The Lost Paradise of Panamá

For over five hundred years Panama has been fought over, its culture destroyed, only to be rebuilt, forged and hardened, like the best steel, by the fires of greed and cruelty. This was true with early conquistadors like Captain Pedro Arias de Avila, who was largely responsible for stopping the worship of Paquo Meecho, a jungle god. The bush people believed he gave his children gifts of sunshine and flowers, and the soft pattering music of raindrops on the water lilies. He filled the streams with fish and loaded every tree with fruit like mangos and avocadoes. In the forest roamed wild game, and through the trees you could hear the echo of his voice like a song and the palm trees swayed to his every command.

Arias destroyed the village and alter used to worship Paquo Meecho, and he killed the High Priest. Legends say that from that point on, nothing could ever be built on that piece of real estate and last. But Arias tried. He built another village, this one made of stone and Panama City was born. Decades later, this “jewel of Spain” was destroyed by the Buccaneer Henry Morgan, and the village was moved several miles down the coast.  

For centuries the remnants of what then became known as Panama Viejo has withstood Pacific rain and tropical sun. It was still there in 1989 when a modern day pirate by the name of General Antonio Noriega built an army outpost that was destroyed during the US invasion in December of that year. You can walk among these very ruins and see the old cathedral, the Bishop’s House, plazas, and storage areas for food and gold.

When you do come here to this exact spot, it’s hard not to feel something.

When I was in military service, we were often called upon to perform a variety of missions. The picture to the left is one of those, taken after a succesful mission to Nicaragua in July, 1979. Sometimes we felt that our political leaders should have put a little more thought into their decision making process before authorizing a mission. With that in mind, the small group of men I was privileged to serve with, came up with a test that every commander should take before making a decision about committing American lives anywhere. We’d think about it every time our lives, not someone else’s, was on the line.

The test is where the president stands in front of a mirror and in his mind pretends to be in front of a soldier and the soldier’s wife, and the soldier’s son and the soldier’s daughter. He stands in front of a soldier’s family and says, “You know, Mrs. Soldier, this mission is very important. It’s so important that we need your husband to fly over to the Dark Continent and fight. It is so important and so critical,” and this is where he looks her right in the eyes, the light to her soul, and says, “It’s so important, that your husband may have to give his life. And it will be worth it. That’s how important this is. If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t be sending the best soldiers from the mightiest army from the greatest country on the face of the earth over there.” And he would hold her hand and kiss her cheek.

 And then, he would kneel down in front of the boy, maybe rub his hand in his hair and say, “This is so important, that your daddy may die. That would mean you would be the man of the house and you’d have to take care of your mom and sister. This is so important that God may take your daddy away forever. You won’t have him around to play ball with. Or to watch you grow up. Or to help mold you into a man. But that’s how important this is. And when you grow up, you might have an important mission to go on, like your daddy.”

And then he would turn to the girl who would have tears running down her cheeks. He would lift up her chin and look into those big bright beautiful innocent eyes and say, “But know this, I will do everything that is humanly possible to make sure that your daddy is safe and returns home. This, I promise to you.”

Then he would stand up, pat the soldier on the shoulder, and they would exchange salutes.

The average American has no idea what awaits our soldiers as they fight and die in the dust of a Third World country thousands of miles from home. Even our so-called political leaders seem to know nothing about our isolated, savage encounters against Third World irregulars as we attempt to alter the political equation in one tumultuous location after another.

It’s the soldier that volunteers. The soldier that bleeds. And the soldier that dies.

Always a great place to relax, or walk down the winding streets of San Pedro.

Unfortunately, it no longer exists; it’s been torn down over the last couple of years. I last saw this very propeller laying on Naos Island on the Causeway.

The unit I was assigned to in Panama was involved with the clean-up at Jonestown, Guyana, after the mass suicide, and the July 1979 rescue of the Ambassador and his staff from Managua, Nicaragua. In-between training and real missions, I found some solitude in a little known island south of Panama City called Taboga, the Island of Flowers. Check out the Isla Taboga Gallery under Pages, over to the right.