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.

Yesterday afternoon I drove from Chitr� to Pes� around three-thirty in the afternoon. As I got close to the house, I thought it would be a good day to just go for a little drive, and let my mind rest a bit. I passed the turn off for my street and kept going. The road I was on goes through the little community of Pedregrosito, Llano de la Cruz, and finally ends about twelve kilometers later where it comes into the back side of Ocu, past the dump.

I didn't have any desire to go very far, but mainly wanted a good view of the new bridge that crosses the river Pedregroso. This road had been recently repaired and there was now pavement for the first part of the trip. I passed through Pedregrosito, and since it was a Sunday afternoon, the whole town seemed to be out. Each little cantina filled with its share of men drinking, engaged in conversation. They each looked different yet the same, there would be several men, plastic cups sitting on the tables and always two or three half bent over in some conversation that had taken a turn for the emphatic. There were small groups of people just standing and talking and people walking or bicycling somewhere or other.

I passed the field where ball games are often played. I played in one there a few years ago. It was the last one, after my experience I was never invited to play again. To say I lacked practice would be a vast understatement, I played horribly. Well, I think by now most folks have forgotten that, but I haven't and am not ready to face public humiliation more than is necessary. This time I just drove by the field with a brief memeory of that distant, sunny October day when I demonstrated that skill on the ball field is no birthright.

The road runs fairly level, with only slight changes up or down over minor differences in grade. But the surrounding vistas are something else. There are hills everywhere, steep hills that rise suddenly, some of interesting shapes that look like miniature volcanoes out of a storybook and some that would rival Ozark hills in Northern Arkansas. After driving through Pedregrosito the road drops to the river. Here is a new, two lane bridge that crosses the torrent below. There has been a lot of rain, and here where the river normally runs clear and shallow and fast over enormous boulders, it was now full and muddy and looked like a flood.

The new bridge is very sturdy looking, if not as picturesque as the old one it at least looks like it can support the weight of the truck I am in. The old bridge is still there, off to one side. It is a suspension bridge that had been covered in planks. The first time I had seen it was in 1993. We had been traveling towards Pes� from Ocu on this road when we came to the bridge. I was driving a one and one-quarter ton pickup and had stopped the truck when we reached the bridge. We got out and walked the planks to see what condition they were in. We finally crossed the bridge but I think everyone was holding their breath. Now as I passed this relic from the early 1950s, I thought of those Engineers, calculating loads but obviously with their foremost thought being cost.

After the bridge the road continues and as it enters Llano de la Cruz makes a sharp turn to the left. Another road continues straight and eventually winds its way back around and comes out on the main highway between Divisa and Chitr� where the intersection for Paris is. This road I don't know very well, I had gone a short distance up it years ago, but it was in very bad shape back then. I continued on the main road and passed through the rest of Llano de la Cruz. This little pueblito looks like something out of an old book. The year could have been 1802 as easily as 2002.

A short distance past Llano de la Cruz the pavement ended, and the road surface changed to crushed black gravel. Here the ride got slower as the road began to resemble an old washboard. Still, the scenery was fantastic. Back in 1993 the Ministerio de Obras Publico had a rock crusher and was quarrying one of the hills. The crusher is gone now, but the hill looks like a sort of half eaten remnant stuck in the countryside. After about another two kilometers the gravel stopped and the road changed to dirt (or mud, depending on the current weather conditions). I started looking for a place to turn my five ton ride around. I went to where the road makes a sharp right and widened out a little to make the manuever. Now I was headed back in the opposite direction, and was picking out different aspects of the same scenery. But I was a little awestruck as I came back into Llano de la Cruz. On the way through town earlier, where the road made the sharp left turn, the church was located on the right. Now traveling in the opposite direction the church came into view as I passed the cementary. But now, of coarse, it was directly in front of me. I was impressed, with its two story tower, set in this small village that looked like a picture postcard, it was beautiful. Even the peeling paint couldn't detract from the simplistic glory that was evident.

Now I was passing everything I had passed before, but was a little sorry I had not brought the camera. My mind turned to the fact that even a picture would not have been able to capture what I had seen in that view. Sure, I could have made a chemical impression of a neat old church in the countryside, but that wouldn't have shown the feeling of that moment. I hope these words do.

Once again I passed the old bridge, Pedregrosito, and finally entered Pes�. It was a Sunday afternoon, and I had a three pound lomo (beef roast) to barbecue, and some beer to drink. My mind was at peace, but who knows, beer sometimes helps make sense out of the inspiration.

I had just had a nice drive in Azuero.

Leo

For the past week I've had computer problems. One of those irritating things that happen from time to time. I guess I should start off and apologize if I have ever said anything bad about Bill Gates, just please release my files and programs. I hope to have everything back to normal this week. In the meantime I will struggle along through all of the error messages and confusing problems and post this comment.

I had written several different things to put up here during the coarse of the last week. Many of the things I write are dated, they are actual events that occur on specific days. Sort of like verbal snapshots, and once that day passes they start to grow stale. Sometimes they are eventually re-written more like a little story, but sometimes the interest in that particular thought just goes away. Like reading a week old newspaper, most of the words seem irrelevant now. I will try and form this into a comprehensive account of something pertinent.

First I want to talk about a couple of friends of mine that I haven't seen in a long time. It occurred to me, last night, that folks who are reading these things are forming an opinion about what sort of person I am. That's fine, but not having much intrest in talking about myself, I will talk about a couple of people I sometimes find myself thinking about.

The first is Zeke (short for Ezekial). I haven't seen Zeke in over nine years, but I can see him clearly in my mind. Zeke is about six feet and two inches tall, and the color of the night sky on a moonless night. His mother was from Thailand and his father from Dallas, Texas. Zeke had lived in the orient for various years and spoke five oriental languages as well as Texan English.

When I knew him he would often joke about making fun of people that were different. People that looked, or walked, or talked different. He explained once, "I used to make fun of folks that walked like a cripple, but look at the way I walk now." Zeke had a horrendous limp and on some days could hardly make his right knee bend to be able to walk.

Zeke, like many of us had joined the U.S. Army back in the troublesome times thinking that it would be better to go as a volunteer than as a conscript. He ended up in the 25th Infantry Division, and traveled to another exotic oriental destination where people were killing each other.

Because Zeke had that peculiar language skill, he ended up serving as a translator on long range patrols. He said that he spent his entire tour in the bush, and then spent another one. He was wounded five times, three by bad guys and and twice by friendlies (one of those being the classic butt shot). His knees were a wreck, but Zeke was perpetually happy. Inside was a spirit of superior quality. And Zeke had class, and a lot of it, and wasn't afraid of anything.

The thing that stands out most clearly in my mind is that Zeke knew people. I mean he understood people in a sort of intuitive way. He could sit down and start talking and you knew, that he knew not only what you were saying in words, but also what you were not saying. Zeke had been married about a million times when I knew him, and since it's been some time since I have seen him, he has probably been married about a million more times. But I can still see that toothy smile in that black face, and hear him say, "Thats all right Leo, you're doin' OK."

Ray was different, he was about the size of a walk in freezer, and when he spoke English he spoke with a sort of surf boy speech that made my Midwestern ears want to throw up. But Ray had style. I think the real word would be 'panache', a style with a certain class above normal. It took a few weeks for me to learn this about him, but we gradually got to know each other fairly well. He was a civilian, a citizen of the country in which I was a guest, and had been hired as a translator.

Ray was cool, I always wondered if part of his job was to just keep an eye on me. I don't know, but I liked the guy. He understood the problems of just living. His background was not all that perfect, sometimes late at night we would sit up drinking a little Rum and talking and he would tell about some of the things that had happened to him in the past. But he was from a good family, and his family was fairly privileged. Ray knew how to get people to do things that he wanted done. He had no false images of himself and had a buoyancy that was infectious. I really don't know how to say this but it was as if Ray was an innocent, that had lived to long where there was no innocence. Ray was always good about dragging me out of some deep introspection with some sort of off the wall comment. I kind of miss that California accent sometimes.

We left the Terminal in Chitr� at four in the morning, we had called the day before to be sure when one of the large busses left, not wanting to make the trip in one of those little Toyota Coasters. I promptly fell asleep and awoke when we arrived in Penoneme for a rest stop. After a cup of coffee and less than two more hours we got into Panama City.

The new Terminal is a wonderful place. I remember arriving in Panama City by bus seven years ago, and from the minute you stepped of the bus until you had your derriere planted in a taxi, you had to keep one hand on your wallet. The new Terminal at Albrook is big and has a lot of policemen roving around, and has real food available at seven in the morning. Used to, the choice was buying an apple or a soggy empanada. Now there are not only a variety of places like Pio Pio, or MacDonalds, but also a Niko's Cafe. It's nice to be reasonably sure that what you are ordering is what will be served.

We ate, then called the company that had wanted us to come and do our inspection. We were to look over some equipment being sold by a bank, from a competitor that had gone bankrupt. We spent the first part of the day waiting, the person that was to pick us up and take us out to see this defunct plant was very late arriving at his office. He got there at eleven and we finally went to see what there was to see. Our verdict was finally that the bank had been robbed, there was nothing there worth wasting money on.

This fellow showing us around wasn't all that excited to hear that. I explained, as he manuevered through the lunch hour traffic on Corredur Sur and then Balboa Avenue, that what we had seen was fairly common. Companies here go down slowly, over a period of time in which they promise their employees fantastic benefits for sticking with the company in its 'difficult time'. That means the owners are busy transfering funds to foriegn accounts, and when the business finally closes its doors there is nothing left. So any equipment that is movable is usually promptly stolen and old employees will try selling it to recover something for their misplaced trust. Well, he didn't seem to want to hear that stuff and instead of taking us to lunch, suddenly had an important engagment and dropped us off down in Balboa.

A dollar-fifty taxi ride later we were back at the Terminal. We ate lunch in Niko's Cafe and rested awhile then walked down to check on the bus to Chitr�. What a disappointment, there filling with passengers was a Toyota Coaster. No! A four hour bus ride in one of those and neither of us would be able to walk for a week after the trip. This bus is about the size of two Chevy vans smashed together, and less comfortable.

We waited for that bus to load and leave, then watched as another bus took its place to leave in an hour. This bus at least was a larger one, so we bought our tickets and got on to claim our seats. I got back off and called the secretary at the plant to tell her to have one of the drivers leave a truck out so we could make the final trip to Pes�.

The trip back was a normal bus ride, except the driver kept stopping for unexplainable reasons every fifteen minutes. Well, we finally arrived at about six-thirty in the evening and stopped the bus where it passed the plant. Not long after that we were in Pes�, exhausted.

Resting up in Azuero.

Leo

Pick over rice; add slowly to boiling, salted water, so as not to check boiling of water. Boil thirty minutes, or until soft, which may be determined by testing kernels. Old rice absorbs much more water than new rice, and takes longer for cooking. Drain in coarse strainer, and pour over one quart hot water; return to kettle in which it was cooked; cover, place on back of range, and let stand to dry off, when kernels are distinct. When stirring rice, always use a fork to avoid breaking kernels. Rice is more satisfactory when soaked over night in cold water to cover.
(From The Boston Cooking School Cook Book, Fannie Farmer. BOSTON: LITTLE, BROWN, 1918)

The above recipe calls for one cup of rice and two quartsof water. You would be hard pressed to find anyone out here in Azuero who even knew who Fannie Farmer was, let alone follows this recipe for cooking rice. Here, rice is the basic ingredient of almost every meal. But rice here is not the 'Minute Maid' variety, and folks are very particular about the texture and consistency of their rice. Rice, poorly made, can be the downfall of an otherwise perfect meal. Here is how I have learned to prepare rice under the instruction of one of the supreme cooks of Azuero, my wife. I will also try and pass on some of the basic cooking techniques I have learned.

It is always necessary to start with the proper tools. In the case of rice cooking you will need a heavy 'paila' (If you don't know what a 'paila' is, think wok, but made from heavy aluminum about 3/16 inches thick). A 'paila' is a heavy, round bottomed pan. This pan should have some sort of lid that will cover the top, and hold in the steam. Many of these pans are now sold with a lid that fits fairly tightly, but if your 'paila' doesn't have one, any flat lid that covers the top of the pan will do.

The only other tools necessary are a large kitchen spoon, and a source of heat capable of raising the water temperature in your 'paila' to 212� F (100�C for those of you thinking in S.I.). You will also need the rice, a little salt and some cooking oil.

Panamanian rice should be fairly dry, with each kernel distinct from the rest. Mushy rice is a sign of idiocy and bad upbringing. It is also a sure sign of ignorance if anything has to actually be measured.

One of the most important things to remember about rice is that it will swell to about twice its dry volume. Since rice is served somewhat dry here, you should figure on serving just a little over a cup of prepared rice with each serving.

Well, enough of that stuff, lets get started cooking!

First, it is necessary to calculate the number of people to be served. I always follow this basic rule of thumb. If it is a weekday, simply count the number of people in the house and multiply by one-and-a-half. This will cover the late shows, the hired help you forgot, the dog, and the stray brother or sister-in-law that shows up at the last minute. If it is a Saturday evening or a Sunday, it's best to figure the number of people in the house times one-and-a-half, plus the number of residents in the house three houses up the street times one-half. I am always amazed at the number of hungry people that show up on a Sunday evening. It's better that the dog eats well, than anyone goes hungry.

Now to cook the rice! First, measure out the amount of rice you think you will need. Put away that measuring cup! Just pour the rice into a bowl, roughly calculating as you pour. Like this: Six people in the house on a Sunday afternoon. Six times one-and-a-half equals nine. Plus (let me see, there are four people in the third house up the street) four times one-half equals two. Therefore, you need to figure on fixing about five and a half cups of rice. (Remember, each cup of raw rice will make two cups of prepared rice). For the sake of simplicity, here is the sample calculation: (6x1.50) + (4x0.50) /2 = 5.50 (Remember and solve the terms in the parentheses first).

When you have correctly measured the amount of rice needed, then move to the back door of the kitchen. Here you want to lightly toss the rice, separating things that you don't care to eat. Pick out any of the little foreign objects that are encountered. These may include small pieces of wire, the little brown shells, and the small, oblong, 'gifts of nature'.

In the same bowl run in a little water and shake the rice a little, then pour off the water being careful to keep the rice in the bowl. Rinse the rice several times this way, finally draining as much water as possible.

Now, for the serious part of this operation, remember you are working with some potentially dangerous things. Fire, hot oil, and boiling water, check all of your safety equipment and chase the kids and dog out of the kitchen. You don't want any accidents.

In the 'paila' pour in a little oil to heat. I use olive oil, and usually buy the kind that comes in a little can. About five squirts does the job, this is roughly about two or three tablespoons, or just enough to spread out on the bottom of the 'paila' and form a puddle about three-sixteenths of an inch deep.

When the oil is hot, throw in about a fourth of the rice that has been rinsed. (Be careful! The rice is wet and the oil is hot! This should be put in with your long handled kitchen spoon, and be wary of splatters.) Start stirring, the rice will stick a little in the beginning but after a few moments of scrapping the bottom of the pan, it will break loose and start to brown. Let this go for about five minutes, the rice should have some nicely browned kernels and a pleasant toasty odor.

Put in the rest of the rice and add water until it is about an inch above the top of the rice. Bring it to a rapid boil, cover with the lid and after a few minutes turn the fire down about halfway.

Let this cook about twenty minutes or so, if you start to smell a slight odor of singed starch, then turn off the heat. Leave the lid on and let the rice set about five to ten minutes.

Finally, fluff the rice gently with a fork and serve with your favorite carne guisada or dumped into a bowl of sancocho.

There you have it, rice 'estilo Azuerense'. Oh, one last thing, forget the proper etiquette, this rice is almost always eaten with a spoon.

Cooking in Azuero.

Leo

The rain started about four this afternoon. It commenced as a slow gentle rain, and like most rain here, fell straight from the sky with no wind. As I left Chitr� for Pes�, it was gradually increasing in intensity. Now, seated behind the house in Pes�, it is one of those moderate rainfalls. This rain is just an even sort of rain that looks like it could keep up all night, or maybe forever.

The drive from Chitr� to Pes� is on a fairly level stretch of road. The first real hills are right before entering Pes�. The first one is the long climber, and after crossing it, the road drops a little and then tops the second hill. This hill isn't much of a climb. Just at the top, the road turns sharply to the right and drops into the little valley that holds Pes�. As the road drops it makes a sharp left and there you are. Pes�, sometimes called the Industrial City of Pes�, Province of Herrera, Panam�.

On a rainy night, this second hill takes on a different aspect. Thousands of toads come out from wherever they have been spending their lives, and sit in the road. After a while, and a little traffic, the road is covered with a mass of flattened toads. One would think that this trait would eventually be eliminated by natural selection, but if so, that might be a million years in the future. They are like the lemmings of Pes�, or maybe like soldiers on pass. When the rain comes, they head out to the road to get smashed. This would be a little gruesome, except this is paradise, where these things are allowed.

Rain is a big part of life here, it happens a lot. But folks don't seem to like to get wet much. One thing that is good about the rain is that there will probably not be any transito police on the road. They don't like to get wet either.

Tonight the rain is steady and monotonous. It hits the sheet metal roof with a hypnotizing regularity. This rain is not bad at all, and as long as it continues, the temperature stays comfortable.

Sometimes there are real rainstorms. These are like a million fire hoses opened up in a terrific deluge. There is usually not any wind during the storm and it falls straight down. Almost painfully down if you are caught outside. The dam breaks in the sky and suddenly the earth is under water. In a few minutes, water will be running two feet deep in the yards and street.

Behind the house there is a small hill covered with a sparse growth of tall pines. When those heavy rains come, this hill directs all of the water it can towards the back of the house. About thirty feet behind the house is a small retaining wall of concrete block which channels the water into a small ditch, that runs down beside the house. A small concrete curb at the edge of the 'terraza' behind the house, directs the water that pours from the roof.

Life during these storms takes on a more nautical characteristic. With water a foot deep all around the house, it's not hard to imagine being at sea with waves pounding violently during a storm.

When my daughter was very small, we worried about her wondering out onto the 'terraza' in the front of the house and falling into the water rolling over the yard. One afternoon one of those terrific storms came up. We were standing on the front terraza watching the water rise. Margaret was there with us, holding her mother's hand. Where the water runs beside the house, it empties into a ditch, that finally carries it off. At the point it empties into the ditch is a chain link fence. This always clogs with leaves and debris during a heavy storm so the water rises even more.

This day was like always before. As the water started to rise in the yard and the torrent increased in the ditch beside the house, the neighbor came out and started moving furniture because her house had started to flood. This provided enough distraction for Margaret to escape attention for one second. A moment later, my wife was frantically calling her name. She thought she had toddled off to the little ditch beside the house and fallen in.

I hadn't seen her pass by me, and I was between them and the little ditch, that was now a raging torrent. But we had all been distracted by the house next door taking on water, and I was afraid of the same thing. I went into the ditch with water up to my knees and walked it to the fence, then bent over and cleared out the leaves and brush to help the water escape.

There was no sign of a two year old trapped under the water. We then went searching the house, my wife calling Margaret's name. There was never a response until we found her hidden behind a rack of clothes in one of the bedrooms with her hand pressed against her mouth to stifle the giggles.

Though we asked her why she had done this, she never really gave an explanation. She just regarded it as hilariously funny to see her frightened mother, and soaking wet father frantically looking for her.

Rain seems to do strange things to toads and little girls here in Azuero.

Leo

It's a little after eight on this Monday evening, and the air is stifling. The temperature must be in the mid-eighties but there is no wind at all, and after a late afternoon rainstorm, the whole earth is soaking wet.

The only creatures that seem to enjoy an evening like this are the mosquitoes. The compulsion to write is a strange thing, but sometimes the physical conditions lead the pen in a strange direction. The fact that my skin is covered with a fine film of perspiration and my glasses keep fogging up doesn't help. All this is accented by the fact that I splurged this evening, and bought a small can of jalapenos en escabache, which is reacting in an interesting way with the beer I am drinking.

Paradise is supposed to be brisk ocean breezes, palms waving in the wind, and the sound of the surf breaking in a hypnotic way. But sometimes it's just a hot night, with no inspiration and the desire to just see the sun come up, so that it all can have another chance at perfection.

The air is so heavy you can feel the weight of it on your skin. The big orange cat is splayed out on the back of the sofa with every appendage stretched as far apart as possible. He's not even interested in the little gray tabby that has shown up to check out the day's offerings in the trash. His eyes open slightly at every sound, but only to be sure that something heavy is not about to fall on him.

Tonight, paradise feels like jungle here in Pes�. The sounds of insects and frogs are at an increased pitch, while there are absolutely no radios to be heard, loudly blasting accordion music over the fields. The only sounds are of the insects, frogs, and a thousand electric fans, in the pueblo, trying to beat back the heat.

Soon mine will join the symphony. I will take a shower in water that is not much cooler than the air temperature, and retire to sweat out the night. When I get up in the morning I will have to shower again to rinse off the sweat from the nights attempt at sleep.

Panam� City lies at nine degrees north of the equator. Pes� is almost a degree south of that, with a mountain range to the west that cuts off the prevailing breeze of August. The only breeze is up high. If it weren't for the low cloud cover and the fact there is no moon, I could watch those high clouds scud off to the east. But this night is perfectly still.

This is not a night for heavy thoughts. If a person were inclined to start some sort of heavy reflection on the basics of life on a night like this, he would finally be brought down to a quivering mass of crying flesh. Nights like this one serve only to remind us that we sometimes have to spend a time in the doldrums. Sometimes there is simply no movement forward and we are stuck staring at the same, still, silent sea of things that surround us.

Sometimes paradise sucks.

Sweating it out in Azuero.

Leo

Epilogue: I just went into the house and discovered that one of the television stations is broadcasting the movie True Lies. Ahhhh! Arnold can save us from anything, terrorists, used car salesmen, and hot August nights.