Friday, November 29, 1991
5:50 PM – Seated in my little Chinese cafe across from the market.
The first hooker just walked by
Another hour and the bars and prostitutes will have taken over this street.
There are less disreputable areas to eat, but what the hell, this place is clean
and, as long as I vacate for safer premises before dark
- interesting things go on here.
The Chinese lady, fortyish, rules the roost.
She believes war (of words anyway) to be the answer.
Earlier, an old fellow and I were walking along.
A derelict slept by a wall, his face a mass of fresh bruises and cuts
from having had the supreme shit kicked out of him.
"You see thing like this in Canada?"
"Oh yeah!"
"How about this?", pointing to an odorous, monstrous, rotting heap of garbage.
I don't answer.
Another beautiful young lady passes outside.
La Prensa today carried the first of a series of in depth "prostitution articles".
Interviews with a couple of Colombian mid-twenties prostitutes,
recruited under false pretenses.
One had her Bachelor of Commerce degree, the other a diploma in computers.
They'd disembarked from the plane here - and guess what?
A $600 debt for the ticket, documents, etc.
And guess how they had to work to pay it back?
Both were single parents.
A spider patrols the wall in my booth.
The odd crazy drifts in and out.
I order another coffee from Dragon Lady, and give her two dollars, wondering
how much change I'll get back?"
Beef, fried rice and two coffee - change 45 cents.
Another pair of legs strides by out there.
Music from somewhere.
It's getting dark.
Maybe I've overstayed my welcome?
Should pack my knife I guess.
Through the front door I spy evil-looking gentlemen sizing me up.
The genteel, grey-haired cop saunters by nonchalantly.
The entrance to the market is now barred.
Another lady of the night crosses my vision.
Three blocks to my hotel.
Later, in hotel room, a million-dollar shower.
7:15 PM – Feel like going out in search of excitement. Resist the urge.
Thursday, December 5, 1991
SHE PIROUETTED, PREENED HERSELF, AND
TRIPPED AWAY HIGHER THAN A KITE
Panama City – Restaurant Nuevo Pacifico (across from market)
8:45 PM – Holy Smokes it's getting busy out there.
Way past the time for me to be wandering this area.
Cops are sort of patrolling
in a foursome – three guys and a gal.
Fairly serious drinking out on the sidewalk.
Young men sleeping all around the front of the market,
some on pieces of cardboard.
Stopped in at Cantina Norte for a giant beer,
then landed in the hotel room 9 PM.
Feeling in a good mood
– things seem to be falling into place (maybe).
One characteristic of Panamanians
that I noticed again in the bar
When they hear a really catchy all-Panamanian song,
they will individually chime in,
usually out of tune. Or whistle, which is worse,
with whistling skills developed in stopping buses
or expressing appreciation of women.
I'm struck by the number of big muscular guys
wandering the market/dock area tonight.
They seem peaceable - fortunately.
Friday, December 6, 1991
10:30 – Restaurant Nuevo Pacifico. A four-year-old Chinese girl, the proprietor's daughter, shares my booth.
Plaza Mayor 1:20 PM. On a sea wall overlooking the Pacific end of the Canal.
A big ship labeled WALLENIUS LINES is behind the causeway,
moving out to sea. Cars on the causeway seem ant-sized.
The tide's coming in.
3 PM – Cantina Norte. Checked out various plazas,
including Plaza de Francia, built to honour the Frenchmen
who first tried to dig a ditch across the isthmus.
Earlier, a strikingly beautiful and strikingly filthy girl of seventeen or eighteen
fluttered out from an entrance to an outdoor shop or garage and into the street.
She wore shorts, a sleeveless T-shirt and an overshirt.
Her back was filthy, as were the backs of her bare legs.
The dirt was fresh.
She extended her arms like wings,
pirouetted,
preened herself in several cars' side windows,
and tripped away,
stoned higher than a kite.
There's a big picture of Saddam Hussein
on the bartender's white T-shirt,
with cross-hairs centered on the forehead,
and the words
INTERNATIONAL TARGET
WAR RESULTS IN DEATH.
These Panamanians like to shout.
A shouter just came in.
Earlier, near the ocean,
I heard a formidable uproar
coming from somewhere near.
Sounded like a drunken brawl.
Nope, just four or five old guys
enjoying a quiet beer
at a pensioners' club!
YOU ARE READING
KILLING SOME TIME IN COLON, PANAMA
PoetryKILLING SOME TIME IN COLON, PANAMA Thursday, November 28, 1991 (Adapted from journal pages) Prowled the area. Pretty rough. Seven or eight bars clustered within a couple of blocks. Started in the direction of one, that was inside from a lunch cou...
