Adventures in Panama: Sitting by the Pool with Beers

Planes, cabs, and the chicken buses...

I'm sitting in the back of a white minivan, next to the man who negotiated the ride. His name is Ejo, and the two of us are headed from Panama's Tocumen airport, out to the Albrook bus terminal. As Tocumen telescoped into the distance, the reality of being small and alone in a foreign world started to sink in.

Feeling alone, and a little excited, I did what Americans are known for the world 'round. I got into some serious small talk with the only other English speaker in the vehicle. Ejo, the man with the powder blue sports coat.

"Appreciate the help. I'm here visiting a friend," I started.

"No problem. I'm here on business all the time. The drivers here will take you for whatever than can get," he started with smile and ended with a slight snarl.

"Ah. Where're you visiting from?"

"Nicaragua. Where're you headed to?" I pulled out my safety-paper to double check.

"...when you get to the bus terminal you want to find the CHAME booth and get a ticket to Gorgona, it will cost about $2.50..."

"Gorgona?" I was beginning to realize that for the last six hours, my voice had been rising at the end of every sentence. My trip was turning into one long question.

"I don't know it," he replied, and looked down at his watch again.

Ejo and I continued to exchange pleasantries as we traveled through the sticky warmth of some of the more run-down parts of Panama City. I was relieved that I had not decided to walk to the bus terminal in a bid to avoid cab fare.

We approached Albrook, and I nervously peeled out my half of the fare, happy to realize that the entire country ran on US currency.

As Ejo and I parted ways, there was a touch of fear in knowing that I'd lost a guide of sorts.

I put my face back down into my safety-paper:

"...The bus leaves from (I think) terminal 42, but I'm not positive. You are going to need .05 cents to enter the platform from where the busses depart if you don't have it there is a booth that makes change near the turnstile..."

For the record I've never felt quite so small or insubstantial as I did in the minutes that followed. Albrook is a bus terminal directly adjacent to one of the largest malls in Panama, and it's also the hub for what is the most amateurishly MacGyvered and elaborate public transit system I have ever seen. Recently the system has undergone an overhaul, but if you are curious, you can read more about it here and here.

Albrook is one long promenade (think Deep Space Nine) with small stores studded along one side, and ticket counters and doorways out to bus platforms on the other. I was looking for the Chame line, so I started walking from one end of the windows all the way to the other. Even though I was anxious, and distracted by the newness of it all, a wave of calm overtook me when I saw a woman carrying a flat of Dunkin' Donuts.

Unlike Los Angeles, I was in friendly territory.

Hard as I looked, I couldn't find Chame, or Gorgona, or any of the words I knew I needed to complete my travel puzzle written over the glass of these windows. So I did the only thing I could. I stopped to ask for directions from a small man wearing an olive green set of Dickies and a reflective vest. No matter the land, a reflective vest implies some knowledge of the local layout.

"Um, hi! I need to find the Chame line? Do you know where the Chame line is? DONDE CHAME EL AUTOBUS?"

Looking at me with the half-closed eyes and beckoned me to follow him. We walked all the way up and down the promenade. As we went he pointed to each sign, without saying a word. I looked again. I saw nothing. Soon, we were back where we started.

Since I had just asked him in the voice of the mentaly deficient, "WHERE THE BUS CHAME?" I found it admirable that he took the time to make even this fruitless journey. Back at the start, he just looked at me, eyes still half closed, and without saying a word he shrugged and turned away.

On the third go around I located the window I needed. Just as indicated in the note, the price was $2.50. The lady at the window directed me to the proper platform. Unsure of when the bus was leaving, I headed there immediately.

Stepping through the door I found myself in a small waiting room. Directly opposite this entry was a tiny '50s style turnstile with three vertical metal loops that churned as folks passed through. It would have been a classic piece of nostalgic bus station design if it didn't have a torn metal hole punched in its top, made with what looked to have been a ball-peen hammer and a flathead screwdriver. This was the turnstile's coin slot, and a gentleman stood guard over it, inspecting people's deposits.

Remembering the note, I fondled my pocket for a nickel. Nope. Just a couple of dimes.

I walked up to the man at the turnstile and held one up, "Dime?"

"No," he replied, "five cents."

"But you can keep ..." I stammered.

"No. Five cents. Western Union." He glowered and pointed out of the waiting area and to the right.

Not wanting to have my first Panamanian trip cut short due to a run-in with a bus turnstile I headed out, preparing to apologize to the Western Union representative for what I was sure would be an outlandish request for two nickels.

Rounding the corner, there was a line. Each person stood patiently, as the woman repeated plunked down double nickels. In moments I was back at the turnstile guard. This time he let me onto the platform. What greeted my eyes was a sea of buses that looked like Mardi Gras had drunken sex with the Mad Max apocalypse.

For starters, every kind, and style of bus was represented. There were European style minibuses, giant greyhound style tour buses, and so many school buses. Some were plain, but the vast majority of the school buses were of the diablos rojos variety. These buses were so colorful they would blind Helen Keller.

Wandering around the platform I found a gentleman I would later refer to as the bus' "bouncer" (you'll see). I repeated my new catchphrase of "Chame? Gorgona?" as I walked around, and looked at my note again...

"...The bus takes about 1.5 hours. Tell them you want to get off at Mini Super (m/s) Gorgona, that is at the end of the street here..."

"Mini Super Gorgona?" I questioned one particularly robust and loud bouncer.

My chariot.

He nodded his head, and guided me into the back of a white minibus that could have reasonably sat about ten people.

I sat alone in the back seat for a while, just  waiting for additional passengers. After enough time passed I started to assume that this was just a low travel time.

Nope.

After twenty minutes, the bus began to fill. Within the next ten minutes there were 15 to 20 people sitting inside cheek to cheek. When the last space between the driver's seat and shotgun (on the floor) was filled, the bus started up.

Next to me was a young mother with her child. Tired, and ready for some shut-eye I was struck by the fact that I'd traveled nearly four thousand miles. I'd taken a plane, to a cab, to a bus, and was now headed out to what I was soon to discover was a nearly deserted fishing village ... and I still got stuck next to the only baby. For the record, I have nothing against young mothers doing what needs to be done. But there was a certain uncomfortableness when she started breastfeeding her child less than a foot from my face.

Whatever.

At this point I knew I was less than two hours away from familiar faces, and true to form, the driver's blaring Reggaeton managed to put both me, and the baby, right to sleep.

*     *     *     *     *

I snapped awake as we crested a hill, and I nearly shit myself as we were barreling down a roughly paved four lane road, seeming to narrowly miss half a dozen oncoming trucks and cars. The music, still loud, has been entering into my dreams. Looking around, the bus had emptied by half, and it was still mostly full.

Soon we approached what appeared to be a giant red cell phone ad disguised as a bus stop. Only slowing down on approach we rolled through the stop. That's when the man who had initially herded me into this particular bus (the bouncer) signaled one or two of the passengers to come forward. We stopped just long enough for these two passengers to be quickly extruded from the bus. With barely a hiccup, the bus picked up speed again as the bouncer quickly hauled in two young women with barely enough time to close the door before the cloud of acceleration dust entered the van.

A few more stops. A few more passenger exchanges. Soon I got my own nod from the bouncer. I clutched my bag, and shuffled my way up to the door. The bus slowed, I exited, and as the dust settled I looked around.

"So," I thought to myself, "this is nowhere."

I looked both ways as I crossed this four lane highway that divided the country the long way. Hustling, I got across to a large cement brick building that was completely covered with the Cocoa-Cola logo. As dense as I was, this is when I came to understand that each bus stop was also a local supermarket. This was Panama's answer to the Willowbrook Mall.

As I crossed the dusty parking lot, I got a few stares from the locals. Apparently the LA casual outfit that was perfect for LAX less than 10 hours previous was out of place in a tiny Panamanian fishing village.

I looked at my safety-paper.

" ... Call me on the pay-phone at the mini super. It costs .25 cents. I will come and pick you up."

Scrounging in my pocket I was once again struck by the fact that I was under-equipped to deal with this nation's constant change requirement.

I walked into the Gorgona Mini Super, and made my first real purchase in Panama: A pack of Marlboro lights and a beer - for less than four bucks. The change went directly into pay phone outside, as I called Pope's local number. A deep and haggard voice answered.

Panama is Panamanian for cerveza.

"Hello?"

"Hi! Pope?"

"Naw. He's asleep by the pool. I'll get him," the phone muffled, but not before I heard the scream, "POPE!" There was shuffling, then a wildly strained set of vocal chords.

"Jack! Are you here?"

"I'm at the market."

"I am soooo very drunk. Birthday party last night. I'll be down short ... ly."

His stuttering pause unnerved me a little, but with a fresh pack of cigarettes and a beer in my hand I settled onto a bench outside the Gorgona Mini-Super Market. I popped the top and thought to myself, "Wow. This is Panama."

To Be Continued ...