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Late nights
21 August 2003
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I'm sorry it has been so long since I have managed to get anything up here. We have been extremely busy at the plant, with a lot of really late days. Days spent working, really working, not just looking like I am working. Today is one of those days, but I am taking advantage of a few minutes in which I should actually be doing something else.
Yesterday I was also here late but ended up with one of those experiences that seem to follow me like a curse.
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As I have previously explained, I don't own a car, but usually take one of the company vehicles that are not in use or not loaded for a delivery. But lately we have had a rash of those irritating maintenance problems and at the moment only have one of the smaller trucks here at our disposal. Recently I have been taking a taxi into Chitr� and borrowing a truck from one of our sister companies. These are usually nicer then our vehicles, having such amenities as radios that work, sun visors, turn signals, and brakes. However, the disadvantage is that these trucks have to be returned before seven in the morning. Usually, if I work late (like eleven thirty P.M.) this is not too much of a problem because I also have a family member who works for them that lives just up the street, so he can take the truck in to them in the morning while I sleep in a little and come to work on a chiva (small bus, $0.65 from Pes� to the Terminal in Chitr�). But yesterday, he told me he would not be coming in today, so I made plans to use one of the trucks here at the plant that fortunately was not loaded for an early delivery today. I had used it earlier in the evening to run into Chitr� to pick up my supper and everything was just fine. When we locked up at eleven-thirty, everyone went out and all the employees left. I was the last to leave and when I climbed into the cab of the truck, and inserted the key, heard that most disgusting of noises; a click, rur-rur-click sound, followed by silence.
The truck was parked on a slight incline headed down to the loading ramp with about ten feet open in front of it. I turned on the key, put the clutch in , shifted into second and then let off the parking brake. The truck rolled forward and about four feet in front of the edge of the loading dock I popped the clutch out and the engine roared to life. Now facing an impact with the loading dock, I slammed the clutch back in, tried to pull up the parking brake and finally had to take my foot off the accelerator and smash down the brake pedal with about two feet left of open space in front of the loading dock. The motor took this opportunity to die. Now there was definitely not enough space to get the truck started and one of the security guards who was getting ready to leave, mentioned that him, the arriving guard and myself could probably push this truck up the slight inclination for another try. I climbed back in the truck (a Hino, with a chassis definitely larger then the five tons, which it is licensed to carry). They positioned themselves in front of the truck (between the front of the truck and the almost four foot tall loading dock behind them), and I let the emergency brake off then jumped out and tried to help push. We were all doing a sort of slow shuffling dance step in reverse as the heavy truck slowly overcame our ability to push it uphill. This was not too serious for me, but for those two guys would soon get really painful as they would be crushed between the truck and the wall behind them. I had a few anxious moments as I scrambled back into the drivers seat to get my foot on the brake before these two guys made a nasty stain on the concrete wall behind them. When the truck stopped moving they had about a foot and a half of free space still, to be able to squeeze out of their trap.
Well, no one now was really too willing to try this experiment again, and we stood thinking. One of the guards spoke up finally and mentioned that we had a forklift in the plant. Hey, I thought, good idea, and went back in, got the hundred and fifty keys necessary to open enough doors to be able to get the fork lift out onto the street and started back to retrieve it. It took about twenty minutes of trying keys, finally unlocking enough locks and opening doors, but we finally had the forklift outside. One of the security guards was fairly proficient at driving it so I snagged a chain lift that was inside the plant and we tied the fork lift to the back of the truck. I climbed back in; let off the parking brake and he pulled the truck back onto the street. I got it nicely aligned pointed downhill, unhooked the chain, climbed back in, put it in second and with the clutch in started the roll down the hill. Slowly the truck gained speed and when I was certain it would have sufficient revolutions per minute to start the motor, I popped the clutch out and the truck started. Here in the open, without having to worry about colliding with a concrete wall in front of me it was easy to get things under control while keeping the motor running.
I turned around, the security guard parked the forklift and we decided it was perfectly fine where it was until morning. With everything back where it belonged I climbed into the truck and started home. I made to Pes� at one thirty in the morning, but now unfortunately, after having defeated the fates, was not sleepy at all. Isn't that the way things always go?
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A couple of weeks ago, I had left the plant about midnight driving an old Toyota double cab pick up. This night was unusually dark and for some reason, as I entered the little town of Barrero on the way to Pes�, I got one of those creepy feelings up the spine. It was so pronounced that I had to fight the desire to stop and turn around to make sure no one was in the car with me. I kept driving, and still had that spooky feeling. As I passed the road that turns off for Las Cabras, I saw a girl standing there at the intersection looking as if she were waiting for a chiva to pass. She looked to be about twenty years old and was nice looking. Standing with her arms crossed she looked exactly as if she were waiting for a bus to take her to the main road in Chitr�. The only thing is there are no busses, and have never been any busses at that time of night. I passed on by and continued on my trip to Pes�, but this brought up something interesting the next night when I mentioned to my wife that I had seen this girl standing there at that time of night.
She looked at me strangely and recounted an incident that had happened a couple of years ago. I had heard this story at the time of its supposed occurrence but had not paid much attention to it, being a thorough skeptic about these things. The story was that a fireman, who lived in Pes�, was returning home late one night. He was driving a small minibus and as he passed the entrance to Las Cabras, saw a young, attractive girl standing there as if she were waiting for a ride. He said later that he did not stop to pick her up because he didn't know her and he didn't give rides to strangers after dark. But he said that after he had passed her by, he heard a noise behind him in the van and turning around saw her sitting behind him. He became so frightened that he raced up the road and stopped at the first house he came to with lights on. He jumped from the van and ran to the house, then pounded on the door until the owner opened it. It was said later that he was so frightened that he could not speak at first, and that when he finally managed to relay what had happened to the se�or, the man went out to the van and returned telling him it was empty. The driver was too frightened to leave by himself, and the se�or finally had to call for help, for someone to accompany him for the four or five remaining kilometers to Pes�.
Was the person I saw the girl, or the ghost on the road to Pes� that can enter a car without it stopping? Other folks around here say that it has happened before and it seems that she just wants to go for a ride, and has never hurt anyone. Still, it gives one something to think about.
Out in the Azuero, where things are not always as they seem.
Leo
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Some Odd thoughts and Observations
1 July 2003
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Wheelers Paradigm: "No phenomenon is a phenomenon until it is an observed phenomenon."
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Recently we had a few visitors out to the house in Pes�. A number of people who had come out this way for a benefit for the school in Lajamina de Los Santos graced our humble rancho with their presence. I don't know why, but I have a better time at these sorts of events then anyone. I guess I have turned into an insufferable showoff, and I just get a charge out of barbecuing and that sort of low level entertainment. It felt good, and I am happy to have had the opportunity to show off my little part of the world. I hope to do this again as soon as possible. If you would like to see some pictures of this event, you can see them here.
During the course of this (well, actually a few days later) I had the chance to talk with one of my guests who had decided to spend a few days out here and check out the area a little more thoroughly. He told me he had met the local warden for the U.S. Embassy and that in the course of their conversation, the warden had told him a little about the gringo expats that live out this way. The warden mentioned that there were only about ten of us, and he explained that we mostly seemed to be a fairly independent lot. He told my friend that out of the ten gringos living in his area of responsibility, that only four of them had registered with the Embassy, and despite his efforts, he could not convince the others of the importance of registering. I found this interesting being one of those who had not cared to register.
I don't have anything to hide, but I came down here as an adult. I pay attention to the local news and really have the desire to be responsible for myself. I have no objection if anyone wants to register with the embassy, it's just that if anything occurred necessitating the use of that registry, my priorities would be my family. And I am much more confident in my ability to do what might be necessary to safeguard them, then to wait for the Calvary to arrive.
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It was just over a year ago that I started writing these comments. The original idea was to paint a sort of verbal image of what some of the aspects of living down here were like. Of course, these images are colored by my viewpoint, but then that is the only viewpoint I am comfortable talking about. Some of these comments are more like little stories, and others are just a sort of commentary on certain aspects or observations of life here. It seems more and more lately they fall into the later category, but the only thing I can say in my defense is that if you don't like what you read, don't read it.
During the course of this attempt to pass on a little insight into some of the day to day aspects of life on the isthmus, I have received a fair amount of feedback from readers. I would like to thank all of you who have been kind enough to comment on these comments, and I really do appreciate your thoughts and encouragement. Interestingly, one of the things I have been asked fairly frequently has been questions on the mechanics of writing this out. Here I will explain this as clearly as possible. These comments are normally written out in longhand, in a spiral notebook on dried, pressed and bleached dead wood. That's right folks, these are written out on paper first, then reread and proofed. The next morning if they still seem pertinent, they are transcribed onto a Word document and proofed again. Finally they are cut and pasted from that document onto notepad, the final html tags are inserted, the document is saved and proofread again, then uploaded to this site. So there you have it, this is actually put together in the most primitive manner possible. I am totally responsible for any mistakes you find here. The reason I do it this way is simply because that is the way I want to do it.
These are usually written out the night before and the transcription and editing takes place the following day. If for some reason they are not uploaded within a day, they are usually scrapped and just saved for notes. One of the ideas behind this was that the pictures would be fresh, if I can't get them up before the words grow cold, then the desire to put them up for the world to see grows cold as well. As you might guess, I have many spiral notebooks full of things that have not made it. Sometimes the ideas are revisited and excerpts might be worked into something new, and a lot of times they just lie on the page and the words grow colder and colder.
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It seems like the month of June was the month of the cantadera. (For an explanation of this type of music click here and here ). It started off on the 31st of May with a cantadera in Monagrillo. That was a fair sized event, transmitted live by a local radio station. There were maybe a total 150 to 200 people there. I spent an enjoyable evening there, and finally ended up drinking a little too much beer. For some reason sitting on those little wooden stools and having an attentive beer server is conducive to overindulging. This was a fairly normal cantadera for this part of the country. As far as I know there were no fights, but there were some strained tempers as one of the warm up musicians felt slighted by the announcer and at one point attempted to wrest the microphone from his hand to state his viewpoint. The announcer would have none of it and stated unequivocally that he was in charge. Fortunately some of the irate accordionista's fellow musicians intervened and removed him from the stage. The cantadera continued as if nothing had happened.
On the fourteenth of June, I had the pleasure to attend a cantadera in Lajamina de Los Santos. This had been organized by a friend of mine, Dino Barkema, for the benefit of the school there.
By Azuero standards, Lajamina would be considered a fair distance from any large center of population being about 35 kilometers South of Las Tablas. The crowd in attendance was remarkable though, with an estimated 500 people watching, listening and taking part. This was a really spectacular crowd for a cantadera, especially for one in a location like Lajamina. Amazingly, considering the number of people there, and the amount of alcohol consumed the crowd was well behaved and everyone was friendly and helpful and intent on enjoying what may have been the biggest party ever held in Lajamina.
Like I mentioned earlier, this was to benefit the school in Lajamina. In case any of you reading this would still like to help out, there is no problem, it is still not too late. Checks can be sent directly to Dino, made out to Geradino Barkema, and addressed as shown below.
Gerardino Barkema - LS
Apartado 358
Volcan, Chiriqu�
Republic of Panama
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In a few days many of you will be celebrating Independence Day in the U.S.. A day to celebrate the liberation of a group of people from a foreign tyranny. There are many who still think of that day in that way. Others are just happy for a day off from the normal drudgery and their thoughts go no further then themselves. My perspective is a little different, and has been tempered by many events. I hope that this Fourth finds you grateful for the ability to say no when it is necessary, and thankful for the birthright bestowed by the Constitution, and spoken of in that original Declaration. Freedom is an odd thing, and is not always easy to recognize. Watch out for it carefully, so that when you know you have it, it's not too late to keep it.
Thinking of many things out here in the Azuero.
Leo
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The Orange Cat, Rain, and Shortwave
3 May 2003
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Have you ever noticed that no matter how cantankerous a cat might be, they have that one spot, just above the nose, that can put any of them under control. It's in the center of the face directly between their sinister little eyes. With one finger applied there, with a slight amount of force, they become docile little kittens.
The orange cat that graces us with his presence at the house in Pes� is, for the most part, a self contained little animal, secure in his position in the world. He is a working cat, expected to keep the rodent population under control. His job description, for a happy life, is to seek out small invaders of the property and kill them. He doesn't have to eat them, although often he decides to munch a little on his game. He is expected to kill them, and as far as I am concerned it's preferable to just do the little critters in and then leave their lifeless bodies deposited outside in a convenient location so they can be swept up and disposed of. As a matter of fact, I think it's better that he doesn't eat his little trophies because it gives him such bad breath.
The orange cat is extremely friendly when he is very hungry, rubbing against ones legs, or climbing on an offered lap. When he is well fed he could care less for human people. He has his world fairly well under control. The orange cat is not as large as a lot of other male cats but he has a commanding attitude that serves him well. Sort of a Napoleon of the cat world. Gypsy, the big, blond, hairy dog, who is older then any ones memory, seems to regard him as some sort of wayward son, and provides protection from other canines in the area. Due to her gentle but territorial spirit, the cat has managed to live fairly 'scar-free' for his couple of years. Rex, the other dog in the house is a Dalmatian, who now outweighs the cat at least ten times. He seems to regard the cat as sort of a smaller, sometimes ill-tempered older brother, who was placed on earth to play with until a serious injury is inflicted, usually on himself, by the cat. Rex is only about nine months old, and arrived here at a particularly randy period of the orange cats life. Maybe due to the high levels of testosterone coursing through those little cat veins at the time, the orange cat went to work, teaching the dog, exactly who was in charge. The cat has maintained his superiority very well and the Dalmatian is always careful to look up as he prances through the house lest he meet up with ten sharp claws buried in his back where the cat has playfully pounced from some location above.
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It looks as if winter has finally started out here in Azuero. There has been rain almost everyday for the last week in Pes�. It has still not rained in Chitr�, 20 kilometers to the west, but that isn't unusual. Chitr� is probably the driest place in the Republic of Panama. People say that the reason there is so little rain in Chitr� is because the people are bad. Yesterday I had gone into Chitr� and was headed back to La Arena in a taxi. Conversing with the driver, he was asking about the rain in Pes�, then he said, " No hay agua en Chitr�, ninguna gota, por que la gente son mala." Then he broke into laughter.
Driving to the house last night, I had left a little earlier then usual and had the chance to see a little of the countryside. The change was obvious after passing Los Hatillos. Los Hatillos is at about the halfway point between Pes� and Chitr�. The change in the vegetation was very noticeable, Everything on the Pes� side is starting to green up. The trees that have passed the last months with either brown and withered leaves, or have recently been dressed out in a riot of colored blossoms, are now putting out green leaves again.
Sitting behind the house the place had that 'winter' feeling. Everything was wet from a late afternoon rainfall and there was no wind at all stirring the air. It's times like those that I regain some of that sweaty earthy feeling that I remember from my first days down here. Without any wind and with the earth doused in fresh fallen water, it seems that all of the noises of the neighborhood are amplified. Crickets seem to have gone crazy fiddling away and nearby was the sound of a frog. Probably one of those green ones that are about two inches long and you sometimes find stuck on the shower wall with their little suction cup feet waiting to be removed with a well used broom. If this creature were to be encountered by the fair Margaret, it would be greeted with a blood curdling scream of, "PAPA, VENGA! RAPIDO!" (She doesn't like small creatures occupying a place overhead).
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We recently had Direct TV installed, it has been kind of nice to watch something on television other then the novellas with their identical, overly dramatic stories. But all in all it hasn't seemed to affect my television viewing time very much. I have a small, cheap little shortwave receiver, and I usually spend a few hours every evening sitting out behind the house listening to different broadcasts. I think between the VOA, on shortwave, and CNN, on Direct TV, I can reach an objective balance about what events may be occurring in the world. I think that my 'opinion filters' are working very well, and so the subjective commentary that is so pervasive in many newscasts is filtered out fairly well. This I can easily test by just tuning in RFPI (Radio For Peace International), at 21.00 every evening after the VOA transmission ends. Normally a combination of sadness, and anger, and a lot of genuine amusement will be the emotions felt as I listen to a broadcast made with the obvious intent of following a predetermined line of thought. Often I do listen to it though, curious to hear an opinion that seems to blame everything on capitalism and progress. I put it in the category of knowing the enemy.
Long ago when I was just entering my adolescence I had an interest in radio. I owned a couple of different Hallicrafters receivers, and had a long wire antenna strung over the roof. I spent hours listening for different, far away signals. I never took the amateur operators test though, although I took the trouble to learn the code and practiced on a little practice oscillator. It seemed that eventually other interests, then finally the Army, crowded out that phase of my life. Maybe things have finally come around again. I not only enjoy listening to those broadcasts, but there is a feeling that comes when I hear that sort of wave splat that goes along with an AM shortwave broadcast. I can see myself at fourteen again, far more innocent and maybe way too malleable.
Sometimes just living out in the Azuero.
Leo
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