March 12, 2003
On Life, Peace, Death, and Stuff
Greetings from the Canal Zone. I landed in Panama City, and for the next few days I'll be washing clothes, booking flights, and basically getting ready to get out of North America. Up until now, it's just been a road trip. Here's where it starts to be a journey. The following are a few passages from my travels of the last month.
La Familia Gonzales
Las Tablas, Panama -- First, I must thank the family in Las Tablas that welcomed me into their house for three days during Carnaval. Arriving at 4:30 pm on the second night of Carnaval, I was not surprised to learn that there was not one Hotel room available for 100 miles. I was very surprised, however, to find that after five minutes of cruising the neighborhood just off the plaza looking for a backyard to camp in, the Gonzales family eagerly opened their doors to let me stay with them. La Señora, Ester, kept me stuffed to the gills with great home cooking, and the rest of the family did a great job showing me around town.
Muchismas Gracias a la familia Gonzales por darme bienvenidos en su casa durante el Carnaval en Las Tablas. Ellos son una famila muy bonita y generosa, y estoy muy agradecido por todo. Many thanks to the Gonzales family for welcoming me into their house. From left are Julie, Ester, Manny, Jenny, a friend, and Angie, a cousin from Panama City. Their son Jason had slipped away when it was time for me to go.
A Matter of Rice and Death
San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua -- As I'm packing to leave from San Juan del Sur, and head out to Playa Madera, the owners of the hostel are having lunch by the entryway. Suddenly, I hear a fork hit the plate. A chair screeches back from the table.
I look and see the woman, about 5'3", 45 years old, with short, dark curly hair walking slowly away from the table. Her eyes are wide and frightened. I can hear her try to breath in short gurgles and gasps, but she is clearly not getting any oxygen. Her husband, helpless, asks her what was wrong, pours water on her head, and then just stares.
I rush past the tables and chairs to their side and try to explain quickly I know what to do. After a few moments of awkwardness as the husband decided if it would be an affront to his manhood to let a gringo touch his wife, he agrees to let me help.
Having never actually given the Heinlich (sp?) manuever before I go through in my head all the posters from the restuarants, the sessions from school, the commercials from mid-afternoon television that in the US all explain what to do when someone is choking. Here in Nicaragua, it's clear that neither the husband nor their son who both continue to pour water on the woman's head thinking she was having a fit or something really know what the hell is going on.
I move behind her and start pulling hard on her upper abdomen, fist in palm, just below the rib cage, but to little avail. Unlike in the movies, a big hunk of chicken doesn't come flying out and she continues to choke.
After a few moments, I start to feel her body lax. Jesus Christ, she's passing out! God help me, I cannot let this woman die in my arms! I pull harder and pray to God to give us a little help here. Then, faintly, I hear a breath -- a gasp really. I look to the ground in front of her and then to her face. Grains of rice are spattered about; she had been choking on a mouthful of rice.
Slowly she regains her compusure and color returns to her face. The look on her face as she turns to me burns into my memory as I have never seen anything like it. I understand the rush of pride that real heros like firefighters, doctors, and EMTs must feel everyday. "God will repay you for what you did here today," she whispers grasping my hand, tears running down her cheeks.
I just stand there looking into her eyes, into the eyes of someone who has just come to terms with her own mortality. I feel the power of the emotion that only saving a life of another can bring. I feel humbled.
Give Peace a Chance
San Jose, Costa Rica -- As I come around the corner to one of the main plazas in the not so picturesque downtown of the capital of Costa Rica, I am greeted by a crowd of close to a thousand, riling in the square, standing on benches, chanting in spanish and spanglish, waving banners and flags. Today is February 15th, the international day of protest against the US invasion in Iraq, and I just stumbled across the Tico's version.
The sentiment was not so much anti-American as it was anti-War, and pro-Peace. I feel totally safe and actually get a number of pats on the back from locals who catch on that I might be an American against the war. I wonder what gives me away.
As a group parades into the middle of the square with paper machete puppets of Bush, missles, and other machinations of war, an American flag is lit on fire. The crowd erupts in cheers and applause and a mob of protesters swirl around the burning stars and stripes. It strikes me that these people are not cheering at a symbolic act of violence against the Unites States, but at the desecration of what has become a symbol of oppression and materialism throughout Central America and many other parts of the world.
While many in Central America covet the America standard of living, few want it at the cost of keeping other people in the stone age. Unfortunately, that's what we do with our trade policies, and these folks know it.
As a college student with a can of spray paint stencils "No Mas Guerra" (no more war) on the back of my t-shirt, I sign a hige banner laying across the plaza with thousands of other signatures on it. "One more American against the war" I write.
Later that night I head to an internet cafe to read the headlines in the Sunday NY Times, and realize that surely we were not alone in San Jose today. But to learn we were five million plus strong worldwide, not that is something to write home about.
Spearchucker Sullivan
Pedasì, Panama -- My prey approaches slowly, obscured through the cloudly sediment off the coast of Isla de Iguana east of the Peninsula de Azuero on the Panamenian mainland. I take aim with my trusty sidearm and fire. A direct hit! Spearchucker Sullivan strikes again!
Perhaps the idea of lancing a 15 lb, 2 ft. long fish with a metal rod isn't your idea of a relaxing fishing experience, but when two French guys, Caez and Marcel, invited me to join them for the day spearfishing out in the Pacific, who was I to turn them down?
We put into the 75º water festooned with snorkel gear, fins, and wetsuits, carrying the speargun, a long black rifle looking contraption with a handgun style trigger, bungees for propulsion, and a sharp metal shaft you would not want to run into alone in a dark alley sometime.
After a short safety lesson, Caez and I are off in tandem to catch us some dinner. Caez lands a small red snapper within the first twenty minutes, and we put her on the boat. He insists on not dragging our catch with us through the water as it might attract sharks. I roll my eyes at his apparent paranoia.
An hour later, a school of Yellow Jacks swim under us, and I take my first shot. Pow! The fish swims in panicked circles with the shaft through its mid-section, and I reel him in. Later, Caez scores another enormous red snapper, and we head back, loaded with enoug fish to feed eight people. We give over half to Roberto, our baot captain, for himself and the eight hungry little mouths at home.
The next day, the water is a bit cloudier, so we can't see deep enough for more snapper. After Caez reels in another Yellow Jack, I take one too, this one twice the size of yesterday's.
I sit out the last round as Caez is fishing for one more. Suddenly, he yelps from the water 100 ft in front the boat to be let back in. He has a bloody yellow jack on his spear and says he's just seen a shark. Ok, so he's not paranoid.
We head back and Caez asks me if I'll buy a speargun when I get back to Santa Fe. I tell I'm don't know what I'd do with it in the middle of the high desert, but sure, I'm a gear head, and I always love new toys!
Gearing up on the shore of Isla de Iguana.
Caez holding up yellow jack number one on the second day.
The mighty warrior with his bloody pray.
The mighty warrior getting grossed out as Roberto, our boat captain, cleans the fish for us. Now that's a lot of... (gulp!) blood!
A well earned meal. Note the size of the red snapper in the middle of the table. Note also that my French compatriates had no idea how the cook the fish once we caught it. Ol' Sully boy had to save the day again, although after stuffing our faces for an hour we walked most of the meal down the street to Roberto's house.
Panama For Sale
Panama City, Panama -- I walk through the pedestrian mall in downtown Panama City and am struck by the obscene amount of crap for sale in the street. This isn't just your run of the mill plastic toys from China and imitation name band backpacks, but huge rolls of plastic sheeting for sale by the foot, men with arm fulls of low grade TV antennaes hawking them for a dollar, others with a handful of boxes of crayons and pencils, and still more with used magazines from the late eighties and algebra text books from the late seventies.
The proper stores behind the street vendors are filled with cases and cases of surplus polyester clothes, disposible shoes, and every kind of hair brush you could possibly imagine. I'm beginning to think all the extra poorly made trinkets in the world funnel directly from Honk Kong to Panama City.
My question is who buys this stuff? Surely, the TV antenna market isn't exactly exploding these days. And when is the last time a little old lady who doesn't speak English bought a 1989 JC Penny catalog just for kicks? Although I'll admit the idea of an ill-fitting nun-print Hawaiian shirt for 50 cents is sounding pretty nice right about now...
Posted by Sully at March 12, 2003 08:22 AM