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La Vaina Article
by Colin Cain
Dedicated to a special young man who one dark
night promised to bare it all, so to speak, to a little fat boy who in
turn promised to do the same... except he was drunk and didn’t
remember the promise the next day. Honestly, the fat kid is sorry.
He hopes this effort exonerates him somewhat.
“Colin... were you that little fat boy?
Disclosure: I first want to state that I am a big fan of the area
where I live. The people treat me better than they should, and a lot of
the time I feel like they are the ones taking two years out of their
lives to help me out. It’s amazing to me. What follows is simply a
dumb theory that is the direct result of too much time alone, paranoia,
and faux-intellectualism.
In no way is this a condemnation, just an
observation.
I also don’t want people to think that I think what
I am writing is interesting or important to anyone other than myself.
This is just something I do to amuse myself. I should therefore be
judged a loser, but hopefully not a self-important one. The question
then begs, why the hell would I put this on display? I really don’t
have a good answer for that one. I do have a feeling that a lot of this
junk is pretty universal for PCVs here, so maybe it’s an appeal to
that. For me it was just interesting that something I passed off as an
idiosyncrasy of my town actually has some intense precedent. Most of all
I realize what I am writing is news to exactly zero of you, and make no
claim to be cutting a path through undiscovered Panama with my
ball-point machete.
Thank you.
La Palma, my beloved site, is about 13km south of Las Tablas in
Los Santos.. In all
seriousness, it is the most picturesque town I have seen in Panamį;
aesthetically unique in that it more resembles an Andalusian village
than a Panamanian one. There’s a high degree of centralization: church
and central park sit in the center of things, facing each other, as
everything else unwinds around them. It sits perched atop a small hill,
with its houses so close together
it’s odd if one is not sharing walls with another. There are a
good number of streets and they are narrow, windy, and tightly packed.
Almost as a rule, houses have been, and continue to be, built with
little or no buffer zone to the street. Highly visible homes (greatly
aided by the universal open-door policy) and easily identifiable
patterns of activity within them might give a passer-by the sensation of
looking into a series of play-doh dioramas.
None of these aspects of La Palmas are exceptional when
considered in isolation; most towns in Panama would probably fit some,
if not most of these criteria. What really makes La Palma geographically
unique, though, is how these conditions exist in a traditional,
non-urban site with a sizable population (@ 2000). Towns close by, such
as Pedas’ and Guarara are fairly similar in-terms of population
density, but their town layouts would make it difficult for a certain
type of intimacy to exist.
About seven months ago I had the fortune of moving into a
spacious house, the defining feature of which is its location on the
periphery of the central park. At first, I was nothing but pleased by
this- by my reasoning such proximity to an old-fashioned proletarian
gathering point might have aided me in my quest for cultural
integration. As evening descended on my first day in the house throngs
of Palmanians congregated in the park right outside of my door. I was
taken back by this genuine display of community solidarity, something I
had read about once in an Anthro class. At last I could test the
conversational waters! Being the uninhibited social-butterfly I am, I
weenily stayed sequestered indoors and out of sight, albeit while
respecting the universal open door policy to clear my conscience. I
caught a break that night, because I was experiencing a freak lull in my
otherwise crippling work schedule. What luck! Finally I was allowed some
time to catch up on my recreational reading. Harmless enough, right? I
mean, only pretentious assholes read philosophy on their own time, and
even they would have enough self-respect not to develop theories linking
it to life in their site.
So I was safe.
The idea of the Panopticon was put forth in the 1840s by Jeremy
Bentham, of “Utilitarian” fame, as the architectural form of the
perfect prison. More than a prison it is a reformatoryŃone that acts
upon its inhabitants through its very physical structure so as to exact
the most socially beneficial outcome (judged how, I know not). The
architectural form this Panopticon takes is a little difficult to
explain without a photo: imagine a large, hollow cylinder a few stories
high with a tower in the middle. The cylinder is where the cells would
be, individual, completely isolated from each other, and facing inward
toward the tower. Guards go in the tower, prisoners in the cells. A key
to this set up is that a lighting mechanism exists so that the prisoners
are clearly visible from the tower, while the occupants of the tower are
cloaked in darkness and unviewable from the periphery. In 1975 French
philosopher Michel Foucault reinterpreted this theory of the Panopticon
in terms of its reliance on observation and discipline, which in his
view are defining features of most modern institutions. For Foucault,
the Panopticon symbolizes any modern, efficient power structure in
society that acts to regulate/normalize its members with respect to a
certain standard; it functions to inculcate habits that supposedly
result in the greatest social utility (read here: economic output).
Foucault extended the model beyond the prison, analyzing state
institutions like schools, armies, and hospitals and tried to understand
the real significance of their physical and hierarchical structures.
The principal assumption in this theory is that there is some
societal model for us all to aspire to.
A good soldier should march in sequence with his troop, know how
to follow orders, and be able to disassemble and reassemble his
“piece” in minutes flat.. A
good Frenchman should be strongly nationalistic, sympathetic to the
socialist party, and able to appreciate nice Burgundy. For a more
relevant example: male members of my training group should wear pants
baggy, baseball hats backwards, and memorize designated Lonely Planet
editions (shout out to
Jamie S. Š never sell out!). What the Panopticon facilitates then is
the normalization of its members with respect to these standards. It
works on individuals by isolating them, observing and categorizing them,
locating and correcting deviant behavior, and finally fixing behavior
concordant with its particular archetype.
Now it might not seem interesting that a prison would be set up
to rehabilitate its prisoners, but in the Panopticon the means to that
end are somewhat different than in your run-of-the-mill Sing-Sing or
Rikers. As explained above, the prisoners are isolated in their cells,
completely cut off from their fellow miscreants, unable to spot for each
other in the weight room or conspire. What this isolation really does,
though, is control for exogenous variables while the guards engage in
the process of observing their inmates. This process is really what the
Panopticon is all about the guards can constantly watch every move of
the inmates, while these inmates have no clue who, if anyone, is in the
tower running the show. There are many reasons why such a voyeuristic
set up is essential for a Panoptic institution. First there is a need to
examine each individual, and to rank or qualify them based on the
results. Deficiencies can be identified and corrected. People can be
placed in the pigeonhole where they belong. The process of observation
in the Panopticon is also important because, as is obvious, most people
will play by the rules if under the impression that they are being
watched by an authority figure with nowhere to escape.
Paranoia kicks in and behavior is regulated. This is
how the physical form of the panopticon is supposed to work its magic:
“Visibility assumes the functioning of power.” Theoretically no one
even has to be in the tower, since the prisoners can’t tell the
difference.
This last point is important, because prisoners are
unable to associate the tower with a specific person.
In that way power becomes disindividualized in the
minds of those under its thumb, existing as some abstract force guiding
humanity rather than in the tyrant(s) who constructed the institution
with an agenda in mind.
“Jesus Colin, this is the most boring piece of shit I have ever
read.” Yes. Very good. Understood.
Basically, if you haven’t already figured it out what I am
trying to say is that my site, La Palma, that sleepy town filled with
benevolent old timers, on many levels takes it form from the Panopticon
and works on its population in the same ways. I am not saying that the
founding fathers of the place were taking their cues from Bentham. Just
that the similarities are pretty extensive. As mentioned above, layout
wise the park and church sit in the middle (corresponding to the tower)
and the homes are packed tightly around it (corresponding to the cells).
The park attracts a steady flow of people day and night. People come for
different reasons, most women go to the church, their handicrafts
course, or the tiendas, while most men just lollygag. But almost without
exception they all engage in some sort of discourse. Pushing weight in
my town means taking your place in the park at the strategically
appropriate times and dictating conversation. It just so happens that on
their way to the park most people have to pass a good number of those
highly visible homes/dioramas. Anything witnessed or assumed to have
taken place that people find note worthy is made public record within
minutes.
Nothing special. Yes, I recognize this. But as in the Panopticon,
“public opinion” has a physical manifestation in La Palma because of
the popularity of the park; a place where all information on everyone in
town is centralized and almost constantly accessible.
Just show up in the park, drop my name (or enter
keyword: maluco) and sit back and take notes. What purpose does this
serve in La Palma? For a rural town, La Palma has a rather variable
population. Depending on the day or season, one could find any number of
summer residents, carnival seekers, seasonal workers, or vacationing
gringos. I assume this set-up would get pretty disorienting for the
substantial 60+ yr. old crew not so accustomed to the nomadic lifestyle.
Thus is born the need for a system of categorization. Form is gained
from a confusing mass, and interested parties can find out if it’s
alright to lend a pot to the 30 year old city-dweller sporting a UBUF
jersey.
A further connection between La Palma and the Panopticon results
when you find yourself the subject of nasty bochinche. Who do you blame?
You probably have no idea who it was that saw you prancing around your
house in your bra dancing to N-sync, because it was at night and basic
optics dictate that they can see in but you can’t see out. So should
you whine about all the nosy people in the park? Sounds good, but to
whom can you complain when almost everyone is included in that group? In
the end you make some blanket statement like “Why do people have to be
like that?” and shift the blame from specific agents to the general
public and their moral standards. Once again, in our minds power becomes
disembodied. What Foucault would ask, though, is who/what is defining
the moral standards here? Who dictates the rules of the game?
Just as in the Panopticon, the socio-geographic structure in La
Palma is essentially based on a group of common ideals. Moral
imperatives prevail: one should be (or appear to be) an upstanding
citizen, family-oriented, hard working, courteous, and God-fearing. In
one way or another all Palmanians are expected to live up to this ideal.
Excessive rinking, mischief, certain forms of sexual impropriety,
homosexuality, family discord, emotional instability are all indicators
that someone is straying from that path. Such behaviors are noted and
circulated through the town, and people react by ostracizing the
culprit.
Hester Prynne sans iron-on decal (alert! Gratuitous
literary reference). It happens in different ways and to different
degrees, but is unfailing. To my knowledge this happens elsewhere in
Panama, and how it works on people is obvious. Those who transgress the
moral code are punished and those who abide are rewarded- basic
Pavlovian conditioning. Because of its physical structure La Palma can
go a step further, obviating negative reinforcement for the most part by
putting people under the proverbial microscope and making them too
paranoid to screw up. When you know that anything you do or are
suspected of doing can and will be used against you blah, blah, blah,
chances are you will fall in line. I am living proof of this and I thank
Peace Corps from the bottom of my heart for that.
What such a set up assumes is that every member of the community
agrees to be watched and thus opens up the door to their home and comes
out in the public often. A majority of community members do, but not
all. People who don’’ subject themselves to the public glare
aren’t threatened physically, but they feel the wrath all the same.
The less activity performed in the public eye, the more rumors and
distrust grow, and this does not just go for the open door policy.
Coming back into La Palma from Panama or even Las Tablas is always a
dicey affair, because there one’s actions are ungoverned by the
Palmainian-McGruff town crime watch.
One could be having sex with strange partners, or
even worse “paseando.” Thus is born the fairly universal Peace Corps
equation ((trust of your community)=(1/time spent out of your site)). Only in La Palma, Peace Corps volunteers aren’t the only
ones held to this.
It’s kind of ridiculous to write this, but La Palma employs an
institutional structure similar to that of many modern companies and
organizations. How many times have you heard the word “transparency”
used to describe how well a financial institution is managed?
How many companies secretly keep track of their
employee’s Internet activities to make sure their not looking at porn
or goofing off? Take the Peace Corps.
They are faced with the task of getting all of their
volunteers to adhere to certain standards that they believe a “model
volunteer” should have, but lack the resources to physically monitor
each one. We get bombarded by all kinds of “dos” and “don’ts”
in training, but to get the results they are looking for that just
won’t suffice. A lot of the time what works most effectively is what
people in the office might be saying and disseminating about volunteers
if they don’t play the game- gossip or the threat there of.
And there’s always that call you might get from
your APCD if you leave your community for that line-crossing 5th night
of the month. As a great warrior-poet once said: “There is more guilt
in the Peace Corps than in the Catholic Church.” Now I would never go
so far to say that such guilt is intentionally shelled-out, but it
certainly is effective. At least I am used to it by now.
I am not complaining. I am just trying to understand why La Palma
is set up this way. Yes there are some bad effects- nervous breakdowns,
lying, fake smiles. But there are definitely positive ones as well. For
one, people are held accountable to the community for their actions.
People in need get taken care of because as soon as something goes awry,
sirens start blaring. Domestic abuse is rare, and when it happens people
know about it and something is usually done.
Best of all, as opposed to the Panopticon where the
very structure prohibits interaction of its members, people in La Palma
are lured out of their homes and encouraged to interact with each other.
Through this interaction, commonality and consensus are reached and that
is where the real power in La Palma is located.
Every day community members get the opportunity to
act in the dual role of observed and observer- they are generally the
ones dictating and enforcing the rules they live by. Of course if you
dig deep enough, all of their morals have roots elsewhere, but as I see
it La Palma goes to an extreme in community vigilance that sets them
apart and shows the desire of its community to define its own standards.
We are all big on talking resources, and in La Palma the real
resource they have is their community. I would normally feel like the
North East, small liberal-arts college, lightly meat-heady ass-hole I am
(Will knows the type) saying something like that, but in this case I
don’t. The one real threat to an Azueran community like ours is an
attack on character.
It is a very political town with a deep carnival
tradition and people have to be sure they are insulated from character
attacks on themselves and the company they are seen with. La Palma has
set up a system where true community membership is issued only after an
arduous examination process. Those who are not deemed worthy might live
in town, but are certainly not considered Palmanian.
But what does all this mean? What nerve would these attacks
really hit? What I really believe La Palma is best at, and partly
explains the reason why this town borrows its structure from an 19th
century prison, is regulating the extent to which “modernity” is
allowed to permeate the community. When I use the term “modernity” I
mean a tendency towards social/economic specialization and efficiency,
public/private division, agnosticism/atheism, sexual liberation,
individual isolation, and cultural ursurption/homogenization. As far as
I can tell this is a serious issue almost everywhere in Panama, it’s
one we all witness on a daily basis. To a certain extent all of us
engage in bringing this mind-set to the places we live, for better or
worse, whether we accept it or not. Whether its initiating relationships
just for the purpose of doing work, separating the family budget from
the kiosko budget, or thinking of new and better ways to commidify a
people’s culture. People here hold on to what they have and would
never exchange it unless sure of what the consequences would be. When
modernity reaches La Palma in whatever form it gets compartmentalized
into certain behaviors, technologies, attitudes, objects etc. and the
active community informally decide which are culturally appropriate and
which aren’t. Therefore you might find a 65 year old guy who wears
wrap around shades and pushes a brand new pick up with kicking bass, but
he still herds his cattle every morning at 4, would never sell his house
or land, is around every time thre’ a tamborito, and says “carajo”
whenever possible. La Palma therefore stays dynamic as a town and
community, but the soul of this very old, traditional Azueran town is
allowed sit in the park and lollygag. Amen.
Ditto on what Zach said about calling me names and
disagreeing.
Saturday!
by Jaime Moses
There is probably a kid like Sabiel in every town in
Central America, and God help us if there is. I was first introduced to
him the day I arrived in Guanico Abajo. For some reason, he decided that
the best place for my cat Paco to go was through the second story window
of my boillo. How he even managed to get up there without me noticing
him is a mystery. My best guess is he possesses the crafty ability to
shapeshift whenever he sees fit.
Sabiel is nine years old and never bathes.. He wears no shoes
ever, even when at school. Dirt seems to find him easier than most. At
school he is a wildman. We are all holding our breath as he makes his
fourth, and hopefully last, run at the first grade. Half the time the
teacher, always on the brink of a Sabiel-induced nervous breakdown,
sends him home early as a form of sacrifice. Kind of like throwing one
into the volcano for the betterment of the community at large. But
still, there is something about him that makes you love him all the
same.
I accidentally taught Sabiel a word in English:
Saturday it was. He knows this word better than his own name and is not
at all afraid to use it. In fact, in the midst of Guanico you always
know he is on the loose somewhere because every five minutes or so he
lets go his magic word, “Saturday!”
He may not know how to write, he may not even know how old he is,
but damn it, he knows how to say Saturday and that is genuine English,
my friends. Just like the gringo talks!
Sabiel holds on to that word like a beacon of hope through the
wild and chaotic school day as if somehow, someway, if he just keeps
shouting out that magic word it will propel him onward to the second
grade. And you know what? I think it’s actually working.
Sabiel is no stranger to malas notas. They are as
much a part of his life as the three pounds of dirt he carries with him
at all times. But just the
other day, he walked into my house with a notebook in one hand and a
shit-eating grin on his face and there it was, bigger than the church
door: cinco por cinco.
Whose notebook did he steal this time, I thought.
“Es mio!”
“Then what happened? You have never gotten better than a three
for five.”
“Andrea me ayudaba.”
Andrea, my fiancée and part-time substitute teacher, had indeed
helped him and BAM! There it was.. A little attention, a chiva full of
patience, and a whole afternoon were all it took.
I still can't believe it. To actually see him progressing like
this has left me amazed. I had almost given up on him. Every time I
heard him yell his magic word veins popped, blood pressure rose, and
three more hairs turned gray. But Sabiel showed me how wrong I was to
lose faith in him, that nobody needs to be sacrificed to the volcano.
So now, every Tuesday and Thursday at the school, when I hear him
yell “Saturday!” I just smile. I smile because I know how much
pleasure he gets out of being to say it and how proud he is of himself
for it. And also how whenever he sees me he gets to talk to me in
English.
Saturday! There it goes again. Perhaps we could move on to
Sunday. Stranger things have happened.
Fast
Times in Agua Buena
By Will Woodfield
My Fast Times articles, as you may have noticed, seem
to focus on little kids a lot. And
why shouldn’t they? Little
kids are important: they grow into big adults that someday may rule the
world. As such, they
justify our attention. Plus
they’re the liveliest, sharpest, funniest most interesting things
around for many a Peace Corps Volunteer, myself included.
Back in the States, little kids played a small role in my life,
and generally were not seen, much less heard.
In Agua Buena, they surround me and take me prisoner.
In Agua Buena (and other parts of Panama), it astonishes me
sometimes how naughty and spoiled so many of the little kids seem to be. I am actually shocked at the depths of disrespect and
disobedience shown by children that seem to be the norm for many young
families.
Young Victor Alexis represents this in spades.
All weekend (and some weekdays) he lies on the sofa watching TV
at a deafening volume level. His hapless father (there was a divorce, and he is stuck
with the little monster, very progressive) tells the little couch potato
to turn it down. Victor
Alexis does not remove his eyes from the screen, nor does he budge. Dad raises his voice to a shout: turn it down!
Victor Alexis, not moving, says “Vete a la vrga”.
Dad, blustering, says “Į Te voy a pegar!”
Victor Alexis, with his childish animal cunning, senses the
hollowness of this threat and laughs chillingly.
Dad says no more, and watches TV enwreathed in a palpable malaise
of defeat.
Victor Alexis is only one such case.
Are things in the U.S. this bad?
Not what I’ve seen personally, but I’m sure they are.
Is this the case all over Panama?
No. Every family is
unique. Have these spoiled
little kids always been around? Is
Victor Alexis nothing more than a reincarnation of his dad at that age?
Here, I think not; this is a new phenomenon.
The explanation may be that Victor Alexis and his dad are smack
dab in the middle of a little concept that I call the Development Wave.
The Development Wave is an idea I’ve been toying with. I’m no social scientist, so I don’t know if it has an
official analog, and it may contain fallacies or flaws that I’ve
failed to notice. All I
know is that it embodies my observations and conclusions about what
development is, and how economic development influences social
development.
In the theory of the Development Wave, there are three stages of
economic and resulting social development.
Stage 1 is the most basic situation, when a community or
individuals are largely self-sufficient, and (by cause or effect) are
largely ignorant of the world outside their local existence.
Stage 1 is rapidly disappearing in the world, but can still be
found in some form here in Panama, in poor, small, isolated, mostly-unelectrified
communities. In Stage 1,
family and local social networks are strong, and people work very hard
to provide themselves with the basic necessities.
Due to their lack of connection with the outside world, they
don’t know what they’re missing, and thus do not feel inadequate in
their situation. They know
no other benchmark. Ignorance
is bliss.
But when the first TV set comes crawling on its belly into the
community, blaring its foreign news, entertainment, and above all,
conspicuous and copious messages of consumption with their ability to
create feelings of inadequacy in their gullible audiences, that is when
Stage 2 begins. People, attracted by the noise, colors and novelties of the
TV, see how others live and are told how they should live.
To these people, what before was enough now is insufficient.
As they take to their beds (which, they are now uncomfortably
aware, do not sport an Flex Orthopedic 21 Mattress), visions of cellular
phones and sports utility vehicles dance in their heads.
From this point on, people want more and better of everything,
and they want it soon, if not now.
Maybe, with luck or hard work, they’ll get it.
Maybe there is no luck, or hard work seems too high a price to
pay; in this case, unsatisfied longing is the result.
But development, especially in its latest hypercharged,
globalized avatar, is a rising sea (wave) that lifts all ships.
TVs, cars and computers all trickle down to poorer and poorer
people as they become cheaper. In
most areas of the world, (with a few notable exceptions) the “standard
of living”, as it is callowly conceived, is rising.
And, because of this trickledown of technology, “developing”
(i.e. Stage 1and early Stage 2) countries are developing much faster
than “developed (Stage 3, you’ll see why soon) ever did. Stage 2 these days for countries such as Panama is an
adolescent growth spurt, with concomitant growing pains.
It’s cramming for the GRE in 3 nights instead of 3 months.
It’s an ice-cream headache from snarfing down the Cherry Garcia
too fast. What the United
States achieved in perhaps 80 years, Agua Buena has achieved in 30,
going from an isolated, rural community with no aqueduct, school or
electricity in the 1970s, to the town in which young Edy Saˇz is
playing Sony Playstation when he should be studying.
For people like Victor Alexis' dad, who hauled water from the
village pump when they were kids but who now have Direct TV (or at least
a TV) in their houses, these past few years have been like a giant wave,
one that began with a gentle undertow, quickly gathered speed and
momentum, and is now crashing down on their heads.
Back when Victor Alexis' dad was his son’s age, he would have
likely been beaten bloody for one thoughtless interruption of adult
conversation, or perhaps for not sweeping the porch spotlessly clean.
But those were the old days, thinks Dad. Times have changed. I
hope the kid studies and makes his old man proud, but I can’t tell him
what to do. I never had TV
when I was his age, let him enjoy it!
Di—s sabe, I’ve worked hard enough for it, why should my kid
suffer what I had to suffer? When
he watches TV, or drinks Coca-Cola, when at his age I was drinking well
water I hauled myself, that means I have been a good father and improved
my life from the insulting poverty of my upbringing.
So what if he’s lazy and rude?
He’s better off than I was!
(This is still part of Stage 2Ńthe material comfort may have
been achieved, but it is still seen as the end-all and be-all of human
existence).
This is why young Victor Alexis throws a temper tantrum on Monday
mornings and often gets out of going to school.
This is why young Ronald screams and hurls a brick at his
grandfather when he is told to clean his room.
That is why the young green-eyed devil spawn Jason laughs when he
sees a gringo fall off his bike. And
this is why the parents threaten with the same tired refrain: “te voy
a pegar.” because in the Development Wave, when McDonalds was busy
trying to supersede sancocho with McNuggets as the Panamanian national
dish, Dr. Spock didn’t have as large a marketing budget.
So the desperate parents who don’t know how to control their
kids echo what they dimly remember from the traditions of their
forefathers the promise of physical punishment yet they have abandoned
their forefathers sufficiently that they cannot bring themselves to
unfasten their belts. The kids are smart; they smell the weakness in their
parents like big dogs and bees smell fear, and so they pay no attention,
and another rusty particle of parental authority flakes away.
(By the way, Stage 3 is the stage of Dr. Spock, self-help books,
consumer protection groups and second-generation college families. It also involves a backlash to the values of Stage 2: a
certain degree of material success has been achieved by old generation,
which is taken for granted by the new generation.
No Fear wife beaters replace the sharp Sunday Suit and
spit-shined shoes of the 1940s and 50s for casual weekends out. The Hippy Counter-culture arises to embrace everything that
was taboo before. Young
people sign up for Peace Corps instead of chasing money and affluence.
In reality, so-called Stage 3 societies, like the U.S., are
always in a dynamic equilibrium between Stage 2 and 3, the overlaying
peaks and troughs of the Development Wave alternating between positive
and negative interference, as backlash leads to backlash.
Stage 1, however, can never exist again.
But I’ll shut up about this half-baked theory now).
So anyway, there are some spoiled kids in Agua Buena, some not.
But they all are entertaining in their own way.
Here’s some vignettes.
*
I was heading out to Las Tablas for yet another
exciting MICI meeting. As I
stepped out my door, I heard a rustling above me, and some leaves and
branches nearly fell on my head: Two ladrones had settled themselves
high in my cereza tree and were gorging on Nature’s rich bounty.
I recognized Jacquilin and Humberto; kids from up the road,
beyond El Tute. Although
technically they were trespassing, everyone has long considered my
cereza tree to be eminently public domain.
“Hola, monos,” I saluted them. “William” said Jacquilin primly, a girl of 11 years,
generally shy, bookish, and always accompanying her mother. The latter was nowhere to be seen, however, and the general
sensation of mischief in the air thickened.
Obviously this was not an officially sanctioned cereza raid.
“William!” shouted
Humberto, a half second later (kids here always do that:
ever saludando at the same time, but always passing down the
hierarchy from biggest to littlest, until finally the smallest little
guy has blurted “William”. This
pecking order behavior seems to be instinctual, not acquired. In this case, Humberto was the little man on the totem
pole). Humberto is a
diminutive little gnome. Both
he and Jacquilin have sandy blond hair betraying the Spanish blood in
the area. But while
Jacquilin keeps her nose in the books under her mother’s stern eye,
Humberto runs riot.
Humberto's father, Javier, is a hard-talking,
hard-drinking, hard-fighting furniture maker who sports custom-designed
tattoos, and is known affectionately as “El Tigre Negro.”
He has never been a big fan of my charlas. The contrast between this surly roughneck and his blond,
angelic-looking 5-year-old son is profound.
Indeed, Humberto's aura of innocence is his most potent weapon.
I had a feeling I knew who was the evil mastermind behind the
Great Cereza Raid.
“ĄPaÕonde vaiÕ, William?” Humberto queried, in
the traditional dialect parroted from Daddy,
El Tigre Negro. Normally
I hate this question, it somehow implies that I’m running away,
shanking on my work, paseando.
“ĄPatheando?”
Humberto continued, lisping the word in his piping voice.
His teeth were stained red from the cerezas.
I decided to play hardball.
“No, para que sepas, voy para Las Tablas
para una reuni—n importante con el Ministerio de Comercio e
Industria, “ I informed him. “Oh”
he said, and his eyes got big.
“Humberto doesn’t even know where Las Tablas
is” said Jacquilin (in Spanish, of course), voice dripping scorn.
But Humberto seemed relatively unconcerned about his
dearth of geographical knowledge. High
in my tree, he continued to shovel cerezas into his mouth, smearing them
all over his face in the process. He
was grinning his red grin when I hopped off the porch and headed down
the hill.
*
Longtime readers of this column will doubtless
remember the saga of Cˇsar the necio, Cˇsar the tremendo, and his
little sister Ligia Elena. Two
years later, Cˇsar continues to be necio and tremendo, but has been
eclipsed in these arenas by the little sister.
Cˇsar, at the ripe old age of 7, has mellowed out
considerably. Oh, he still
runs around in his underwear and wallows in filth, but his outbursts of
uncontrollable laughter are further and more far between.
He is more confident, more self-assured, and while the sudden
squalls still arise on occasion, and tears leave clean trails down his
grimy cheeks, within 10 minutes he is his own irrepressible self again,
at least until the next time he hurts himself.
The big gap where his front teeth were seems to be permanent; it
has been there for at least two years.
Over these two years I’ve taken to the habit of
saying “Cˇsar!” and giving him a grave thumbs-up whenever I see
him. This has become our
special greeting, and sometimes when I’m watching TV at the
counterpart's house, he comes running in, shouts “William”, and
gives me the solemn thumbs up, before running back out again.
(I don’t know why I started this whole thumbs up business,
especially with this one little boy.
Maybe it’s because, unconsciously, the name “Cˇsar”
provokes the image of the Emperor of Rome, standing up in his royal box
in the Coliseum to deliver the final judgment for the last gladiators
left standing: Thumbs up he
lives, thumbs down he dies. That’s my theory, anyway)
CˇsarÕs brother, Edward, a thin gangly boy of 11,
is very different. A
handsome lad (compared with CˇsarÕs endearing homeliness), he is a
bright spark, getting puro 5s in school (while Cˇsar bumbles amiably
along with3s and the occasional 4).
Edward’s thin body and serious demeanor provoke me to pick him
up and body slam him into the sofa, just to get a smile out of him.
Edward’s favorite pastime is to ask me an endless stream of
seemingly unrelated and random words to translate into English.
“ĄY c—mo se dice vaca?ÉĄY carro?ÉĄY martillo?É
ĄY nube?ÉĄY lapiz?É Y Dragon Ball Zeta?É” and on and on and on.
He loves to ask me what Cˇsar's name is in English, and when I
say itŃCaesarŃhe bursts into laughter and tries to say it himself.
“Caesar!” Cˇsar
laughs along with him, a little belatedly.
But now, the real hellion of the bunch is little
Ligia Elena. She, too, now
gives me the solemn Thumbs Up. She
still does not like perros, but they no longer instill the fear of Dog
into her. As a result,
Lacy, (and a new little doggie, Rex) no longer can be used by her family
as effective disciplinary weapons, as they had been used so successfully
in the past. Extreme
measures have demanded extreme responses, but even these lately have
been wearing thin
For instance: one afternoon, it was time for Ligia
Elena to take her bath, and she was not favorably disposed towards the
idea. She would not be
coaxed or wheedled into the house, so Uncle Tony decided to take things
to the next level. Tony, a
short, affable fellow who does odd jobs soldering metal around Agua
Buena and always walks around without a shirt, showing off his wiry
little body, took off his belt and invoked the sacred words: “ĮTe voy
a pegar!” But Ligia
Elena, although only 4, was already wise to that one.
So Tony, an excellent pitcher, put down the belt and picked up a
lemon, which he launched at her head, expertly missing by a few inches.
Ligia Elena, still unfazed, planted her feet firmly and defied
the authorities: “ĮAaajoooo, Aaajooo!,”
she spat.
Tony went for the big guns:
he grabbed a huge piece of wood from the pile waiting to be
turned into furniture, and hoisted it over his head menacingly,
promising in that gesture imminent death from above.
At that, Ligia Elena quailed, her face crumpling, and she let out
a kind of “eeeeeeeeeeEEEEEE!”
, But then, amazingly, her courage returned.
Drawing in a deep breath, she let it out in a giant yell of rage
and defiance:
“ĮQUUUUEEEEEEEEEEEECOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
Ligia's mother burst out laughing. Her father howled. Arselio
nearly fell off the chair he was propped up in, he was laughing so hard.
Tony almost dropped the giant log on his foot, he was so
nonplussed. He couldn’t keep his serious expression on his face, and
he started to laugh too. I
was dying.
I think Ligia Elena got out of her bath that day.
*
Kids in Agua Buena have got it pretty good.
They go to school (unfortunately for only half a day); they come
back, and get a good lunch from their mothers.
No one really wants for food.
Family stability is pretty good:
there are very few young unwed mothers, and those around are
helped by Gramma and other family members and friends.
There is a basketball court behind the school, there is a little
playground in front of the casa comunal, and they both see a lot of
action. There are baseball
games and soccer games to play, and horses to ride.
The air is clean; there is a river a little ways away to swim in.
And yes, there is the TV. There
are some pretty happy and healthy kids in Agua Buena.
If some of them are spoiled rotten, perhaps that’s a small
price to pay.
Note: this
is probably the last “Fast Times” for a while, as I actually don’t
live in Agua Buena anymore, and would like to write some other stuff
without exceeding the Vaina
44 page limit. But don’t
fear: there will be at least 1 more Fast Times before its all
over, as the Final Despedida finally rolls around.
Meanwhile, stay tuned for some Fast Times in Panama City, coming
to a Vaina issue sometime soon.
Just de-boarded the plane at Logan International
Airport and boy does it
feel good to be home.
Headline News is playing on the TV and in English!
As I embrase my family, my sister tells me that she
had to hide my Public
Enemy CD because it is now a felony to own one.
I’ve just committed my first felony because President Gore has passed
into law a ban on all offensive
¬entertainment¬.
Offensive now becoming a universal term for any materials
that contains ¬swear words¬ and-or implies sex and
violence. (So long to the
Nightly News). Well, I’ll
just listen to my CD in hiding because we all know that Democrats are no
good at cracking down on crime.
Then my parents hand me my readjustment allowance
that just came in the mail today. $12.50!!??
My father calmly explains to me that Gore’s plans to reduce the
national debt includes increasing the personal debts of Americans.
After an increase in Income Tax, Medicare, FICA, and Social
Security tax, that was all that was left.
And then more bad news hits.
My savings account has dwindled to zilch because the Democrats’
push to reduce the deficit got investors worried about higher taxes and
they all pulled out of the market, thus causing a NYSE crash on Dec. 31,
2001. My dad adds more salt
to the wound and tells me that had I been smart, I would have switched
to bonds before Gore was inaugurated.
So what happened to our budget surplus that was
supposed to reduce the deficit? My
brother replies that it was used to pay Medicare and Medicaid debt that
incurred because the Democrats didn’t know how to manage Managed
Healthcare.
Well, at least I have a job that starts in a week and
should provide a steady income (at least more than $324 a month).
¬Not so¬ says mom. The
company called to say that they had to ¬right size¬ meaning lay off
workers due to a slowed economy. Higher
taxes meant less money in the economy and therefore less earnings, etc.
Is this the Democrats’ version of Trickle-Down effect??
Also, she continues, unemployment just hit 8%, up
from 4% when Gore was elected.
But there is good news:
we aren’t fighting any wars.
Bad news: there is a
war in Iran with Iraq and Kuwait, which has caused gas, prices to rise
to $3.99 per gallon. That’s
okay, I guess, because I just bought a gas-saving Ford Escort.
Just hope the tires don’t explode on me. And if they do, at least the government should pay for my
medical bills. ¬No¬ says
Dad. The government will
only help if you are a single mother, have 2 1/2 kids, or are over age
65. Therefore, I don’t qualify for benefits that MY
Readjustment allowance paid for. And better start saving again.
Gore made Social Security secure until 2040. Which means, when I turn 65, there won’t be any money
left.
HMMM...maybe I’ll just extend my PC service an
extra 3 years until this ¬Gore¬ thing blows over.
Does that qualify for an extension?
That I would rather live in poverty in Panama than in the US.
Fast Forward - April 15, 2002
Here I am, in my Lincoln Navigator (loaded with
raised foot pedals for us short people), listening to my Public Enemy CD
and headed to work in good old Corporate America, wearing a new Armani
suit that my wardrobe allowance (part of my massive signing bonus) paid
for. My new job is to
manage peons in a new subsidiary at Fidelity investments that manages
the government’s trillion-dollar social security plan.
I don’t have a trillion dollars quite yet, but I hope to when
I’m 65 because the government finally let me invest some of MY social
security money in a market that will be inflation.
Therefore, I will actually see some of this money
they call social security tax.
RING! RING! That
was my friend Julia who decided to extend her PC service another 7 years
until Jan 2009 when the Bush administration is over.
Except, she’s missing out on the prosperous times.
Tax cuts across the board did actually keep the economy buzzing
and unemployment has remained around 4%, thus causing signing bonuses
for good talent (like me).
Hold on a sec...I want to check on my voice-activated
car-PC with Internet hook up what Microsoft’s closing price was
yesterday. Since the
anti-trust suit was dropped, Microsoft has developed a host of new
innovated technology, much of which provides safer communications in
cars, thus reducing accidents. And
since labor unions were no longer protected by liberal laws, the UAW at
Delphi was replaced with hard working manufacturers that helped install
the new technology in FORD and GM cars ahead of schedule.
RING!RING! That
was my friend Sara (the headstand girl) who wanted to know how long it
took me to forget that I was once a PC volunteer and revert back to the
ways of greedy, rich, yuppie American.
¬Less than 24 hours, Sara.¬ Mind you, she’s been pretty
ecstatic that her readjustment allowance wasn’t taxed as much as she
thought it would be and is currently enjoying her vacation at
Kennebushport, Maine.
My car-PC just gave me the best news of all. Ralph
Nader who was distugusted that he only received 12 electoral votes (all
coming from Indiana because Christine’s vote was the only vote
registered because Quayle was in charge of counting) has left the US for
Japan where we can make more money on a surge of class actions suits.
Way to be concerned about the people, Nader!
Well, I just arrived at work, and already a little
late on my first day (its 6:35 AM).
Add at bottom:
Author’s note:
At the time these articles were written, there was no clear
winner of the election. I
would have waited until after Nov. but if Gore wins, I will be too
depressed to do anything. If
Bush wins, I will be ET’ing so I can enjoy prosperous times to come in
the States. And if my some act of Satan Nader wins, I will be too busy
suing someone.
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