There’s an ingredient in Panamanian society that I just can’t put my finger on, but without it, life wouldn’t be the same. It’s that ingredient that makes a soup good or excellent. It’s that smile that makes a painting just a painting, or a work-of-art. And it’s that ingredient that has intrigued me over the years. What is it?

The first anniversary of my Panablog was during my father-in-law’s funeral. He passed away at the age of eighty-eight. He knew the land, the sea, the weather–as well as he knew his children. In my mind, he was Panamá. He is greatly missed, and I think of him often.

I want to thank all of you who have stopped by to read a posting, view a picture, or leave a comment. As with all travel, it’s good to be a little cautious, a little skeptical, a little inquisitive, and follow your instinct in uncertain situations. But most of all–study your destination before you go. I hope that I’ve shed some light on traveling through the Isthmus.

Thank you.

Isla Verde

Hostal Refugio del Rio

Hostal Boquete

Highlands

From La Artilleria — A man’s profile

View of Volcán Barú from La Artilleria

Tree in a tree

Mountain Horse

Campesino

Monkey Rock — Can you see a face?

Holiday tree decorated with presents on Isla Taboga

Some homes might have Christmas trees, but in the rural areas you’re more likely to see small, handmade nativity scenes made from dirt, grass, and miniature figurines. Christmas is a time when the large, extended families share their food and drink. There’ll be plenty of traditional food made with rice, chicken, and plantains. There’ll also be a lot to drink. The nance berries are ripe, and many families make a very tasty juice known as chicha de nance. Another drink, Seco Herrerano, is clear liquor made from sugarcane. Locals might ask the bartender for nueve letras, referring to the nine letters that spell Herrerano.

Christmas in San Miguelito

While traveling in Panama you’ll see life-sized muñecas (dolls) outside of homes or on roads. Some are wonderfully creative and you can actually understand who the effigy represents. Typically, they are well- known people such as politicians. On New Year’s Eve, along with fireworks and drinking, the muñecas are burned, representing the end of the previous year.

After the New Year celebrations finish, Panamanians begin to focus on carnaval, which begins the weekend before Ash Wednesday, and as such, the date changes from calender year-to-year.

¡Feliz Navidad! While in Panama, have a SAFE and Happy Holiday.

At the end of this historic area is a large seawall near the French Embassy. When the tide is low, you’ll see kids down below looking for shellfish. I’ve gone out there a time or two myself. This is also near the San Felipe District where there’s a fish market. You’ll know when you’re close because of the smell, and the large black birds.

For more pictures, please visit the Casco Viejo Gallery under PAGES.

The Casco Viejo and seawall

Seawall stairs

Fish market near The Casco Viejo

This is the Church of San Pedro built around 1524, and reported to be the second oldest church still in use in the western hemisphere. On this day, construction workers were repairing the concrete in front of the church. The plaza area is often used as a playground. Click here to see the church several decades ago.

This is a close-up of the statue of Mother Mary and Baby Jesus over the main entrance. Note the light which is used for night viewing. Click  here to see the statue at night.

This is the clock that’s above the statue. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve walked past this church and never noticed it. The clock hasn’t worked for years, and it will probably remain that way, frozen at 5:35. Besides, who on Taboga needs a clock?

The statue of Andrea Salinas greets all as they arrive on Taboga. In this picture it looks like there’s a drawing of an iguana next to her.

In this side picture, you can see that the iguana is really part of a sign on a fence several feet behind the bust.

Wheelhouse of the ferry, Calypso King.

Virgen del Carmen, Protector of Isla Taboga, El Morro, and all residents.

The corner of Calle Francisco Pizarro and El Almendro.

Calle Esquivel Fuentes.

Milagros de Buga. Note the sea shell artwork behind the glass. This shrine is an open mystery (for this gringo). The “Buga” part has always stumped me. I’ve  found some Colombian references. I’ve found some “miracle of the hanging” references.  But nothing explains why this is on Isla Taboga.

Small monument in San Pedro.

Living on the water.

Items for sale, many beautiful handmade necklaces.

Outdoor Menu.

There’s only one thing on the bird’s menu, and that’s fish.

That’s what we did in the below picture. Just around the corner was a video game where you could play the role of a rooster fighting another. On a small, fuzzy screen nearby were the taped fights of real roosters. I’m not advocating this, but be prepared when you go off the beaten path to see things you may not be accustomed to.

On October 1st of this year, the 2nd Ranger Battalion celebrated its 35th Anniversary. Previously, there had been ranger companies assigned to larger units. In 1974, Gen. Abrams consolidated those companies into battalions, the first one being formed at Hunter Army Airfield in January. Its commander was Ltc. K.C. Leuer, (later a Major General). The last time I saw the good general he was a brigadier. I was on a helicopter that was going to a secure location at Ft. Sherman, and from there to the USS Saipan, and then Nicaragua. It was the fall of the Somoza’s and the rise of the Sandanistas. I was checking the pins on my frags, making sure they were spread out. Only moments before one of our guys had thrown a grenade in the dayroom and we were a little spooked. Thankfully for a safety clip, that grenade didn’t go off. Gen. Leuer is still with the ranger community and serves as Chairman of the National Ranger Memorial Foundation (NRMF).

Randy Shughart (Medal of Honor, Somalia), would have been proud to have been a part of 2nd Battalion’s anniversary. As I raise a toast to his memory, I think about other rangers, like Ltc. Powell. I didn’t know him as a commander. He was killed in a training accident in September, 1981. I knew him as the battalion XO. Shughart used to brag how he could get an officer to make a left-handed salute. That led to a dare, and one day while we were walking through the quadrangle he tried his theory out on the XO. I couldn’t believe it. I thought he’d try it out on a 1st Lt., not a field grade officer. Maj. Powell instinctively raised one arm, stopped, then the other… I was hoping we were out of Harm’s Way. We were about ten feet past the XO when we heard, “RANGERS!” Shuggie dropped and started doing push-ups. I looked at Powell and I dropped too.

I also thought about PSG Jimmie Bynum, also killed in that training accident in September, 1981, and MSG Tim Martin, (Silver Star, Somalia), KIA on the same day as Randy. And there’s one more. Colonel John T. Keneally. The Colonel wasn’t a 2nd Batt Ranger, but he served in 1st Battalion and was later CO of the 3rd Battalion. He was killed during a training exercise in 1992. I first met Keneally in Panama when he was a captain. He was headed to 1st batt and we had some pretty intense discussions about life in the ranger battalion. A few months later I heard someone calling my name, and out in the street wearing a black beret was Cpt. Keneally. I used to call him Cpt. Kirk because he so much looked and acted like Kirk from Star Trek. I dedicated my last book, Danger Elite, to the memories of PSG Bynum, Col. Keneally, and MSG Martin.

The men that trained us were, and are, The Best. We absorbed every word in their classroom. May the tradition continue…always.

It wasn’t the first time, but it’d be the last. Only a US led invasion would remove the Mouse that Roared. He’d later surrender to Gen. Wayne A. Downing, (affectionately known as WAD by his fellow soldiers) outside of the Papal Nuncio in January, 1990. It was strange watching these events unfold on TV, outside the gates of a place I used to run by when I lived in PC. Little Tony had only recently become Panama’s “Maximum Leader” or Head of State. He mistakenly believed it would insulate him from being forcibly removed.

I reminisced a little. Years before, Panama Defense Force officers used to send their troops to train with us. They’d show up in our AO (area of operation), with a light rucksack, and one canteen of water. There’s no way, not even for an acclimatized Panamanian, that you can survive on one canteen of water a day. They knew it–and we knew it. Behind the backs of their officers, we’d get them the gear and water they needed, jump into the Rio Hato area, and be out in the boonies for the next week or two. Even then, Major Noriega was well-known for his pock-marked face. With his illicit money, he went to Europe to have it fixed, but to no avail. For anyone that has ever cut the rough skin off of a pineapple, you know that pock marks are left. And so it was that Noriega’s hated moniker became, Cara de Piña, or Pineapple Face.

On the morning of October 3, Little Tony was taken prisoner at the Comandancia by his Special Forces commander, Major Giroldi. Not all gangsters are stupid, and Noriega didn’t rise to the top of Panama’s intelligence community, or work for the CIA, without picking up a few tricks. Coups were nothing new. In 1969, he was a young officer stationed near the border town of David when Gen. Omar Torrijos flew in from Mexico, to retake Panama after a coup attempt. It was Torrijos who had only the year before staged a successful coup against Arnulfo Arias. (Arias’ wife later became Panama’s first female president, and Torrijos’ son Martin, was elected president after her).

In 1983 Noriega successfully duped the commander of the PDF, Gen. Paredes, to resign and run for president. The PDF would support him and that automatically meant a victory. Noriega became the new CO and he changed his mind.

A few years later, Presidente Eric DelValle, in a pre-recorded message to the nation (he was already in hiding), fired Noriega. In March of 1988, Noriega’s Chief of Police attempted a coup. When gunshots were reported, Noriega went in front of a camera and said, “Kisses, he was throwing kisses.”

After being taken prisoner on October 3, Gen. Noriega was allowed to make phone calls. This set in motion a series of events that by day’s end would find him a free man, the US with a black eye, and the stage set for a full-fledged invasion. Little Tony called one of his mistresses, and she called Battalion 2000, a PDF unit loyal to Noriega. Meanwhile, the new commander of the US Southern Command, Gen. Max Thurman, related the events to his boss, Gen. Colin Powell.

Battalion 2000 came to the rescue and in the ensuing battle, which you could see from the Southern Command atop Quarry Heights, they prevailed. A relative of ours was working as a nurse at Santo Tomas hospital. She said for days on end, members of the PDF kept arriving, and every one of them was dead. That sent up a flag. It seemed to mean only one thing. The PDF was being purged.

There were many events that led up to the coup of October 3. Numerous demonstrations and gunfights. In the middle of all this turmoil, I saw one of the funniest things I can remember. It was 1987, amist the daily rioting, in which the PDF were quickly called in using tear gas assaults. It was ironic that I may have trained some of these very troops in years past. On this day, the unions came out to support Noriega. If they wanted a job, they needed to show up. Free food and beer helps, too.

I was watching from a balcony on Via España about seven floors up. Car after car of pro-Noriega supporters came by, surrounded by a gauntlet of anti-Noriega protesters on the sidewalks and balconies, wearing white, and beating pots and pans. The noise was deafening. It was late afternoon, and the sun was setting. Long shadows crossed the road, and I thought that once it grew dark there’d be blood. I remember looking down at the pro-Noriega supporters and there seemed to be a lot of women. And the more I looked, the most vocal, riding in the back of convertibles, were women. Men were there, but they were just going along for the ride. One woman in particular was more vocal than the rest. She had a voice like a bullhorn, and she screamed above the noise. And then suddenly… she stopped. She stopped and she started laughing. I followed her eyes, as did the crowd.

Adjacent to my balcony was another building. That building had a balcony at about the same level. From the shadows of that balcony protruded a long wooden pole, probably a broom or mop stick. At the end of the pole was tied a very common fruit. A pineapple. It was swinging to and fro, controlled by some unknown person behind a thin curtain. Maybe a man. Maybe a woman. A maid. A child. I don’t know. And sticking out of that pineapple was a knife. The wooden handle was clearly visible.

So it was that the most vocal of the General’s supporters stopped her banshee wailing as she stared down the myriad of balcony residents, who banged pots and screamed back. She not only stopped, but she smiled, and then she laughed. She laughed like a Panamanian, the kind of laugh you’re accustomed to. And then, just as quickly, she covered her mouth–but it was too late. It was evident to me and everyone watching that a “moment” had just occurred. This fervent supporter just showed her true colors, and it wasn’t for Uncle Tony.

That pineapple tied to a wooden stick with a knife stuck in it swinging seven stories above a violent crowd caused it to pause… and then, as people at ground level who were looking around and wondering what was going on, slowly began to look up, they started cheering.

There were no more demonstrations that night. A very intense situation was defused by some wily Panamanian, who, by their on-the-spot ingenuity, helped to change the pulse of a nation.

Unfortunately, days later, that building was targeted. I witnessed from the same balcony PDF troops wearing DOBERMAN patches chasing people into the parking lot, and I heard the loud echoes that only gunshots in the confines of tall buildings can make.

Every revolution has its moment, its point of no return. That moment is based on a series of other things that most people never hear about. In Panama, on this day, when even the most ardent supporter of the dictator stopped in mid-sentence of her denunciations, and paused to laugh at a swinging pineapple with a knife stabbed in it, a small butterfly landed in the anti-Noriega camp and the weight of critical mass shifted.

Not long ago I was relaxing at a relative’s home as his young granddaughter ran back and forth. The sun was setting and a nice, soft breeze cooled our sweaty skin. My host began to speak about his job at the Canal. He talked in a low voice, as was his style, and I leaned forward to listen.

He said there are many tunnels around the Canal that are used for maintenance crews. Sometimes, based on the work needs, they’ll ask for a second or third shift. During a recent graveyard shift, one of the workers completed his tasks and decided to rest. He put a board between two cinderblocks and laid down. But not for long…

He awoke to the sound of voices. He thought someone was calling him. He was far beneath the Canal with only a flashlight. He strained to hear what the voice was saying as it faintly echoed in the tunnel, but he couldn’t make out the words. The voice stopped, and although the worker was a little unnerved, he laid back down.

Many Voices erupted, closer this time, and in languages he didn’t understand. Languages from all of the different groups of people that had built the Canal. In his mind, they were still there. Screaming in fear, the worker ran out of the tunnel, never to return for another overnight shift.

To punctuate the story even more, my expert Story Telling Friend said that a few days later they were cutting concrete down below, in the same general area. If you’ve ever seen a concrete-cutting saw then you know it only cuts straight. He said they made a cut, and when they were done, what they saw was the shape of the sole of a boot. An old boot. The same type of boot worn by the original canal workers.

I’m not saying the story is true or not, but like any good story… you may never know.