Comments from Azuero

The newest comment is at the top, so if you want to read in chronological order go all the way to the bottom and work your way up.

My violin made the trip down here with me, but had sat un-played for a couple of years and three of the pegs had cracked in the humidity. The only one that hadn't cracked was on the D string and it had swollen so much in the humidity that I was afraid the neck of the instrument would crack or warp. I cut the string to relieve the tension, and when I did, I heard that fateful "clunk" as the sound post fell.

In August of 1999, I decided to have it repaired. I took it to the one music store in Chitr�, La Casa Santa Cecilia. It turned out that the owner of the store was a cousin of a welder working here at the plant. She asked if I could leave it there and she would find someone to repair it.

A couple of weeks later she called and said she had found someone and he would want twenty five dollars to fit the new pegs, but would have to advise me later about the sound peg. I told her to go on and have the pegs fitted and let me know about the sound peg. About a week later, she called and asked if I could come by the store.

That was a Saturday afternoon and the pegs had been cut and fitted along with the new strings. She explained that the man who had fit the pegs had told her he wanted a hundred dollars to position the sound post. She had told him to bring the fiddle back into the store so she could contact me and see if I wanted to go on with the work.

I was a little surprised; the quality of workmanship on the pegs was acceptable, but not outstanding. A hundred dollars seemed like a pretty stiff price for positioning the sound post. She seemed to agree and that was the reason she had asked him to bring it back into the store. I must have looked disappointed, because after a few moments she wrote a name and number on a slip of paper and said she thought this other person could do the work, but I would have to call him.

It took two phone calls to connect with the gentleman, but on the second call, I managed to talk with him. I told him about the fiddle and asked if he could help me. I also had to explain that practically the only time I am free is on Sundays. He said that the next day he had an engagement in the afternoon, but if I could come by around eight in the morning, he would take care of the problem.

The next morning I started out, he had given directions, but he lived in Las Tablas, and I am not very familiar with the streets there. I had to stop and ask directions a couple of different times, but finally managed to find the house. As I pulled up, he was waiting for me by the front gate.

We went in and he sat down as I unpacked the fiddle. He picked it up and carefully examined it. He then took out a couple of pieces of bent wire and a piece of string. In a few minutes, he had reset the sound post and then proceeded to tune the strings. Then for about five minutes, he played until he was satisfied with the sound.

He laid the fiddle back in its case and talked for a few minutes about the violin. He told some stories about violins he had repaired in the country, and said the only other one like mine was in Santiago.

I asked how much I owed and was very surprised when he said the cost was five dollars. I was very happy and paid him, then left for the drive back to Pes�.

My fiddle is a little special to me. It was my Grandfathers, and he played the tunes that had followed my family for years. Tunes like Soldiers Joy, or The De'il in the Kitchen, tunes that had originated in the north of Europe, in Scotland and Ireland.

I wonder sometimes what he would think, to know that his fiddle had been repaired by one of the foremost folk fiddlers of Panam�, at an unbelievable price. I think I was not only privileged to have this repaired, but to also meet Didimo Vergara, and have a few minutes to hear someone who truly loved the fiddle, talk about what he knew best.

Fiddling around in Azuero

Leo

Gypsy is about the size of a sheep. She is about five years old, which in doggy years would make her about thirty-five. She spends a lot of time sleeping and is one of those dogs that really enjoys a bath.

She is hairy, sort of Bugs Bunny, English sheepdog hairy. Here in the heat of Azuero she has to be bathed frequently to be tolerable. She is not a local dog, she was a gift to the family. Local dogs tend to be short haired, in-bred animals that die young because of their habit of sleeping in the road.

Gypsy is very territorial, and protective of her family. She will only let folks enter the yard that obviously have permission to enter. Some of her doggy friends she will tolerate, but strange dogs that show up and try and enter the yard are usually run off. Cats in the yard are never tolerated and she will chase them until they disappear forever.

The only cat she will tolerate is the large orange Tom that lives here as well. She not only tolerates this cat but also almost treats him as one of her children. If animals could be described in a religious framework, I would describe Gypsy as sort of an old fashioned, conservative, Anglican sort of pooch. The cat would have to be a post-revolution, 'humanistic', French animal.

The cat goes out prowling at night, but at the first sign of trouble will high-tail it back to the house. Here he has nothing to fear. Gypsy regards him as one of her charges and will destroy anything that threatens harm.

Sometimes in the evening, we will hear the start of one of those loud cat squalls behind the house. The howling and noise will get louder and fiercer until suddenly a fifteen pound orange streak will enter the back door, slide completely through the house and hide behind the fifty pound dog resting on the front porch. I have only seen that here in Pes�.

On to something different:

The other evening, on the way home I decided to stop and visit a minute with my buddy, Mr. R.(why you always pickin' on me?)Young. I figured I would let him know I was still as handsome as ever, and also pass on a little medicinal beverage. Sometimes his platelets need a little thinning so we pass a little time moderately drinking beer. (We normally drink moderately until it is gone and sometimes go buy more to continue drinking moderately).

Anyway, we were on the front porch when he suddenly had to go to the kitchen for an emergency. Was something burning? Had he suddenly remembered a forgotten ingredient? No, the odd musical sounds coming from the kitchen had stopped. I followed him back to discover he was fiddling with an eight-track tape trying to get it to play again. Fortunately, the tape itself hadn't been seriously damaged. Those eight-tracks of Los Ponchos are hard to replace. Hopefully with a good cleaning that eight-track player will be back in operation soon.

Now I have to ask myself why didn't I bring that tape of Grand Funk Railroad with me, when I first came down here?

Panam� City

Yesterday I had to make a quick trip into the city on a little business. My boss drove a rented Toyota Yaris, and besides me, there were three other people in our group. We were just entering the city in the middle of the morning traffic 'tranque', and had progressed until we were in front of the old Napoli restaurant on Avenida de Los Martires. We had just started to inch forward when the tractor-trailer in the lane to our left decided to change lanes. We were all glad when he stopped as he heard, or felt the sheet metal on our car folding up under the gentle impact.

In Panama it is necessary to stop, and wait for the Transito police to come. Anyone leaving the scene of an accident is guilty of hit and run, and even moving a car after an accident can have grave consequences. Suddenly the street was empty in front of us as those cars had a chance to move on. Behind us the line must have grown longer and longer since two lanes of this very busy three lane street were now blocked off.

The police arrived about ten minutes later and within about forty-five minutes we were once again on our way. Later in the day we finally stopped and ate lunch at the Napoli restaurant on Avenida Brazil. Maybe it was a sort of subconscious memory of the mornings events that made my boss pull in there. I don't know but I am glad he did, it almost makes getting crunched by a semi worthwhile.

On a diet in Azuero.

Leo

14 August 2002
It's a sunny Wednesday afternoon out here. The sun has been pretty much hidden since Saturday. There hasn't been much rain, just a lot of clouds. This area immediately around Chitr� is about the driest part of the Republic, and even going just ten kilometers west into the Azuero peninsula will find more rainfall than here. August isn't noted for exceptional rainfalls, mostly just showers, followed by sunshine. Normally if it isn't raining or getting ready to rain, the sun will be shining.

October is the really rainy part of the year, sometimes with those rainstorms that leave a foot of water standing on the ground occurring two or three times a week. But October is still several months away. Once the rain ends for October, or around the beginning of November, the really rainy part of the year out here is pretty much over. There will still be showers and rain off and on through November and usually through December, but the heaviest should be over with. People will start getting ready for Christmas and summer about the same time.

Summer time in Azuero is dry. There is usually no rain at all from about the end of December until close to the end of May. By the beginning of February, everything starts to take on a dry and dusty look. The weather is pleasant, almost always with a nice dry breeze from the east, blowing in off the Pacific, it helps evaporate the sweat and gives the illusion of coolness. Well, the illusion of coolness if you happen to be in the shade at least. And the nights usually have a pleasant breeze that helps take away the heat of the day and makes it a little easier to sleep.

Most of the tourist books I have seen explain that the rainy season is generally cooler than the dry season. I think those descriptions have been written by people that have never spent any time here. While the 'average' temperature (in a mathematical sense) may be less during the winter months, it just feels hotter. There is usually less breeze, and the ever present humidity is at an even higher level than during the dry months. Unless there is rain actually moving in, there usually isn't much wind and it tends to die down completely at night. That leaves the nights feeling sticky and damp, and unless you can sit very still in front of a fan, the slightest exertion draws perspiration.

But the rainy season has its compensations. After a few days of clouds, one just appreciates the sun a lot more. It may be hot and sticky, but the colors are so much more intense after being deprived of that golden glow for a while. And what colors! Like I already have said, the dry season tends to start looking dusty and brown, but the color of the rainy season is green. Not just green, but an intense, all pervasive green that is everywhere. Anything that can sprout, grows leaves and reaches for the sky. The pastures, where during the dry season, sprouted dust devils in the wind, are nothing but a green carpet dotted with trees, themselves a darker shade of green.

I remember the first time I returned to the states after spending time here. I arrived on the 22nd of December. Panama was nearing the end of its rainy season that year and the colors here were intense, but I didn't realize how intense until I was back under perpetually overcast, cold Midwestern skies. Sometimes now while driving between work and home my breath is taken away when I notice just how green a pasture may be and how absolutely beautiful the country is.

Reflecting a little in Azuero

Leo

10 August 2002
Following is an account, more or less, of the last two weeks. This is written from notes I took at the time and filled in with remembrances and comments where due. The dates refer to the date when I got around to describing the events listed in that particular section.

4 August 2002
I am currently engaged in an in depth study of the public health system. Particularly the 'Hospital Regional de Azuero, Anita Moreno'. (This would be roughly comparable to a state run public hospital.)

Several days ago, (the first day of August) I woke early in the morning with a slight discomfort in the chest. Arising from bed and sitting for a while did nothing to relieve the discomfort, and in fact, it turned into an incredibly intense pain that spread to both arms and throat.

My wife, being somewhat alarmed by the fact that I appeared to be 'punking out', suggested she could take me to the hospital. I finally agreed when it was possible to speak.

It was almost six in the morning when we arrived at the hospital in Chitr�, 'El Vigia'. I managed to enter under my own power, but was immediately placed in a bed in the emergency room. A nasal cannula with two liters per minute of oxygen was placed in my nose, and a heparin lock was started in my right hand. Meanwhile a nitro tab was put under my tongue, which brought almost instant relief.

Then started the hundred questions segment of the day, "Was the pain like this? Or more like this? How long did it last? Where did it start? Did it feel more like this or more like that? Have I always been this fat? Is it true I smoke heavily and drink like a fish?"

I explained in explicit detail everything I could concerning the pain and my present physical state. ("No, this isn't actually my body, I borrowed it from my brother-in-law fer chrissakes!") Finally the doctors got busy with other patients, so I could just rest, watching my heart beat on the monitor, waiting for whatever was going to happen next.

About ten-thirty, one of the doctors stopped and said they were going to transfer me to the Regional hospital, since it had better cardiac facilities. I was sent off to get a chest X-ray, and when I returned a nitro drip was started in the heparin lock.

The ambulance for the transfer arrived at about one in the afternoon, but it was at least thirty minutes before I was loaded up and carted off the Regional Hospital located in the Villa de Los Santos. One of the nurses from the E.R. accompanied me for the ride. When we arrived at the Regional Hospital, she told the driver to get a wheelchair, then when he returned asked if I could get off the stretcher and sit in the wheelchair. "Con cuidado." (This was the same nurse that earlier, in the hospital in Chitr�, came back with a bedpan when I said I needed to go to the bathroom. I refused, and later while off for my chest X-ray, managed to accomplish the deed in a more normal manner. I guess it was a matter of hospital policy or something and now she figured I wouldn't tell on her for motivating my fat rear off the stretcher under my own power. Figure that one out!)

The 'Hospital Regional de Azuero, Anita Moreno' is located on several acres of land, just south of La Villa de Los Santos, not far before the turn off to the beaches of Monagre, and El Rompio. The part of the hospital I was taken to was a quadratic structure, built around a central, open patio. My first impression was that it looked more decrepit than 'El Vigia', and sort of reminded me of pictures of 'La Joya' (one of Panama's infamous prisons.) I'm afraid that as I passed through the hospital on my way to the Intensive Care Ward, I wasn't as attentive as I should have been.

The medical ICU is a seven-bed unit, located at the end of one of the corridors. Equipped with monitors, and a fair amount of modern equipment, the unit itself was a little shabby looking. It actually reminded me of an ICU in one of the old cantonment type army hospitals, built in the 1940s.

The nurse's station was a desk located in the center of one room (about fifteen feet by eighteen feet). Here are located the three beds (I assume) for the patients most likely to need immediate attention. I was put in bed number one. This ensured that I was under constant supervision. For the first few days, this made no difference to me as I spent most of my time sleeping. After a few days, however, it simply meant that I had absolutely no privacy.

Since I am employed by a Panamanian company, and included on their 'planilla', all of this is paid for by the 'Caja de Seguro Social' (CSS). This is deducted every pay period from my salary. Much like Social Security is deducted in the U.S., except here it is actually used for something.

After my fifth day in intensive care, I felt a hundred percent better. It seems that I suffered from a spastic, coronary artery, and as long as I give up every enjoyable experience in life, the prognosis is very good.

(Click here for a brief explanation of this type of disease.)

6 August 2002
Last night was my first night in my new bed. Yesterday, the doctor gave orders that I could sit in the chair beside my bed, where I spent practically the entire afternoon and evening. What relief! About eight in the evening I was moved into the other small, four-bed bay, that makes up the other part of ICU. This is a little noisier than the other bed was; the old fellow in the bed next to mine spends about twenty-three hours a day calling out names of long missing relatives. I stayed awake, sitting up, until almost eleven. R.(why you always pickin' on me)Young, had brought by a number of books and I read two novels and started a third.

7 August 2002
Today the doctor decided to move me to the 'sala', one of the bays out in the regular part of the hospital. My new bed was number 32, and located in a room that was located on the front side of the hospital. This room is about fifteen feet by fourteen feet, and contains seven beds. For now the bed to my right is empty. This is good because the lower part of the glass is missing from that window and there is a large, calico cat that frequently enters and exits through this opening.

The windows face southeast, and there are several large trees that shade the outside of the wall here. Unlike the ICU, the only air conditioning provided here is by a large ceiling fan and the open windows. But with the room being open on both sides, and well shaded, the temperature isn't too uncomfortable. When the doctor visited he said that I would be able to leave the next day.

8 August 2002
I was up at four-thirty in the morning, showered by five and waited for the doctor to come and discharge me. He finally arrived at about ten-thirty, asked some questions, discussed my condition and said that he wanted to do an echocardiogram before I left.

It was two-thirty in the afternoon before everything was completed, and I called my wife to inform her that I could leave. About five minutes after I called, a person from the corporation I work for showed up and asked if I was ready to go. This provided about fifteen minutes of confusing phone calls to get everything straightened out to ensure that people didn't show up to pick me up after I had already left.

So, how are things now? I am busy trying to evaluate the changes that I need to make. Apparently there wasn't much damage done, but I have to see what I can do and what I can't do. As far as work goes, I come and go as I please for the moment, the company is being very flexible. Yesterday I spent the afternoon at the house, and spent almost two hours pacing the floor before I tore apart the stove and fixed the oven that hadn't been functioning for the last three months. After that, my darling bride informed me that I would be better off going to work since I work less for pay than for free. HA!

Am I worried? Sure, I could walk out of here and get run over by an enraged oxen. I will try and do what is necessary to continue for another forty some years, but I have no intention of tossing in the towel yet. (Well, if that nurse that went on the ambulance ride with me...no, never mind!)

Still living in Azuero.

Leo

21 July 2002
The car I am driving today is a three-ton Delta, Daihatsu. As I left the house this morning, I noticed that the outer dual on the driver's side was sort of limply hanging on the rim, intact but without air. When I got to the gas station, (there is only one in Pes�) I found a screw punched through the center of the tread.

I sit in the truck and wait as the 'llantero' finishes with the car in front of me. This is located directly behind the gas station, and a U drive runs around the back of the building. It is quiet and peaceful, and the other side of the driveway is intensely green with ficus and mango and at least one corotu with a big heavy branch hanging low.

The gas station is located at the base of the hill where the road enters Pes�. Pes� itself lies in a small valley at the start of the hills that rise to the low mountains that run down the western edge of the Azuero Peninsula.

The proprietor of the station is a sort of thin, frail looking fellow in his early seventies, named Oscar. He let me run a tab a few years ago when times were very lean and tough. About three months after Viagra came on the market, Oscar disappeared for about a week. The local rumor was that he had overdosed on Viagra and had a heart attack in the throws of passion. I think it was probably the truth. Oscar seems a solid sort of individual, capable of surprises.

Well, here we go. It seems that the 'llantero' doesn't have a lug-wrench that will fit this Daihatsu. The one that should be in the truck isn't, despite searching in every possible location, there is no wrench to remove the lug nuts. A taxi driver, from the taxi stand next to the station, comes over and starts offering suggestions. He finally says, "Why don't you try and borrow one from Pep�?"

I say, "�Que?" Not knowing which of possibly hundreds of Pep�s he might be referring to.

He responds, "�Pep�! Pep� Varela."

Oh! Of course, that's why it was unnecessary to give the last name. Pep� Varela is a member of the Varela family that owns the distillery where Seco Herrerano is produced. Pep� makes his living recycling used glass bottles. I have known him since practically the first day I arrived here. A few days before my wedding here, he spent the evening at the house with some other folks and we passed the time drinking and talking. He pulled a little trick which people still remember. As my condition worsened that night, he started asking questions. My mind had been mostly 'secofied' (I was absolutley plastered on Seco). Noting my absence of conscious thought and the fact that my head was sort of nodding up and down on its own, he asked if I liked Fidel Castro. I honestly don't remember him saying anything but he was watching my rubber-neck muscles and started to shout, "�Mira! �El gusta Fidel!" For some reason the entire table of people thought this was hilarious, and I think one older gentleman sitting to my left actually had a slight urinary accident laughing so hard.

Well, back to today. I took off in the truck to look for Pep�. I got to his house but his wife informed me that he was at the little warehouse he keeps across the street from the Hermanos Varela warehouse. So, I headed over there. The door was open, I called out but no one answered. I entered and walked towards the back between tall stacks of old Seco cartons filled with empty bottles. He was behind the building, ironically changing a tire on his Delta Daihatsu.

Pep� is one of those people that seems to have been born happy. And always seems genuine. We shook hands, and greeted each other. I explained that I was hoping to borrow his lug wrench. He laughed and said no problem, he had a second one that he had bought in case anyone stole the one he was using. He sent the 'muchacho' that was helping him next door to his mother's house to fetch the wrench.

With the wrench in hand, as I was leaving, I asked if he would be there for awhile, so I could return the wrench. He said no, not to bother, he would pass by the 'llantero' later on and pick it up. In my book, Pep� Varela, is a hundred percent mighty fine person.

Returning to the 'llantero' I now had to wait behind several other customers and it was about an hour before the tire, with it's newly patched tube, was remounted on the truck.

Total cost was two dollars.

A Sunday morning in Azuero

Leo

19 July 2002
El Azuero is not a big tourist spot. Some folks come during carnival, and there are always a few tourists during holy week. But for the most part this region of Panam� is virtually untouched. Well, with the exception of surfers. Playa Venado, and a few other beaches out here have an international reputation, but those guys come and go for the waves.

The tourists that do show up out here are usually, the Lonely Planet kind. Usually they are Gringos or Canadians that wonder down here guided by a few paragraphs in a travel book. Easy to spot in their shorts and sandals. There are a number of Gringos that live out here. I don't know how many. They are more difficult to spot. They tend to blend in and live sort of low key, relaxed lives. Down here, at least most of them I have met, seem to have ties to the U.S. Midwest or South. They seem to live here a lot like folks live back in those parts. Mostly unpretentious, and low key, they rely on their Panamanian families and friends more than on other ex-patriates. I like that, for me that is one of the attractions of living here.

Here was the chance to live in a way more similar to the way my family had lived years and years ago. Free, simple and, well, free. (Ok, I know that's a lousy sentence, but it says what I want it to):

The point I want to make is this. I have lived here for seven years. I have actually been here for nine years. There are still people in the little town, where I live (population about two thousand) that don't realize I am a Gringo. Oddly enough, a number of people here in La Arena, the town I have worked in for the last five years, have asked me if I am Russian. (They must be confusing my Scottish eyebrows for Russian ones). I've also been asked if I am German, and once in Chitr�, an older fellow asked me if I was from Brazil. (Still haven't figured that out). Well, here's the point, finally. I don't make a big splash, I don't wear shorts, or sandals and try not to go into town if I am really grubby and dirty. I try not to stand out and look too different.

At celebrations and parties I am happy to listen to Osvaldo Ayala, or Samy and Sandra, or Las Plumas Negras. But if the occasion permits, I'll slip in some Bill Monroe, or one of the Chieftans recordings I have. Or more radical yet, the recording of Chris Apps on the Highland Pipes. (Chris was a friend of mine long ago, and may be one of the world's best bagpipers). But that is only if I can do it without destroying the party. Well, take all that for what it's worth.

This isn't titled Ramblings for nothing; I want to ramble off in another direction now. When I came down here, I came down with two suitcases, a carry on bag and my violin. I left behind a footlocker, stuffed mostly with photos that finally made it down here last year. What I brought with me, that identifies who I am, was me. Don't know if that's important or not but it seemed worth saying. There are things I miss, there are people I miss more, but I have to say that I am happy here. I feel sort of like I have found something that was just too elusive up north in the land of the Big Mac.

My feet first touched soil at the old Howard Air Force Base, when I stepped out the back of a C-130. Maybe at that time the soil wasn't technically Panamanian, but the air was.

Most folks haven't had the pleasure of flying on one of the world's slowest aircraft. A three hour trip in a 'real' airplane, is a five hour trip in a C-130. Or maybe it just seems like that because of the lack of amenities. For a successful trip, it's necessary to bring a few things along. First is water, they don't serve drinks in flight. Second are heavy warm clothes; the temperature is adjusted by a diabolical pilot who enjoys seeing his passengers turn into human Popsicles, frozen to the orange web that serves as seats. Third is a good hangover, this well help you sleep, thus missing some of the finer tortures of the flight.

I remember the sense of liberation as I exited the plane. And my first breath of that heavy, humid air. Panama.

The check is in the mail.
But it was like that when I got here!
Hey! Great idea boss!

Friday in Azuero

Leo