The Lost Paradise of Panamá

When I’m not traveling, I live in the upper Midwest state of South Dakota. The Black Hills, Deadwood, Mount Rushmore, The Badlands, and endless prairie. I heard an interesting story through a third party about an old farmer trying to relive his former Navy days. It went something like this:

“Bob,” Joe said into the mouthpiece, shaking his head, not believing a word of what he just heard. He normally called his friend by his nickname, Chicken Head Bob. He earned that name in the service because of his bird-like features, and because he had a tendency of getting overly excited. Joe dropped the moniker to let him know he was serious.

“Sure,” Chicken Head Bob said.

“You want me to come out to your farm, specifically Miller’s Pond, and salvage—a submarine?”

“That’s right.”

Joe didn’t detect a hint of sarcasm in his voice, or joking, or anything but the tone of an old friend who sounded serious.

“Look, Bob,” Joe said slowly, the way you do when you want to emphasize a point. “Surely you must understand that submarine and South Dakota simply don’t go together. It’s past April First, so what’s the deal here? Did my wife put you up to this?”

“No!” Chicken Head Bob shouted. Joe pulled the phone away from his ear.

“Sorry, Joe. But it’s my wife I’m worried about.”

“You’ve completely lost me.”

“Do I have to tell you everything? Can’t you just come out and pull up the submarine with your crane and let it go at that?”

“Nope.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“Darn right I don’t believe you. Look, I’m not hauling heavy equipment all the way out to your place, dive forty feet into some murky pond and hunt for a fictitious submarine that doesn’t exist.”

Chicken Head Bob sighed. Joe could see his face in his mind, his chicken lips pursed together. 

“All right. I see your point. I’ll tell you what happened. But this is between you and me and not your drinking buddies at the Alpine Lodge.”

“No problem,” Joe said.

“Well, as you know, I’ve always loved the sea, ever since my days in the Navy, and I’ve always been fascinated with submarines. I think there’s something very mysterious about them. But Ethel can’t stand boats of any kind, not even a raft. Anyway, a while back, I saw this ad on eBay for a submarine.”

“A real submarine?”

“Yeah. A fourteen-footer. Not all that big, but completely functional. It’d been used in an amusement park down south that was going out of business. It has a working engine, it can dive, surface, and there’s even a mini-conning tower—the works.”

“And this is something you wanted?”

“Yes. I thought I’d try it out on the pond. With the low profile, Ethel would never see it. Once everything was checked out, I’d tell her. I couldn’t do it before because the last time I mentioned something like this she laughed. She said if there was anyone who could sink a submarine, permanently, it’d be me.”

“I think I’m beginning to get the picture. So, you went ahead and bought it?”

“Yep.”

“How much?”

“Ten thousand dollars, delivered.”

As if the word delivered meant anything. Joe cringed at the amount and had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

“Joe, ya there?”

“I’m here. I take it Ethel still doesn’t know?”

“Heck no.”

“You might as well tell me the rest.”

“I took delivery when I knew Ethel was out. We launched her right into the pond. It worked perfectly, until I decided to dive.”

“What happened?”

“Well, that’s where I kinda screwed up. That’s the part I don’t want anyone knowin’. I opened the valves to let the pond water in and before I knew it, I was going down fast. And then, black widow spiders swarmed from nowhere and there was no time to close the valves, and I wasn’t going to close the hatch, not with those spiders there. So I just kinda floated out and watched my ten k disappear all the way to the bottom.”

With the picture of Chicken Head Bob trying to escape from a sinking sub on his own pond, Joe started to giggle. He covered the mouthpiece so Bob couldn’t hear.

“I climbed out of the pond all covered with algae just as my Ethel drove up. I told her I had fallen in. Joe, I can’t tell her, I just can’t, not after what she said. You’ve got to help me.”

“If you’re pullin’ my leg—”

“I’m not.”

Joe slipped on his SCUBA tank, pulled down his mask and dived to the bottom of Miller’s Pond. The water was a murky green. He turned on a spotlight. Suddenly, looming a yard in front of him and surrounded by catfish and carp, was the gray hulk of Bob’s submarine. Only then did the ridiculousness of the whole situation hit home. 

Joe started laughing so hard that he couldn’t breathe and had to surface. There was Bob, standing on a large, flat rock, twitching, and gazing at his shoes. Next to him was Ethel, arms folded, and staring at Joe with dagger eyes. He still had about forty-five minutes of air left, so he decided to wait it out on the bottom of Miller’s Pond in Chicken Head Bob’s submarine.

Long before Humankind made its first rope bridge, there were natural bridges. The Isthmus itself is a bridge, connecting the Americas. The Canal, too, is a bridge–a water bridge, connecting two oceans. It truly is the crossroads of the world. I’ve always been fascinated with bridges, and connecting to something that was once before inaccessible.

The most well-known bridge in Panama is the Bridge of the Americas near the Pacific entrance to the canal. It was also once known as the Thatcher-Ferry Bridge, replacing the Thatcher Ferry in 1962. This large arch bridge looms over the canal, and was the only permanent bridge connecting North and South America until 2004, when the Centennial Bridge was made. I never used to fear crossing the bridge until one time a US Army deuce-and-a-half smashed through the railing on the west side, plummeting into the mud below and killing seventeen GI’s. The views are beautiful, with the canal on one side, and the Pacific Ocean on the other. But every time I cross over, I do so with a little trepidation.

The Centennial Bridge was named after Panama’s centennial of 2003, one hundred years of liberation from Colombia. It’s a cable design bridge, spanning the Gaillard Cut near the Pedro Miguel Locks. I first drove across it in February 2005 around 1:00 am, after leaving Tocumen International Airport on my way to Chapala on the other side of Arraijan. I was hoping there was a walkway like on the Bridge of the Americas, but I never have seen one. As you drive across, especially at night with a ship in the canal, the sights are amazing.

There have always been other bridges across the canal, but these are swing bridges. There’s one at the Miraflores Locks, and one on the Atlantic side at the Gatun Locks. An interesting place not far from Colon is the town of Gatun. It’s a small village, and you’ll be able to see more of the canal and view the mules pulling ships through. You’ll need to wait for any passing ships, and then for the swing bridge to connect. They use a regular red and green stop light for traffic control. Farther down the road is the old Jungle Operations Training Center at what was formerly known as Fort Sherman. There is a road that takes you to an Atlantic side fortress called Fort San Lorenzo. It’s an excellent place to spend the day and walk among the many ruins and large plaza.

There are of course, many other bridges of all shapes and sizes throughout the Republic of Panama.

In Panama City there are several places of interest worth visiting. Most of these are off the beaten path, so don’t expect to see a lot of Westerners. Avenida de Central is one of the main thoroughfares that runs into the heart of downtown Panama City. Traffic used to be allowed all the way into the San Felipe District near Casco Viejo, but the government wisely blocked this. Now you can cross from side-to-side and visit the dozens of shops and markets that line the streets. You’ll still need to navigate through traffic at a few places. Be careful at crossing any road. The locals are used to it. To your left and right you’ll see small, winding streets the size of alleys that disappear to other parts of the city.

After walking for several blocks, you’ll come to Santa Ana Park. Just before the park to your left you’ll encounter an unmistakable small street that drops toward the Bay. It’s lined with tiny wooden shacks on either side and runs on for about half a kilometer, ending at the statue of the Madonna in the fish market. Anything you can imagine is sold here. It’s like a transient city within the city. Some refer to it as salsipuedes—which means, get out if you can. There’s Brazilian gold, handmade sandals and hats, clothing, monkeys, parrots—it’s truly an amazing site and quite an experience just to walk past the numerous stands. If you’re interested in buying something, the vendors all use the bartering system, so don’t be shy. Behind some of the stands you might hear a commotion. Don’t be surprised to see a group of fisherman betting their morning’s earnings on a cock fight. Down at the fish market you’ll be able to view the day’s catch. This is fresh fish and safe to buy. The vendor will wrap it for you, but don’t purchase anything unless you have a place to refrigerate it. Be prepared for the smell, it can be a little overwhelming. You’ll also notice large-winged black birds lined up on tops of buildings waiting to scoop up a scrap of meat.             

Once you decide to travel off the beaten path, you will undoubtedly encounter people that are obviously destitute and will beg for money. A woman with sunken eyes and three kids wrapped her spidery arms around my leg and asked for change. Give if you can. Unfortunately, you may not always have change, but try not to feel bad about that. I later observed a man who was missing most of both arms walking down the street. He had a tin can hanging from a rope around his neck. I watched as a young woman who looked poor herself drop some pennies into his tin can. At the same time about half a dozen boys and girls came running out of an alley and started jumping up and down around her, smiling and laughing. She bought a bag of pifas, a small delicious fruit, and handed one to each child. I remember thinking how that might have been the only food those kids had eaten all day.    

Turn right at the fish market and continue toward the old sea wall. Now you are in the Casco Viejo section of Panama. After Panama Viejo was burned down, the village was moved to this area, the second oldest part of Panama. The National Theatre is here, and the Presidential Palace. Casco Viejo is a part of Panama City, yet, separated from it. It’s one of the oldest cities still in use on the Pacific Coast of the Americas.