. Her long black hair fell into my hands and
I shivered at the sudden thought of running my hands through it.
Her thin frame was light, but it was hard to juggle her and our
bags off the bus.

That I had an unconscious girl draped
over my shoulder fireman style should have attracted attention, had
I not entered a carnival of the absurd. Every other pilgrim had a
purple robe and they walked like tired automatons three steps
forward, two steps back. The way was lit by candles and glow-in-the
dark rosaries sold alongside the road. The closer we got to the
church, the more people in the procession dropped to their hands
and knees and crawled on the asphalt.

With a girl over my left shoulder, a
pack on my right and another in my right hand, I couldn’t get far.
Where was I going anyway? I was walking toward the church and never
thought to think about the way to the boat taxi.

Then I saw it. The Black Christ,
carried by men with shaved heads and purple robes, was slowly
coming up behind us. They walked the same as the pilgrims, three
steps forward and two steps back -- except they had rhythm. They
were grooving. They were dancing. And beside them people praying.
And beside them people singing. And beside them people
crying.

I gave up my pixie cross to bear and
sat down about thirty meters from the church, on a little patch of
grass next to a table selling figurines of the Black Christ. What
the hell were these people thinking? Why did they need redemption
so bad? Were these the corrupt cops, drug lords and prostitutes
crawling in front of me in a bizarre parade of
atonement?

Legend says the Black Christ came to
Portobello on a stopover in the 15th Century, on its way to
Cartagena. By that time Portobello had already become a fortified
port for the Spanish to load their plundered Incan gold onto ships
protected by cannons from the likes of Henry Morgan and Sir Francis
Drake. Henry Morgan sacked Panama City and Sir Francis Drake died
while laying siege on the other coast. The ship carrying the Black
Christ attempted to leave Panama five times, but each time the
winds refused to carry the boat. Fearing the life sized black idol
was a bad omen, the sailors pitched it overboard. It washed up onto
shore and has been venerated ever since. The idol, they say, did
not want to leave Panama.

It was like the Black Christ charged
the air as it drew near. Singing and chanting gave way to wailing
as the idol passed. People dripped burning candle wax onto their
arms. The Black Christ was within feet of us when the sleeping
beauty at my side suddenly sat up. She stood and slowly followed
the crowd toward the church.

I decided to watch from where I sat. I
had to. I couldn’t leave the bags. My seated vantage point
prohibited me from spotting her in the crowd. I had no idea what to
do except wait.

Then I saw her again. People parted to
let her walk up the steps to the Church and toward the Black
Christ, now at the entrance. One of the bald men that had carried
the Christ put his hand out to stop her from entering the church.
When she turned I could see her face, blood running from her
forehead and hands. She stretched out her arms and fainted. I saw
her collapse at the top of the stairs when suddenly I felt a sharp
pain, like someone kneed me in the groin. Something happened to me.
I can’t explain, except I imagine it had to be a panic attack.
Everything grew black around the edges and the next thing I knew I
was on the ground with people gathered around me.

I got to my feet and looked
frantically for her. For some reason I drastically wanted to find
her. But she was gone. I never learned her name. I didn’t get to
say goodbye.

Paint it Black

By María
Concepción

I can make you scared if you want me
to

I’m not prepared but if I have
to

I can make you scared, and you pay me
to

If that’s the deal then here’s what I
can do for you

You’re in the church

And more than a million works of
art

Are whisked into the woods

When the pirates find the whole place
dark

They think that God’s left the city
for good

At the Church of San José in Casco
Viejo, there is a gold altar that the faithful painted black when
the English pirates came to Panamá El Viejo. They saw it and passed
over it, thinking it useless. In Portobello there is Christ made
Black carrying the sins of criminals. Tomorrow I will
see.

So You Want to be an Expat
in Panama?

By Steven Banks

My buddy Matt needs to pull out the
stick he shoved up his own ass while teaching ESL to sheep in
cubicles. He needs to rediscover what it really means to be an
expat in Panama. On my trip to David I found an awesome hostel we
could lease in the cloud forest called The Lost and Found. I am
ready to be an expat.

So you want to be an expat like me? If
your reasons are any of these two, then STAY HOME!

1. I hate what’s happening in:
America, Canada, Afghanistan, Libya, Iraq, Barbados.

Granted there is probably nothing
terrible happening in Barbados, but the point is that if you
disagree with the current political or economic situation in your
home country, you probably don’t have a good reason to leave. You
cannot escape the effects of American politics nor its shit-storm
up and down economy. Internet access is available from Rio Douche,
Panama, to Werthefucktenango, Guatemala. Unfortunately, so are CNN
and even Fox News.

2. I hate my job, my
girlfriend/boyfriend, my drinking problem, black presidents, and /
or the fact that I’m a giant douchebag.

The problem is that a douchebag in
Panama smells much the same as a douchebag back home (unless you
are French). If you don’t fit in where you live now, you won’t fit
in here either. You’ll be the raving lunatic that everyone calls
“Gringo Loco.” Trust me. I am still trying to shrug this off. Your
drinking problem? Booze is considerably cheaper here.

Ok, so maybe neither of those applies
to you, or you’re willing to overlook them, or that last line made
up your mind to come to the land of cheap booze, or you have
delusions of being a pirate, or you just want to see some funky
Latina ‘gina. Read on.

I wanna be an expat and I’m willing to
overlook the following in order to get to the funky Latina
‘ginas.

•
Crazy ass drivers. Anyone
outside of USA/Canada is a crazy ass driver who uses the car horn
like my 5 year old nephew honks his wee wee, and some of these
drivers are honking their wee wees and their horns at the same
time. The car horn is used to communicate any of the following, not
in any particular order and sometimes all at the same time: you’re
a hot chick, you’re in my way, I’m coming through the middle of
your car, do you need a ride, my taxi is empty, my taxi is full,
you’re not moving, you are moving, how are you, fuck you, you’re a
fat chick, you’re a fat chick but if you get in my car I’ll
sympathy hump you.

•
Crazy ass Latina ‘ginas.
If you have blue eyes, they’re easier to pick up here than taking
money from the cup of a one eyed legless beggar. I know-- I bought
colored contacts. But I also got me a jealous lunatic that is
harder to shake than a pubic hair stuck to a bar of Ivory
soap.

•
The combined smell of
piss and campfire. This has apparently been bottled and is one hell
of a hot seller, especially for public transport.

•
Lazy bastards. There is a
reason bribery is popular in developing countries. If you ever try
to wade through ridiculous bureaucracy, then you will wish that
bribery was popular in the good ol’ USA. But corruption is not only
part and parcel of bureaucracy, it happens on all levels.
Corruption is a general air of undeserved entitlement, and in
Panama you sorta feel like you’re living in a country full of Kevin
Federlines. As one Panamanian told me while we were looking out at
the canal, his ancestors worked so hard on the canal that he was
born tired. You will run into this
manaña
attitude everywhere, and I
mean everywhere.

•
Personal space. It no
longer exists. I cannot explain this thoroughly enough. Whether
it’s the stank-ass armpit shoved in your face on the bus, or the
stank-ass ass shoved in your face on the bus, something stank-ass
will be shoved in your face… every day.

•
Cops and the
disappearance of your “rights.” Whereas in Britain cops will say
“Stop, stop, dammit, or I will have to say stop again,” here they
point an AK-47 at your head while you cash a check. If you call a
cop and they can’t find someone to arrest, they will arrest you.
And while, “Hey, I got rights, and I’ll upchuck on your shoes if I
wanna,” might gain you a pity smile and a hardy chuckle, and
possibly even a phone call in the USA, here it will probably gain
you a pistol whippin’ and laughter from the other 10 dudes
loosening their belts in your 4ft by 4ft cell. I speak from
experience: Although I wasn’t pistol whipped, I spent a night in a
holding cell with a half an inch of piss on the floor because I was
around when someone thought cops actually did their jobs
here.

Still ready to come? Sell all of your
worldly possessions, which probably won’t net you as much as it
would in a bright shiny economy, but remember that you won’t need
much because you won’t be spending much. After all, loss of
personal hygiene, cup ‘o noodles, and sleeping on the beach doesn’t
cost that much and you will be rich with experiences and confident
because you are a pioneer who will return home one day and write a
best seller filled with spiritual insights about your fellow man
and with stories about a girl with hairy armpits that dumped you
when you no longer had cash for 50 cent beers and had to sell your
hemp necklaces and hardened Playdoh “water-pipes” to unsuspecting
tourists. Wait! What are all of these other trust fund hippies
doing selling their “jewelry” (crap) on your street in
paradise?

Still want to come? Good… I haven’t
regretted a single day.

The Gods Dance on the Kuna
Islands

By Dr. Michael
Anderson

Most people know Panama for the canal
that unites oceans. But it is also a bridge that unites continents.
Whether it be conquistadors moving gold, or Americans moving ships,
those that settled here were moving something to somewhere. But for
seven indigenous tribes the isthmus was not a bridge or a canal –
it was home. Through revolutions and missionary zeal they have
managed to preserve some of the same religious customs they had as
the day Columbus arrived.

Of the seven tribes, one of the most
successful at preserving their autonomy is the Kuna. Driven to the
brink of extinction in the Darien jungles by the Spanish, they fled
to an archipelago of 365 islands. They chose the islands of San
Blas not for the pristine white sand beaches but because there was
no potable water. The Spanish would leave them alone that
way.

The Kuna are especially noted for the
women who exhibit their traditional culture by wearing brightly
colored fabrics sewn together to create designs, usually birds or
fish. They cover their legs and arms with beaded jewelry, pierce
their noses with small golden plates, and mark their foreheads to
the tips of their noses with thin black lines. This, however, is a
tradition somewhat imposed upon them by missionaries and
facilitated by the arrival of cotton. Originally they were naked
and the Church encouraged them to transform their decorative
tattoos into clothing.