Panamanian Coffee Country, Boquete



The end of a day hike from Guadalupe to Boquete. We came out of the cloud forest and encountered this European-looking landscape. 

¨El Domo¨ at Night.

 

¨El Domo¨

A geodesic dome that we stayed in while travelling in the cool, green mountains of Panama above the city of Boquete. ¨El domo¨ is located on a raised platform in the middle of a moss-covered national park teeming with hummingbirds.

The Masons: A Personal Archaeology

I know that I am not alone in thinking that Masons are creepy.

Well, my grandpa was a Mason and he wasn´t usually creepy, so I suppose that my relationship with those aging gents in burgandy fezes is kind of complex. Let´s dig deeper. Every summer, when the distinct odor of stale popcorn and manure that travels just ahead of county fairs would first arrive on the wind in my grandparents´ hometown of Benkelman, Nebraska (learn more at e-podunk...seriously: http://www.epodunk.com/cgi-bin/genInfo.php?locIndex=27267), there would be a big parade down Main St. As kids fresh out of the backseat of a Ford Thunderbird after a 20+ hour ride from Shreveport, Louisiana or some other far flung place that we lived growing up, we were more interested in scrapping it out for tootsie rolls than making sense of the weird adult world.

But, behind the scenes somewhere, as children dove for pennies hurled from the First National Bank float (Does anyone remember this? They used to throw rolls of pennies at children -- ¨Here, take the pennies, peasants, we´ll get your money in the end. Muhahahaha.¨), the Masons would gather quietly in a dark room just off of Main St., where they would don fezes and matching vests. And then they would all mount up on child-sized motoscooters!! Lips smeared in chocolate and hands smelling like the bottom of an old lady´s change purse, we would stare in wide-eyed disbelief as stern-faced septuagenarians rode in intricate figure-8 formations on the very motorscooters we had lusted after in the Sears catalog the previous Christmas. Where did they keep these 2-foot-tall scooters the rest of the year? And, why were they the only ones allowed to play with them?

Fast-forward a decade or so. I am now a (non)aspiring 22 year-old technical writer in Atlanta, where I ostensibly spent my days producing manuals for credit card processing machines. In reality, I spent most of my waking hours photo-shopping pictures of my friends´ heads onto midget bodies and dreaming of getting inside the pale gray, windowless Masonic Lodge next door to our office building. But, when the annual Masonic Fish Fry came around -- my one and only chance to penetrate those mysterious catacombs -- I was too busy drinking beer or participating in some other early-twentysomething nonsense. Lost opportunity.

The other day, freshly arrived in Panama City, I encountered this statue, which startles children passing a Masonic lodge in the former Canal Zone. A strange welcome.

Panama City and the Pacific, as seen from the Casco Viejo neighborhood

Bienvenidos a Panama

In 1925, six hundred bayonet-wielding U.S. soldiers marched into Panama City intent on putting down a massive renters strike protesting the announcement of large rent increases by the in the city´s poorest barrios. Three protesters died that day at the end of American bayonets. Back home in the states, the media portrayed this intervention as a necessary measure against irrational (and, of course, non-caucasian) radicals. A passenger of a cruise shipped that happened to be docked in Panama City at the time was quoted by the New York Times as saying, ¨the nucleus of a revolution is a bottle of rum, two halfbreeds and a negro armed with rifles and machetes.¨

Ok, hi. I started my first-ever blog entry with the above paragraph because I heard that dry, overtly leftist historical anecdotes are a sure-fire way to get the kids to tune in and keep them coming back. Are you hooked? Welcome to my blog (I never thought I would say those words). I am quickly realizing that I can´t possibly keep up with everyone this summer and that some of my stories, ramblings, and pseudo-intellectual musings may therefore be lost to some of you. Sad but true, my friends.

On the off chance that I don´t corner you individually in a smoky bar Georgia or North Kakalak and beat you repeatedly about the head with Panamanian trivia, the blog format provides a relatively painless means of skimming my summer and partaking only of what you will. You can then, just by reading the titles, pretend when you see me later that you already know everything and thus avoid the subject altogether. Get it? So, think of this as the Golden Corral buffet -- it´s in your own best interest to stuff yourself now and skip breakfast and lunch tomorrow. But, no free desert and I will be looking to see if anyone has hidden their second helping of chicken fried steak under the table.

First, a little background. I am presently ¨living¨in the outskirts of Panama City conducting preliminary research for my dissertation. I sweat out the nights in an extra room rented by a Panamanian couple (1/2 of which is my good buddy ¨Ricky,¨whom you will be hearing more about) in the suburban neighborhood of Diablo (¨devil¨in Spanish) right near the Canal. Until 1999, when we ¨gave¨the Canal back to Panama, no Panamanians were allowed to live within 10 miles of the Canal. This neighborhood, with its air conditioned shopping malls and roller rinks was Panamanian-free. Seriously, some of the former ¨Zonians¨ (the real-life label for people who were raised in the Zone when it was under U.S. control) really hate Jimmy Carter for allowing all of these damn Spanish-speakers to move into their old gated community...still. I imagine a creepy Beaver-Cleaveresque world, but with 100s of orchid species and terra cotta-tiled roofs everywhere.

Want evidence?
http://www.chagres.com/Photos-HB-6.html