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Saturday, March 31, 2012

The Merry Wife of Paso Ancho

In his book The Bloody Tenent (1644) Roger Williams condemned clergy who act as “hirelings of the state” by signing legal documents such as marriage certificates. I have always agreed with his view that our spirituality is a private thing, and government has no business condoning (for instance) who may or may not marry.

Despite Williams, clergy in the United States officiate at a ceremony that is both official and religious, a fact that caused me constant discomfort during my thirty-five years as a pastor. In France, where I attended one wedding, like here in Panamá, there are two separate wedding ceremonies: civil magistrates in their offices see to the formal signing and filing of official legal documents, usually in their offices, and then the bridal party (if this is desired) hies itself to its house of worship for the religious ceremony.

Andrea and I had the pleasure of attending a wedding at the Roman Catholic church in Paso Ancho – a couple who have been living together for about half a century and have a considerable progeny finally decided to get married. The wedding was performed by an affable young priest in the castle-like church whose windows look out on the lovely hills surrounding the village. A rather good guitarist led several hymns, including one set to Paul Simon’s “The Sounds of Silence” (I wonder ifhe knows). There was a huge crowd of Panamanians, plus a handful of gringos, to witness the ceremony. They chitter-chattered, with toddlers wandering at will, nobody paying much attention to the priest – possibly because not many were observant Catholics; only a third or so took communion. But the priest had baskets passed to everyone take a collection – the Empire of Rome still exacts its tribute.

Our own day began early in the morning with my dressing myself in a suit and tie that I had bought at the Roman Catholic mission. By agreement, Andrea and I stayed apart so I would not see the bride beforehand .Friends John and Carmen drove me down to the notary’s office in the city of Davíd. On the way we stopped to buy a dozen roses, white and red, for me to present to the bride as grooms do in Panamá.


As always, it was hot and humid in Davíd. We waited in the waiting room and, in short order, Andrea arrived with family. Her gorgeous wedding dress (handmade by her sister) being saved for later, she was in a lovely gown. We were escorted into the small office of a pretty young notaría, with friends and family members crowding in as well as they could. The notaría began by reading various passages from Panamanian law about the sanctity of marriage. Then she had the couple recite vows – and Andrea and I both burst into tears, much to the amusement of those with us.

* * *

As they come to me to be written, new chapters will be added to this blog, so stay tuned! But the blogs up to a certain point are now chapters are now in a book.

So, to read more, you need the book A WRITER IN PANAMÁ.

The book is available in three formats:

HARDCOVER (large-size edition, photographs on nearly every page)
SOFTCOVER (large-size edition, photographs on nearly every page)
SOFTCOVER (smaller size edition, no interior photographs)
E-BOOK (all versions available, including Kindle and Nook, no photographs)

To browse or order, CLICK HERE!


The book is also available through Amazon (USA, Great Britain, and continental Europe) and other major book retailers.

Friday, March 30, 2012

A Farmer Ploughed Under by Debt

NOTE: This is a cross-post between James David Audlin's two blogs, "A Writer in Panama" (panamawriter.blogspot.com) and "Ranting the Truth, not Gassing Political Platitudes" (rantingthetruth.blogspot.com)

In Santa Rosa, a quiet village well away from the highways and cities, I visited a farm specializing in milk, rice, and platanos. It is a lovely, quiet place, owned and operated by the same family for generations, is spread out over vividly green hills as full of life a new mother’s breasts, with occasional copses of trees.

I was introduced to the owner, a man in his sixties. His sharply observant eyes were set in a face hardened and lined by weather. His feet stood on the earth the way trees do. He showed us around not with pride but with an unspoken confidence: he didn’t have to convince me that the farm was well-managed because he knew this as well as he knew his own name. He felt no need to hear the polite pompous approbation of a foreigner who probably knows nothing about farming, but like all gringos thinks he knows everything about everything, better than these ignorant Panamanians.

So I was ignored. He went on to discuss with family members the high cost of milking machines, which he said he needs to purchase somehow if he’s going to stay in business. The conversation, in rapid Spanish, was rather technical, with a lot of facts and figures. These people knew their subject; these weren’t ignorant, foolish farm folk, as some people from the urbanized United States might think but sharp-thinking, well-informed agriculturalists. I followed the conversation going on around me as if I weren’t there, and then I offered my own comments.

“It’s similar in the United States,” I told the farmer in Spanish. “Gigantic megafarms, run by huge corporations, are dumping huge amounts of cheap rice and milk on the market in the Northeast and other states. As a result, small farmers in those states are going bankrupt, and their farms being turned into suburban developments or shopping malls. And then, just as soon as these corporations have all the customers to themselves, the prices go up again.”

His eyes widened at my words. I had surprised him, and he was surprised, moreover, that a gringo could surprise him.

* * *

As they come to me to be written, new chapters will be added to this blog, so stay tuned! But the blogs up to a certain point are now chapters are now in a book.

So, to read more, you need the book A WRITER IN PANAMÁ.

The book is available in three formats:

HARDCOVER (large-size edition, photographs on nearly every page)
SOFTCOVER (large-size edition, photographs on nearly every page)
SOFTCOVER (smaller size edition, no interior photographs)
E-BOOK (all versions available, including Kindle and Nook, no photographs)

To browse or order, CLICK HERE!


The book is also available through Amazon (USA, Great Britain, and continental Europe) and other major book retailers.

Thursday, March 29, 2012

Los Aves y las Abejas

Romance, for the Panamanians, begins early in life. Even little girls here are amazingly proficient at the art of coquetry. As they enter their teens the object of their fluttering eyes and big smiles is less their fathers or grandfathers and more the boys their own age. Overwhelmed with rapidly awakening sexual desire, the boys chase the girls for sex. The girls do too, but also for children – if a boy gets a girl pregnant, it’s still traditional here that they will get married. That doesn’t slow down the sexual romps of adolescents, nor does the frighteningly increasing risk of serious venereal disease, including AIDS, succeed in slowing down the quick change of partners.

The traditional Latin chauvinism is very much the way of the game here, as it has been for centuries, from before the Conquistadores set out in their ships. The young men are always quick to flirt with any reasonably attractive young women. Even the younger bus conductors and the stock boys in the grocery store are quick to whisper sweet nothings in the ear of a pretty female, putting their hand just past the girls neck and leaning into the wall behind the girl, their faces just about touching.

It’s all lies, it’s all posturing, and it’s all designed simply (for the males) to maximize the number of sexual partners and (for the females) to select the best future mate; I am reminded of many species of fowl and wild bird and monkey in this land, all doing pretty much the same thing. As they get older, marriage seems to be mainly a practical consideration, with love not really a factor, but for the females stability and income; for the males, it’s about looks and status. (Thus, only occasionally do they even consider a Ngäbe Buglé partner, even though these people are often astonishingly attractive.)

* * *

As they come to me to be written, new chapters will be added to this blog, so stay tuned! But the blogs up to a certain point are now chapters are now in a book.

So, to read more, you need the book A WRITER IN PANAMÁ.

The book is available in three formats:

HARDCOVER (large-size edition, photographs on nearly every page)
SOFTCOVER (large-size edition, photographs on nearly every page)
SOFTCOVER (smaller size edition, no interior photographs)
E-BOOK (all versions available, including Kindle and Nook, no photographs)

To browse or order, CLICK HERE!


The book is also available through Amazon (USA, Great Britain, and continental Europe) and other major book retailers.

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Between the Wilderness and Gringoland

Every time I take the bus to or from Panamá City, a wonderful thing happens. Normally my fellow riders, other than tourists, fall asleep in their seats, or sit listlessly, never looking out at the scenery that so fascinates me. But, at the moment that we cross the Panamá Canal, everyone

looks out of the windows with considerable intensity. People take photographs. They look at each other, smiling. Clearly, they are taking pride of ownership – they are all thinking, “This is our canal.”

This is a beautiful country with a wonderful people. But in many ways this is a country without an identity. And it is a country still deeply traumatized by the past and present.

Ever since the European invasion centuries ago, the isthmus has always had a “Sugar Daddy” to take care of everything, building and maintaining the infrastructure, keeping unruly elements under control, seeing to essential human needs especially after natural disasters. First it was a colony of Spain, then of France; then it became a part of Colombia; then after ostensible independence it fell under the hegemony of the United States; then, supposedly a sovereign democracy, it fell under a series of dictators, most notoriously Noriega, who (like all dictators) got things done efficiently but at a great sociological cost.

When the subject of Noriega or other strongmen comes up, my Panamanian friends immediately display signs of discomfort. When they trust me sufficiently, they speak in lowered voices – as if there is still a risk of arrest – when spies and executioners were everywhere. I have one neighbor who shows clear signs of PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder) from the Noriega years; he still has a great deal of difficulty trusting others, and often comes up with strange lies evidently designed to protect himself and his family.

* * *

As they come to me to be written, new chapters will be added to this blog, so stay tuned! But the blogs up to a certain point are now chapters are now in a book.

So, to read more, you need the book A WRITER IN PANAMÁ.

The book is available in three formats:

HARDCOVER (large-size edition, photographs on nearly every page)
SOFTCOVER (large-size edition, photographs on nearly every page)
SOFTCOVER (smaller size edition, no interior photographs)
E-BOOK (all versions available, including Kindle and Nook, no photographs)

To browse or order, CLICK HERE!


The book is also available through Amazon (USA, Great Britain, and continental Europe) and other major book retailers.

Tuesday, March 27, 2012

Talking about Talking

In a restaurant in Paris many years ago I couldn’t help but notice at the next table a hulking huge Texan in an eleven-gallon cowboy hat trying to decipher the menu. “What’s this ess-carr-gots thang?” he drawled in his frustration. “And what’s this pay-tease dih foize grass?” He called a waiter over to his table, and the latter patiently explained the various menu items. The Texan’s face got redder and redder with anger, and finally exploded, “Why can’t y’all jus’ speak Amurrican? It’s so much easier!”

Here in Panamá too a lot of folks from North America also seem to think it’s just an act – that the Panamanians really speak English fluently and only do the “Spanish thing” to drive these transplants crazy. Some gringos have lived here for many years and still are unable to speak the least bit of Spanish – and when someone doesn’t understand what they are saying their solution is simple: keep speaking English, but SCREAM IT AT THEM.

Speaking of restaurants, I heard one thirsty gringo, not knowing how to ask for agua, kept screaming “Water!” at the waitress. She smiled, sure she understood at last, and took him to the men’s room. You see, the word wáter means “toilet”.

As for me, I have a strange theory, but it seems to be working out pretty well. My theory is that I am a guest in this country, and therefore I must conform myself to the country, and not the country to me: it makes more sense for one person (me) to learn Spanish than for a whole country to learn English just to accommodate that one person. According to my theory, people actually do speak Spanish all the time here, even at home when there are no gringos around, and not just to drive me nuts when they see a foreign face. Therefore, I conclude, it’s my responsibility to work hard at speaking Spanish as well as I can.

* * *

As they come to me to be written, new chapters will be added to this blog, so stay tuned! But the blogs up to a certain point are now chapters are now in a book.

So, to read more, you need the book A WRITER IN PANAMÁ.

The book is available in three formats:

HARDCOVER (large-size edition, photographs on nearly every page)
SOFTCOVER (large-size edition, photographs on nearly every page)
SOFTCOVER (smaller size edition, no interior photographs)
E-BOOK (all versions available, including Kindle and Nook, no photographs)

To browse or order, CLICK HERE!


The book is also available through Amazon (USA, Great Britain, and continental Europe) and other major book retailers.

Monday, March 26, 2012

A Moveable Fiesta

It was my fiancée Andrea’s birthday, and we went into Volcán, the bigger community just south of Paso Ancho, for the parade in her honor. Well, truthfully, it’s an annual event in honor of the establishment of the postal system, and, given the relatively recent Pony Express kind of history of the Correos Y Telegraficos (established in 1924), there is an annual parade of equestrians through Volcán. (Another identical parade is held every 8 January to celebrate the establishment of the first factory in Panamá to make food for horses.)

Hundreds of riders come to Volcán from all over the province of Chiriquí with their beautiful horses. I was told that the Tierras Altas region doesn’t have a favorite breed (like, for instance, the affection in Vermont for the Morgan); I saw a predominance of Arabians, thoroughbreds, and paints, some Palominos, and one or two examples of just about every other breed. Nearly all appeared to be well cared for; I saw only one that needed to be briskly curried, and another that was frothing and trying to throw her bit, a sure sign that the wrong bit was used or that it wasn’t fitted properly.

The riders were of all ages and both genders. Most appeared to be Panamanians, but I saw one gringo, one Asian girl, and a few Native Americans mixed in (probably hired hands). I loved seeing children, as many as three, seated in front of their parents on the same horse, and one proud little boy all alone on his own small horse!

Everyone was clearly enjoying the event, including the crowd of people lining the main road in Volcán, the various entrepreneurs selling fried chicken or second-hand hats, and the dozen dozens of riders. At one point I kissed Andrea’s hand, and some young guys behind us started whistling with amusement, to tease us old folks for being romantic. So I turned and announced to the people around us that now our secret relationship was out and my honor was sullied. Everyone laughed.

As the parade wound down we did the traditional “promenade”, walking down the street looking for friends and relatives to visit with, past the parked cars with huge stereo speakers blasting bad music into the street while people with situational hearing loss stood around drinking beer.

* * *

As they come to me to be written, new chapters will be added to this blog, so stay tuned! But the blogs up to a certain point are now chapters are now in a book.

So, to read more, you need the book A WRITER IN PANAMÁ.

The book is available in three formats:

HARDCOVER (large-size edition, photographs on nearly every page)
SOFTCOVER (large-size edition, photographs on nearly every page)
SOFTCOVER (smaller size edition, no interior photographs)
E-BOOK (all versions available, including Kindle and Nook, no photographs)

To browse or order, CLICK HERE!


The book is also available through Amazon (USA, Great Britain, and continental Europe) and other major book retailers.