Day 61, May 31: Coming into Colon
Ahh, how to describe Colon? The guides call it "blighted," "extremely dangerous," "filthy," and so on. It is all of these things, but so much more. We arrived at the Panama City Yacht Club (even though Panama City is actually on the other side of the country) around 2:00 in the afternoon prepared for just about anything�including being boarded and robbed as soon as we were within jumping distance of the dock. What we got instead was a friendly guy named Chino who walked out to meet us as we pulled in to an open space on a pier directly in front of the clubhouse. Suspecting a scam � we remembered well the lessons learned at Isla Mujeres � we were at first politely standoffish. However, Chino's steady stream of information was born out as the harbormaster arrived, confirmed the very affordable dock fee and told us Chino knew everything we'd need to get through the complicated paperchase we had to face in order to transit the Canal. "Everything," Chino emphasized, "comes at a price in Colon. But you can get a fair one if you stick with us." By "us" he meant the seven or eight cab drivers like himself who could act as concierges, ferrying us between the officials, taking us to safe stores ("the ones with armed security guards"), generally making a fluid process out of the hopeless jumble of preparation for a trip through the world's most famous shortcut. That jumble is exacerbated by the fact that in Colon we literally couldn't safely leave the fenced in PCYC area. As one cabbie described to me when I queried whether it was as dangerous for him as it was for us: "Haha, no man, for me not too dangerous but for you," he exhaled harshly between his lips, "even at the Yacht Club � in the last month, a boat robbed with the people still in it. You know? Beat them in the head, cut their leg, steal their money, cell phone, everything. In town, here, it is worse. You don't go nowhere without someone from here. Probably they don't kill you, but who knows?" Sound advice, I thought.
The decrepit city has had a hard life in the recent past. The now-rotting buildings that adorn its narrow, garbage strewn streets would not so long ago have been neat and prosperous shops with glass in all the windows and shady balconies overlooking quaint thoroughfares. The life threatening alleyways are dingy with dirt, debris, fragments from the crumbling husks of the buildings that create their shadowy confines; with little imagination one can picture a former state of whitewashed walls hemming between them a passage for quiet pick ups and deliveries behind the no longer existent businesses. Many of the old names remain stenciled or framed above the entrances: banks, brokerages, shipping companies, salons, saloons, all the amenities of a booming metropolis. Until just a few years ago that is just what Colon was. Then the Americans left. Panama assumed control of the Canal. And things in Colon began to fall apart.
The impression you might be apt to get, and the one commonly assumed by our government, is that placing Panamanians in control of what was referred to as the "Canal Zone" ran it directly into the ground due to their laggardly practices, inexperience, and lack of regard for their citizenry. In point of fact what happened to Colon was the removal of its chief industry. Thousands of American staff composed the bureaucracy the US had installed to run the Panama Canal. Most were housed on the outskirts of Colon City. This meant tens of thousands of jobs to support the local economy. Think on it a minute: just a thousand Americans living standard American lifestyles. This means car washes, air conditioning repair personnel, yard waste removal, childcare, telephone hookup service, cooks, janitors, delivery people, drivers, grass cutters, tree trimmers, road workers, electricians, gas line installation, freezer/refrigerator specialists, movers � you name it, Americans will tend to pay someone to do it. Now multiply that by a factor of 10. Then subtract the product from the economy of Colon. You get a community with less than 50% employment, no prospects for renewal without major government intervention (apparently impossible at the moment), skyrocketing crime of all types, dissolution and despair. We're not targets because of racially motivated hatreds or even because our government decided to pull up stakes, semi-indirectly causing the plight. No One, from Anywhere, with Anything is entirely safe in Colon; the keywords being "with Anything." This is a place where every day major portions of the commerce from around the planet pass through the only direct connection between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans north of Cape Horn. Only the tiniest trickle of assets from this corpulent river of wealth flows into Colon to tease its economic thirst. In this sense the gargantuan container ships represent the Tauntalian Grapes so near but just out of reach. Small wonder that any sign of affluence � from a backpack to a new t-shirt � could brand one as a potential mark.
It was within this moribund environment that we would have to navigate in order to acquire the necessary stamps, signatures, authorizations, schedules, inspections and equipment to be deemed acceptable for transit through the Canal. On paper it looks bleak: a twisting process continually in flux � only the internet is fast enough to keep up with the day to day or even month to month changes in the itinerary a vessel must stick to and complete, step by proper step, in order to qualify for the crossing. Here's how it goes: First, you check in with immigration (on the premises of the PCYC), just like anywhere else, so you're legally in-country. This is free and takes almost no time. Passports, crew list, and POW you're stamped in. Next, it's on to the Capitan De Puerto (Port Captain, who's office is the "Capitania") where you show your Zarpe (clearance paper from last port), passports, crew list, and let him/her know you intend to transit the Canal. Here you pay a fee dependent on the size of the boat and the ball starts rolling for your transit. After the Capitania you go to Customs. Show the passports and crew list, fill out the questionnaire ("No, we have no fresh fruits, prescription drugs, firearms or animals on board") another fee, another stamp, another important receipt to keep track of. Then it's on to the Autoridad del Canal de Panama (ACP � Panama Canal Authority) for the cruising permit. Here you have to fill out documents stating that your ship is qualified to make the transit: engine capable of pushing you 7 knots or better, proper chocks and cleats, 4 Panama Canal lines, 4 line handlers, enough and adequate fenders, a helmsman, and the arrangement for your onboard Transit Advisor. Then you schedule with the Admeasurer's Office for an inspection to confirm all of these suppositions and get your boat officially measured for fee purposes. Now back to the Capitania to show your certification. If approved you go to the local Citibank to pay the transit fee. Finally you call the ACP for your transit date. If all has gone well, if your i's are dotted and t's crossed (and especially if your fees are paid) they'll give you one, the exact time and day being at their discretion. Enough to make your head spin.