KILLING SOME TIME IN COLON, PANAMA

DOGS AND ZOPILOTES

DOGS AND ZOPILOTES HAD GOOD DINING FOR THREE DAYS

Monday, November 25, 1991

8:10 PM -Pensiòn Pacìfico, Panama City, near the waterfront. Room without bath $8.80. The street is wild. Won't be wandering around this evening.

Today's bus trip from where the Pan-American Higway petered out in Darién was uncomfortable.

Little that was noteworthy did I see.

A malaria checkpoint. Also, spotted some zopilotes, (buzzards),

perched on a branch waiting for breakfast to die.

Tuesday, November 26

Rolled out early. Cab to Muelle Fiscal, where they sell boat tickets - Locked. Tough, tough area, and dark

Enter a well-lighted restaurant across from the market.

A hooker just entered. And a drunk, carrying a stick,

hopefully for defense not offense.

Then a cop with revolver and walkie-talkie.

Better put away this journal before I excite too much speculation.

8:10 AM – In a little square, before a bronze statue of General Torres Herrera (1904-54).

My most viable route south will be Panama City ? Jaque ? Jurado, Colombia.

Seat myself on a bench near the bronze guy on horseback,

near a tree where a sharp-beaked, long-tailed bird sings.

It's black, but not the one I'm scouting for.

A beautiful girl says Buenos Dias.

Where am I? Let's check the inadequate street map.

Hey, I'm in Chorillo, the barrio bombarded not too long ago by the Americans!

Walk, looking for damage.

10 AM: Café Calle 6 entre Av C y A, Santa Ana

Wandered through Chorillo a couple of hours, looking for the destroyed area.

Finally hit pay dirt.

Barged into a three-man survey crew staking the desolation,

and got the lowdown on the attack.

Nothing I didn't already know, but had different positions pointed out.

A two-hour bombardment, no warning, midnight to two AM, destroyed Chorillo.

Dogs and zopilotes had good dining for three days.

Then, mass burials and burnings by the Americans.

I threw out the figure of 7,000 dead, as estimated by some international agencies.

One of the men accepted the estimate, another scoffed, saying maybe a thousand.

All agreed though that this slaughter of civilians, without warning,

was a murderous and unwarranted act of extermination.

Across the alley from Chorillo is the Canal Zone golf course.

The surveyors warn not to wander through weeds and back alleys.

A lone gringo might prove too irresistible a target

for the many armed hoodlums along the way. I compromise.

Enjoy a second breakfast of meat, two fat tortillas and a coffee, all for a dollar.

The restaurant's proprietor speaks Spanish with a Cantonese accent.

Explore city on foot and in buses. Locate a couple of bookstores and a bazaar.

Hot and sticky. Shower at hotel.

Then to a cantina next door to Laundromat Susi.

The huge, partly frozen beer reminds me

of beer stashed outside in forty below weather

at country school dances decades ago back home.

Good bar, dark and in back of a building.

Laid back, nonchalant bartender. Caricatures of customers on wall back of him.

5:30 PM– I'm back in this morning's restaurant.

When I entered a drunk was yelling and dancing.

In comes a Rastifarian making a goose call.

He has lots of buddies who come and shake hands with him.

A dignified old cop is having his lunch.

A bum eats and tries to leave without paying; the Chinese lady lands on him.

I order a coffee.

A kid staggers in stoned, peddling something.

The dignified Black cop leaves, and so do I.

Three blocks to walk to my hotel. Do it before dark.

Shops have their shutters rolled down,

and music from bars and cantinas blares full blast.

Brisk walk home.

6 PM and I'm in the lobby BS'ing with the night clerk.

A hallway leads to a locked door on the street.

Firecrackers outside. Must be a holiday

Read my journal from November 18 on. What a windbag!