Cowboy In the Jungle: Volume II

By Bill Trotter

Trying to decide what you're going to do for the rest of your life is not an easy decision to make. But this is the quandry that Hank Stuart finds himself in. Motivated by 'do-gooder' tendencies, Hank who comes with an agricultural and ranching background, is concerned whether or not the world will be able feed itself over the next 30 - 40 years. With this motivation and these concerns Hank decides to leave his beloved family ranch in the Sandhills of Nebraska to search for answers and his individual purpose in life. Initially his departure leads him to Arizona State University with a goal in obtaining a Master's Degree in International Agriculture. Following graduation he departs for Central and South America visiting farms and ranches as well as meeting people from all sorts of various backgrounds. Two years later while living on a ranch in Paraguay, Hank is confronted by a decision where he must decide his purpose as it relates to the future of his family and ranch in Nebraska and to the agricultural dilemma confronting the world and the process of feeding the people of the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798369400579

Book preview

Copyright © 2023 by Bill Trotter.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Cover Artwork by Barry Jacobs

Rev. date: 07/13/2023

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

848504

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank my friends Theodore and Deborah Nelson for their endless support and technical assistance in the production of this book. A special thanks also to Connie Vance who supported me like no other. Thanks also to my son Kevin and his wonderful wife Taylor Trotter who worked and managed our farm while I was writing and proofreading. Thanks to my daughter Makayla and her husband Steven Bonney for their support. And thanks to longtime friends Steve Arduser and John Gilmore as their acquaintance, friendship and spirit was present as I wrote aspects of the Panama stories.

Panama, my second country. The Pan-Am Highway—I had driven it so many times. Now I was on it again. I had returned.

A few hours into our ride and approaching the town of San Carlos, I asked our bus driver to drop us off at Playa Rio Mar.

Ronnie asked how far we had to walk once we started our hike down a dusty, unpaved road.

Maybe about half a mile, I answered.

Piece of cake, he replied, liking my answer.

Rio Mar would bring back memories. Good memories. It was one reason I wanted to return. Memories. Good times—once, when everything was new.

My mom said she liked my war stories about Panama. She had heard a lifetime of Dad’s World War 2 Marine Corps stories about the Pacific. When I returned home from the army, she heard new stories to compare to those of her husband’s. Some were funny, some adventurous, and some stupid. One story was very sad. After all, it was the army, and in the army, I didn’t do good living with stupid.

But there were the weekends. At least some of them—the ones when we weren’t working. Unfortunately, we worked most weekends. But for the weekends when we didn’t work, we made memories. Today I would share a place with Ronnie where I had good memories. Ronnie would be a beneficiary of those times. He didn’t know it yet, but I was going to show him a good time while we were in Panama.

When the army weekends came, I made every effort I could to get off base. The army was paying me to see the world. And with that offering, I was going to see it. And I did. Within my year of living in Panama, I had seen more of the country than most Panamanians saw of their country in their lifetime. I learned about Panama, and I learned it well. Rio Mar was a place I came to know. It was a place I liked. It had a comfortable feeling about it. Rio Mar was a great place for poor GI s living on a couple of hundred dollars a month.

Rio Mar was a just couple of hours up the coast from Panama City, located on the Pan-American Highway, which meant it was just about three and half hours from Fort Gulick, my military home. Some of the guys, like me, had purchased cheap cars, which, on a good day, could make the drive to Rio Mar. And if we didn’t drive, we could take the train across the isthmus and then wave down a Panamanian Chiva bus to take it up the road to another Chiva bus and eventually to Rio Mar. Other times, we used our thumbs which usually got us a free ride.

Rio Mar had been more than a destination. We had used it as a demarcation point to other regional destinations. It was a perfect jumping-off location to the pristine mountain village of El Valle de Anton, which was just up into the hills and a good cooling-off place to beat the heat of Panamanian afternoons. Or Rio Mar could be just a brief stop for a cold beer and a snack as we headed up the highway to the mountains near Costa Rica or to other beaches.

I hope I like this place, Ronnie told me as he dumped his backpack onto the floor of our bungalow. At fourteen dollars for the night, he expressed concern. For our tastes, it was a little cashy and the most expensive abode we had experienced on the trip. But when I checked my mattress, I approved of the cushiony softness. For the two nights at Rudolph’s, we had slept for free, but the concrete floor had come at a price. My back was sore and stiff. The mattress here at Rio Mar would provide soothing comfort. I wasn’t going to complain about a fourteen-dollar charge for a rustic cabin that overlooked the ocean with a real mattress and bed.

So what is first on the agenda? Ronnie asked.

Enjoy the place. Hang out, I answered.

Rio Mar was a simple place. Nothing fancy. A couple of decades earlier, proprietors had created the getaway spot for Panamanians and Zonians. It was a perfect weekend retreat. On Sundays, the beach was crowded with families and couples desiring to experience a near-perfect beach setting. The architectural design of the open-air bar and restaurant created the perception of an Italian villa somewhere along the Mediterranean or Adriatic coastline. Such was the perception of my buddy Corky Wolfe when he first set foot in the restaurant as he appreciated the ocean view and the refreshing breeze sweeping through the dining area. And today as Ronnie explored Rio Mar and took a seat at a table, he said, This place is similar to a quaint historical coastal locale in Italy. And Ronnie’s words reminded me of how similar many of my friends were and how they thought alike.

A waiter approached. He took interest in our arrival and that Ronnie had taken a seat. But we were not yet ready for a meal. We were only killing time and appreciating the seaside ambiance. Luego, I suggested. My one word sufficed, and the waiter returned to the bar.

I wondered off onto the grounds of Rio Mar walking towards the Pacific. The flowering plants and shrubbery were adequate but not grand. Gardening was not a high priority in the managerial budget for Rio Mar. My interest in my stroll took me to a specific location. At the edge of a cliff high above the beach, I stopped. Before my eyes stood a grand cactus plant. It stood at least a dozen feet tall and was probably a first cousin of sorts to the great saguaro back in Arizona. At its base were other cactus plants of different types. This impressive creature was the first thing I had witnessed on my first morning at Rio Mar eight years earlier. From our military residence at Fort Gulick, we had gotten a late departure on a Friday afternoon. We arrived at Rio Mar during the dark of night when no vacancies were available.

But we were young! We were an army! We had our ponchos and air mattresses stashed away in the trunk if needed, and now they were needed, and we slept the night on the cliff. In the morning light, my first scene of the day was a morning sunrise across the Pacific with these same cacti plants, not tropical jungle vegetation, which was dominant in the Canal Zone. It was a strange feeling. It would take me nearly a year to comprehend the sunrise across the Pacific.

And now the giant cacti remained standing tall and proud and dominating the gardens. It made me feel good, and I felt as though I understood my surroundings here at Rio Mar. After all, this was Panama. The country my mother described as my second country.

I didn’t stay long. I took the sidewalk and the steps down to the beach. Ronnie was still in his seat at the restaurant.

My first full day at Rio Mar produced the greatest sunburn of my life. I had been reckless during my visit. Our air mattresses served as surfboards, and we used them all day. Shade was limited, and we didn’t deem it important. We ignored the advice we had been given that the sun’s rays in Panama was stronger than back home. The sun had pounded down on us all day, and all day we remained on the beach or in the water. By late afternoon, I realized that it was too late. My sunburn which I experienced nearly put me in the hospital. But that would not happen today. Today, I strolled the beach wearing a shirt and pants. Little of the sun would touch my skin.

But off came my shoes and socks. I stepped into the water. Ankle depth for the time being was good enough. I let the ocean splash up on my pant legs. It felt good. It felt like it was how the ocean should feel as it splashed up on my pants and legs. And the moment was good. Rio Mar had always been good.

I found a high dry spot of sand. I took a seat, and there I remained sitting, a long way from Nebraska and Arizona, and a long time since first experiencing Rio Mar. Where were my buddies, I wondered. Wolfe and I still corresponded. I owed him a letter. I promised to send him one from Panama. Jackson, I had seen once in Alabama. It was good seeing him. Morris, who lived in Denver, had joined me once during the National Livestock show. The experience had been an eye-opener for him. It became quickly apparent to me that he knew nothing about cattle or western American agriculture. It was great seeing him, but we had talked very little about cattle. But we did talk about Panama. We had the army and Panama in common. And we both liked Panama. I probably more than him. But that was OK. For some reason, I was drawn to the country and Central America more than the other guys. I still didn’t know why. I just was. And I had grown to accept the fact.

Hey! A penny for your thoughts! It was Ronnie.

Not worth a penny.

Then you better take my offer and be money ahead, Ronnie suggested.

Ronnie had brought two beers. An Atlas and a Balboa.

Your choice, he offered.

I took the Atlas. Experience had taught me that it went down easier.

I’ve been thinking, Ronnie said.

The ocean is always a good place for that.

Yeah, so true. But I’ve been thinking for a few days.

So you’ve decided to head back home, I said, beating my friend to the punch line.

How’d you know? he asked in astonishment.

We know each other well, was my answer. And my answer was true.

Yeah, we do, he acknowledged, and for many minutes, little was said. We just absorbed the beach and ocean scenery into our souls, creating a healthy existence.

I think about Ginger all the time, Ronnie stated. And I knew he did.

Yeah, I agree. I think it is time you head back home.

Ronnie nodded. Obviously, we were thinking on the same page.

Then he said, I thought I would stay here with you in Panama doing our thing here. Seeing the things you saw while you were here in the army, let you be my tour guide. Then I’ll head home when you head to Ecuador.

I nodded. I understood.

Early next week, I told him.

Ronnie nodded in response. We were doing more nodding than talking. But good friends can do that. Good friends understand.

Then Ronnie wanted to know: Do you think much about Felicia and the girl from Iran?

Every day, I answered. They’re two of the best.

Ronnie nodded.

You see that big palm tree up on the cliff? Ronnie pointed back towards the restaurant and bar. In the shade of the tree looks to be a perfect place for an afternoon nap. I nodded in agreement. And Ronnie departed, leaving me with my Atlas and my thoughts. We would rendezvous later for supper.

*     *     *

I recommend the ceviche as an appetizer, I suggested to Ronnie.

How do you know? You haven’t eaten here in years.

Trust me. We’re in Panama, and Panama means ceviche.

I don’t even know what it is, Ronnie admitted.

It is time for you to learn, I told him.

When our waiter arrived, I announced before accepting our menus, Ceviche de corvina para dos.

Our young waiter smiled, approving of our choice, saying, Nuestro ceviche es el mejor del mundo.

I glanced towards the blueness of the ocean. A wooden trawler a few hundred yards off the coast was passing in view. I remembered the delicious Panamanian ceviche of my past, and I expected nothing but the best from Rio Mar.

When our waiter returned with two miniature glass bowls of the mixture, accompanied by lime wedges and a plate of saltines, I was not disappointed.

Ronnie joked, How do they know I like saltine crackers?

I wasted no time listening to his jokes. I immediately dug in, spooning ceviche onto the saltines. Ronnie followed my lead.

Seconds later, he shouted out what could be described as nothing else but total approval of what his taste buds were experiencing.

Oh my God! And then he followed up with a question: Where has this been all my life?

I knew Ronnie would approve.

What all is in this? he asked as he spooned into his ceviche, exploring the contents.

Chunks of white sea bass marinated in lime juice. Finely chopped onions. Cilantro and slivers of peppers as desired by the chef. Maybe a dash of vinegar. And a little salt and pepper. All mixed together and then refrigerated for a few hours - maybe up to twenty-four. Served best with beer.

I reached for my bottle of Atlas. Ronnie reached for his bottle too. We saluted, with Ronnie saying, I like Panama! And I did too!

We bypassed the main course that evening. Instead, we chose one ceviche bowl after another. It was a decision that couldn’t go wrong.

My compliments to the chef, Ronnie proclaimed to our waiter when he returned with our third appetizer and our third Atlas apiece for the evening. And our evening was filled with good conversation. Mostly it was Ronnie anticipating his reunion with Ginger. As he talked, I mostly nodded while thinking about Nasrin and Felicia. I was envious. I assumed that there would never be a reunion with either girl. The joy and appreciation of the ceviche were the best I could do.

My Rio Mar mattress had been the blessing I had anticipated it would be. I experienced a deep sleep in its comfort. But I awoke in the darkness prior to the sunrise. I didn’t want to go back to sleep. Instead I put on my clothes and headed outside.

A pot of Boquete coffee waited for me at the bar. It had been left there during the night for early risers like me. I helped myself and then, with a cup in hand, headed out to my cactus plant waiting for me and standing tall on the ocean’s cliff. I took a seat on the grass. The grass was moist from the nighttime accumulation of ocean mist. It had been the same when I had awakened at the exact spot eight and a half years earlier. And there I sat with my coffee and memories in the morning darkness. The coffee was good, as were the memories. It had been a good eight and a half years. And from the cliff with coffee in hand, I watched the sun rise out in the Pacific.

*     *     *

So how do we get to Panama City? Ronnie asked as we retraced our steps from the day before as we trekked back to the Pan-American Highway.

Wave down a Chiva bus, I told him as my backpack was weighing down my back and shoulders. They’ll be frequent. We won’t have long to wait.

I glanced up to the sky. There were a few big clouds towering high above. A few, but not many.

I said to Ronnie, By the time we get to the city, it will be raining.

Ronnie’s glance skyward brought a different opinion.

The sun’s shining. Doesn’t look like rain to me.

It is rainy season, I informed him. And we’re heading into the Zone. It will be raining later this afternoon. But Ronnie still doubted my rainy-day forecast.

The wait for the Chiva bus was brief. When my hand went up signaling to a driver that Ronnie and I wanted his attention and a ride, the driver responded by acknowledging with a mechanized blaring of his horn. It wasn’t just a toot but an entire song that lasted many seconds and a sound that was not pleasant to hear. But Ronnie and I boarded, and for the next two hours, we heard the atrociousness of the bus’s horn at least a couple dozen times. I sensed that the driver was expressing a level of pride about his bus every time he sounded off. Few people experienced the luxury of a nap while riding. Just too many interruptions from the blaring of the horn.

This Chiva bus and all others were painted with individual interpretations in mind. Various designs and color patterns were choreographed not to express harmony in décor; rather, it seemed to shock the visual senses of riders and the transportation community in general. The initial viewing of these buses could easily create a repulsive response, as often, the color contrasts were contradictory to a receptive viewing from an eye. Riding such busses was proof that we were in Panama. Many of the buses displayed paintings of various country landmarks: Volcan Baru in the Chiriqui province, the San Blas Islands, a scenic landscape depicting the village of El Valle, and, of course, the locks of the Panama Canal. These were all subject matter often artfully painted along the sides of the buses or wherever a spot had been saved for such a painting. Today Ronnie and I rode a bus characterized by a rendition of the Thatcher Ferry Bridge that crossed the Canal at the Pacific entrance. It seemed appropriate to me, as that was our destination, and, I believed, not an accident that the bridge painting had been chosen for this particular ride. And for us today, I had every bit of confidence that we would reach our destination because painted overhead our driver at the front was a rendition of Jesus in prayer at the Mount of Olives. With Jesus in prayer and leading our way, there was no doubt in my mind that we would experience a safe journey to our destination.

In our journey, Ronnie and I no longer seemed to express a need to sit side by side. We often just took whatever seat was first available or convenient. Today my seat was next to a young teenage boy wearing a Yankee baseball hat. I preferred that his allegiance had been to any other team other than the Yanks, but when I said Yankees, my single word of acknowledgment produced a smile on his face. Then when I asked the kid who his favorite ballplayer was, his answer surprised me.

Roberto Clemente, the Yankee fan answered with a smile.

Clemente had been dead for nearly eight years—killed in a plane crash doing missionary work for the people of Nicaragua after the devastating earthquake at that time. Clemente was neither Panamanian nor Nicaraguan. He was Puerto Rican, and I knew him well because, for a decade, he had done severe damage to my Cardinals as the Pirate right fielder. But to this baseball fan in Panama, who would have been maybe only five or six years old when Clemente died, somehow he had become the kid’s favorite ballplayer and the thought of Clemente brought a smile to the boy’s face. And there was just cause for the smile. Roberto Clemente was the greatest major league ballplayer ever to come out of Latin America. And his accomplishments had been a reason for pride for people throughout the region.

If the pride for Clemente had been ingrained in the young boy, then it had to come from somewhere. I imagined that the boy’s father was a big baseball fan who was aware of the reputation and character of Roberto Clemente. If we in America knew of Clemente’s honored characteristics, then the citizens of Latin America knew it too. Truly the boy had heard impressive stories about Clemente. In honor of Clemente, the Latin pride had been transferred to the boy. To me, I knew that my traveling buddy had been born into a good family with a father who knew his baseball well and was determined to teach his son to live with the righteous Clemente characteristics of virtue and honor.

A baseball glove sat on the boy’s lap. His bat lay between the two of us. He informed me he was going to the capital to visit cousins and grandparents. There he would play baseball. Another smile came to his face.

I commented on Rod Carew and Manny Sanguillen.

Panamanians, the boy said. And another smile. Baseball made the boy smile.

He asked me about my favorite ballplayers.

Bob Gibson, Lou Brock, Stan Musial, I replied. The boy was aware of all three.

Cardinals, he said.

And now it was my turn to smile.

We were approaching the Canal Zone. With it came traffic congestion. We were no longer in the interior. Urban sprawl lay ahead.

We’re getting close, I hollered out to Ronnie.

Views of the jungle were becoming apparent. With it came darkness in the sky as we had lost the sun. Dark monsoon clouds, so prevalent during the rainy season, were creating a greeting display. I knew that a torrential downpour and drenching were in our immediate future.

We began climbing the approach to the Bridge of the Americas, which separated Balboa harbor and the Pacific Ocean. I nudged my companioned ballplayer at my side, thinking he might want to witness the grandness of the crossing. Together we gazed both left and right, trying to take in the scene. Ronnie did the same. A multitude of ocean freighters was anchored offshore, waiting for a canal dispatcher to dispense procedural information and time schedules for crossing. Recreational yachts were tethered in the harbor. Some were local, existing for Zonian and Panamanian weekend sailors. Others were anchored temporarily waiting for their wayfaring inhabitants to set sail to places like the Galapagos, Tahiti, or other harbors in the Americas. The vastness of the ocean view to our right was contradicted to our left, which I knew was a funneling process to the locks, Gaillard Cut, and the Atlantic Ocean beyond.

Reaching the pinnacle of the bridge and then heading down the back seat, I rose from my seat. Pointing to a location of the advancing traffic, I said to Ronnie, That’s where I got the idea and where it began.

Idea for what? Ronnie asked in return.

The idea for the trip. On my last day in Panama on my way to the airport for my flight home.

In the latter weeks while I was in the army, I tried to procure paperwork and visas to permit me to drive home from Panama through Central America and Mexico and terminate my military service in Texas. Some American military personnel had done it. I wanted to as well. I knew it would be an adventure. But the process never materialized. Plans failed. So I was forced to fly home, departing from Howard Air Force Base, which was on the North American side of the Canal Zone—the Pacific side. On my departure day, as I rode over the Bridge of Americas and with my mind racing about returning home while realizing that I was a totally different person from when I had first arrived in Panama, I decided I would return via the Pan-American highway someday. Upon the bridge, I had made that commitment. It became a number one priority on my to-do list. The years had accumulated, and as they did, my plans for my return formed. And now I had made my return! For me, it was a great accomplishment and milestone! For Ronnie, it didn’t mean much except he was here with me.

We both glanced at the spot where I was pointing. A Chiva bus filled to capacity heading the other way marked the location. A US Army jeep followed a short distance behind the bus. I knew the driver was a young PFC or Spec 4 like myself on an earlier day. Maybe he was taking in the scenery of the oceanic and bay views. Maybe he was thinking about the day when he would return home. Our bus passed him and the spot as we headed on our downward slope of the bridge towards the Canal Zone and its administrative capital of Balboa. As I had predicted, arriving in Balboa, we were greeted by a torrential Panamanian rainy-season downpour. Having spent his last five years in the desert of Arizona, Ronnie had rarely seen such a cloudburst like this. If ever.

How can our driver see through this rain? Ronnie wondered with concern for our safety.

The windshield wipers were working at a frantic pace and yet not keeping pace with the deluge.

Arriving on the fringes of Balboa, we entered a form of suburban America, but with a tropical and colonial flavor. Balboa was unlike most residential areas of the States in that it was located in a territory of the United States but not in a state. The Canal Zone had a land area of approximately 550 square miles and two thousand miles from the American mainland and was stationed right dab in the middle of another country. Yet the people of the Zone, the Zonians, were as much of a patriotic flag-waving consortium as anyone else in the other fifty United States and they were quite proud to consider themselves as true-blood Americans! And this patriotism, which actually came somewhat as a surprise and foreign to many back on the mainland, was a factor causing a rift for many Americans containing political thoughts. There were those, and maybe even President Carter himself, who considered these patriots as an embarrassment and inconvenience to politicians who viewed America disdainfully for our country’s former expansionist history which included our involvement in the Panama Canal.

It was difficult for me not to express pride in my country’s role in building the engineering masterpiece that is the Panama Canal. How could Americans not feel pride in what we had built in the earliest years of the twentieth century? No other country in the world could have accomplished what America had done. But I knew that there were Americans who felt ashamed of the concept of the Canal Zone and the construction miracle that had accomplished so much on so many fronts. I didn’t understand those thoughts. Yet they existed and were an underlying factor that seemed to motivate President Carter’s ambition in forming a treaty with Panama, transferring control to the Panamanian people.

And for the first time since we had left Nogales, Ronnie and I were in land sovereign to the United States of America. At least temporarily, while on this side of Ancon Hill. Here we were, witnessing the best of America. There was a tranquility of lifestyle spurred by the economic development created by the oceanic transfer of goods from around the world passing through the Canal. There was safety in the community of Balboa and other Canal Zone residential communities. There was an accepted opulence that had been created by decades of American presence and transferred from generation to generation to the present. Then there was the other side of Ancon Hill, which was Panama. And that particular area, which we on our bus would soon enter, was an area of poverty, social frustration, and challenges. The two areas were of such visual contrast and, to many, an embarrassment to both countries. And that was where we were heading.

On the Panama side of Ancon, we entered Casco Viejo, which was the oldest part of Panama City. The streets were narrow and congested with human and automobile traffic. It took our bus nearly fifteen minutes to go six blocks. The passengers on the bus became frustrated. We were so close to our destination, yet not quite. It was faster to walk. But there was the rain. Inside the bus, we were still dry. Outside that was an impossibility. So we accepted the dryness of the bus without complaint. When our bus made a final stop and the doors opened, we all accepted the reality of a good soaking.

My baseball friend was one of the first off the bus. He tucked his ball glove under his T-shirt, and down the street, from one dry store overhang to another, he raced. He and I parted not knowing each other’s name, yet we parted with so much in common. Ronnie and I followed his steps and directions, but by lugging oversized backpacks there was no racing. And there was no way to avoid a complete drenching.

Hotel sign up ahead! I heard Ronnie shout out. I had seen the sign as well.

Head that way! I shouted out as we crossed the street in ankle-deep water.

It wasn’t much of a hotel. At four dollars a night, we didn’t expect much. And although our mattresses did not have sheets, we didn’t complain. There was a lock for our door, so we assumed we would be safe, although Ronnie had been quick to realize we were in a questionable neighborhood. We had a place to be out of the rain and to change into dry clothes. As the monsoon continued outside, we felt comfortable in our little ill-equipped room although few travelers would have shared our sentiments.

There was a smell in this part of the city. I had noticed it every time I passed through. Ronnie described the smell as being worse than an armpit. I agreed. I was already regretting that we hadn’t taken a taxi to a nicer part of the city. But few taxis ever voluntarily ventured into this part of the city. Until tomorrow we were stuck here. For now, we would make the most of whatever came our way.

We hung out in the lobby while the rain poured. We sat on a couple plastic lawn chairs, which provided the only lobby luxury, and waited for the rain to let up.

When will the rains stop? Ronnie asked.

In the dry season, I answered with knowledge based on experience.

But the rain did let up, and much sooner than I had joked.

Do you know this area? Ronnie asked.

Not well.

Is it safe? Ronnie then wanted to know as he had already noticed that the area was a little iffy.

I don’t know, I answered. Then I added, Probably not.

You’re not very reassuring, I heard Ronnie say as he began following me down the sidewalk as we cautiously began exploring the most ancient area of Panama City.

I had made sure my billfold and my passport were secure in the front pocket of my Levi’s. I thought that if we were mugged, my possessions might possibly come through the incident intact. I had heard stories about the Casco Viejo district of Panama City and the danger it represented, so I was leery as I walked the narrow sidewalk with the city traffic an arm’s length away. At every street corner, I took a careful look around while deciding to go left, right, or straight ahead as I led Ronnie—to where I wasn’t sure.

This area of town has been here for a while, hasn’t it? Ronnie conjectured.

Yep, early middle 1600s. Spanish territory then. Even back then, Panama was a world distribution center for goods. At that time, mostly gold from the South American Andes shipped out of the port of Portobello on the other side of the isthmus.

A car honked from behind. I was instantly startled. But cars honk, and I shouldn’t have been scared by the sound. But I was walking nervously, thinking that this was not a good idea. But we were here for now, and I knew there was history in thi part of town. And I was committed to showing it to Ronnie and being his tour guide.

A poster showing President Carter and the Panamanian dictator General Omar Torrijos signing the Panama Canal Treaty transferring control of the Zone to Panama was displayed in the window of a local farmacia. Nearly every storefront in the city had the same poster on display, and we had seen many giant billboards along the Pan-American Highway displaying the signage and the Panamanian and American flags as well.

They sure like Carter down here, Ronnie noted.

On this side of Ancon Hill, yes, I answered. But the people on this side of Ancon Hill can’t vote for Carter. And I doubt if the people on the other side will. Then I told Ronnie, There is something really cool I want to show you. This may be the right street. We headed away from Ancon Hill, temporarily putting it behind us.

Soon I found it.

From the sidewalk, we approached a nondescript entrance to a building looking a little different than the other buildings in the neighborhood. But stepping inside, we witnessed a scene being a world apart from the street.

Holy cow! Ronnie exclaimed in sudden astonishment.

Yeah, I like it too! I said.

We had stepped inside the Cathedral of San Jose and were witnessing its Golden Altar. The church dated back to the 1670s and a time before the English pirate Henry Morgan raided Panama. The church was a display of impressive artisan and spiritual wooden carvings. The altar was probably mahogany, but painted over in gold and exhibited a grandness of style that had to have been some of the greatest artwork the new world had ever produced for that time.

Ronnie was instantly in awe and quite moved by the display.

Isn’t it amazing about the quality of work they could produce back then? he said as he stared in complete appreciation of the wonder before his eyes.

Absolutely, I answered as I too studied and marveled at the craftsmanship.

Ronnie walked about studying the creations. Mother Mary and Jesus were displayed throughout the church in various forms and historical settings. Three hundred years earlier, the artisans had displayed their love for their Savior with patient diligence through their carvings and skills. I studied the altar and the church’s spiritual décor, aware that I had no idea of how their trained hands had been able to create such a masterpiece in design while knowing that the creation had been achieved with the crudest of tools. And I knew the craftsmen had honored God through their dedicated skills. And for three hundred years, people like Ronnie and me had witnessed in awe the cathedral’s golden altar.

They say that when the English pirate Henry Morgan was pillaging Panama, the Spaniards whitewashed over the gold to hide the altar’s value from the English, I informed Ronnie.

Must have done the trick. The altar is still here, Ronnie responded to my historical information.

I wished I knew more about the cathedral and its historical relevance. I only had a smidgeon of knowledge about the Church of the Golden Altar. But there was no tour guide here. Only a kettle pot was available to make donations. I made available a few coins for an offering. But I thought back to my last visit to another cathedral of San Jose—the one in Antigua with Felicia. Today there would be no prayer with Felicia, with her being convinced that together we had experienced the presence of the Holy Spirit. But her memory suggested that dollars were more appropriate, and so I reached for my billfold to drop money into a cast iron donation kettle while thinking about the angel Felicia from Antigua.

We could head down to the ocean, I suggested to Ronnie when we returned to the street. He didn’t agree or disagree. We just strolled. No longer did we sense a level to guard for our security. Maybe the presence of God emanating from the Cathedral of San Jose as it had for three hundred years was our security. We walked in peace and assuredness that we were safe and no harm would come our way.

Too many of the buildings were just remnants of their glorious past. Crumbling ruins were often the norm. Neglect had taken its toll. Ronnie and I could only imagine what the past had witnessed. But our minds accepted our imagination.

Up ahead where our trail made a turnaround, I spotted an indigenous Kuna Indian lady and her daughter dressed in their traditional gowns of molas. I directed Ronnie’s attention toward them. These ladies from the San Blas Islands of the Atlantic side were displaying their molas for sale.

I suggested to Ronnie to buy one as a present for Ginger.

What are they? he asked.

Before us, the diminutive San Blas ladies presented the molas, which were oblong objects of layered parcels of cloth, about sixteen to twenty inches in length and height, that had been cut, stitched, and layered to form images of Panamanian animals or plants, created by their reverse-appliqué pattern of stitchery. The ladies were quick to notice our advance as they prepared their goods for our quick approval.

What are they used for? Ronnie asked while noticing the molas worn by the Kuna ladies had been sewn together to form their blouses and skirts.

Back in the States, people frame them and mount them, or create decorative pillows for couches. They are in great demand and highly appreciated by ladies for ornamental purposes.

I then told Ronnie that when I came home from my army days, I returned with at least twenty molas and that Mom and Grandma had admired their unique design.

I began evaluating the stitching on the back side of various molas. And when I was sure of the handmade ones compared to machine made, I presented them to Ronnie.

You want the handmade molas, I suggested. The ones sewn by hand are becoming rare. They are the ones you want.

Ronnie seemed confused that I was offering my expertise in the process. And when the San Blas lady stated her price, I instantly countered with a lower price. Within seconds, I had saved Ronnie ten dollars for a quantity of five molas.

What’s wrong with getting just one? Ronnie asked.

They don’t weigh anything, I answered. You won’t even know they are in your backpack. Besides, they’ll go up in value. You’ll double your money in a few years’ time.

Ronnie liked the idea of doubling his money. He bought seven. And I then told him about the Kuna Indians and the string of about 365 San Blas islands a short distance from the mainland in the Atlantic going down towards Colombia.

Are we going there? he asked.

No. I think we’re only going to spend two or three days on the Atlantic side. Then you’re heading back to Ginger and Arizona, and I’m off to Ecuador.

Ronnie nodded in agreement. He was ready to be getting back home.

The tide was out as we reached a turnaround location in our short walking excursion. This was not a place to view an exotic white beach. On the contrary, the ocean was hundreds of yards in the distance and connected to our constructed elevated wall and walkway by an unappealing gray muck. A plaque commemorated the life of Dr. Carlos Finlay. I had never heard of him. I read the plaque and learned he was a Cuban doctor who had determined that yellow fever was transmitted by infected mosquitoes. I agreed that the memory of the good doctor and his discovery needed to be commemorated. Especially in Panama.

Then I thought, Shame on me for not knowing. But his name had never come up in any of my history classes back in the States.

I purchased an iced drink from a young street vendor. I disregarded the need to protect my stomach from gastronomical sickness. My stomach, bowels, and everything else down there had been fine since the curing dinner provided by Rudolph. My refreshment of ice in a paper cup covered by yellow syrup provided its purpose, but Ronnie was more cautious than me and declined the icy mixture. We both knew that within the week, he would be back in Tempe and treating himself to a slushy at a Circle K. Ronnie was willing to wait.

But I am getting a tad bit hungry, he confessed. Think we could find a nearby restaurant serving ceviche?

I thought that the Panama City fish market would satisfy his desires.

Up ahead, I told him. The market would not be far out of our way as we headed back to our hotel.

When the air became saturated with the smell of fish, we knew we were close.

Do you think we will find a place serving ceviche? Ronnie innocently asked.

My response was laughter. I was thinking, We’re in Panama City! How could we not?

Our purpose at the market was not to meander down the length of aisles viewing the tons of iced-down fish, which were en route from Panama to other locations in the Americas and beyond. Ronnie had announced his hunger, and he wanted it satisfied. Based on his one and only experience with ceviche, Ronnie believed he had become an aficionado of Panama’s most famous delicacy, so we entered the market with him fervently pursuing his passion. For the first time since we had left our hotel, I let Ronnie lead the way.

When Ronnie noticed a neon Atlas Cerveza sign beaming overhead a serving area of tables adjacent to a kitchen, his search came to an end.

This looks good to me, he announced as he quickly took a seat. Do you think they have ceviche? he asked needlessly, hoping I would confirm his wishes.

Even before I glanced at the menu, I knew there was no doubt they did.

We were soon approached by our waitress. She was one of the darker-skinned girls we had seen on our trip. Probably four generations earlier, her ancestors had left Barbados or Trinidad, crossing the Caribbean for employment as laborers on the Panama Canal’s construction. Today our high school–aged waitress was working at her mom and dad’s restaurant. She seemed to be a dutiful daughter.

Ronnie was surprised and impressed by her quality of English. I was not surprise for I knew that for many in Panama, English was like their first language. Ronnie wasted no time in informing the young girl of his wishes.

With very explicit directions, Ronnie began explaining how exactly he wanted his ceviche prepared: I would like ceviche from Corvina. Served and cut into tiny morsels. Soaked in lime juice with very fine onion with a little bit of red pepper and cilantro added.

He acted as if he was a world-renowned expert and historical connoisseur of ceviche, and that our young waitress was hearing about the delicacy for the first time in her life! I knew otherwise. The young Panamanian girl, who had probably spent most of her life living and working in the city’s fish market, listened patiently. Then she followed up kindly with Ronnie’s directives: Ceviche original.

Si! Ronnie agreed in delight, thinking that she had listened and understood perfectly.

For me, I’ll take shrimp ceviche, I told her.

Ahh, you’re the adventurous type! And she added to her words a tantalizing wink!

Ronnie noticed her wink and that it was meant for me.

Hey! Don’t I get a wink too? After all, I tip better than he does! Ronnie asked.

But all he got was a smile as she headed into the kitchen to give her father -the chef - our order while I noticed that her father, working not far away, had heard Ronnie’s comment about receiving a wink. I thought it best to steer our conversation away from the topic of our waitress winking at her customers.

Ronnie was not disappointed with his ceviche. His enthusiasm and pleasure for the hors d’oeuvres matched that from our night before in Rio Mar. When our waitress recommended Pargo frito for our entrée—which she described as an entire red snapper deep-fried and served with fried potatoes, coconut rice, tomatoes, and lime—we agreed. We consumed our meal with absolute satisfaction. As we finished and Ronnie downed the last of his Atlas, it was obvious that his culinary desires had been completely fulfilled by this savory experience at the Panama City fish market. He then announced with enamored joy, Those fish could not have possibly been created for a greater purpose or pleasure than what we just experienced. He then leaned back into his chair and stretched in contentment. His meal was complete.

With our waitress receiving payment at our table, Ronnie allowed me to pay first. When he saw my tip, he felt conveniently comfortable presenting his payment. He did so with a smile, making sure that our waitress was aware that his tip was noticeably greater than mine.

See, I told you! I always give bigger tips than my buddy!

We at the table were a table of smiles and laughter. Our waitress thanked Ronnie for his generosity. I noticed that the girl’s father had an ear and an eye for our good times. Possibly, he had heard Ronnie once again state that he anticipated a wink before we left the mercado. But as of yet, no wink had been given.

I assumed, though, that her father had seen and heard it all before. He had a cute daughter with natural charm who made her living from her tips. And if customers, like the two Americans presently in his café, appreciated his daughter’s charm and what she brought to his café, then that was fine with him. So he probably wasn’t too concerned. After all, he knew his daughter far better than Ronnie and I ever would.

As we left to explore other vending areas in the fish market Ronnie paused just before exiting the café. Looking in the direction of our cute waitress now taking orders at another table, he announced when she made eye contact with him, I’m still waiting.

She smiled back and then gave Ronnie the wink he was hoping for.

I told Ronnie, When you get back to Tempe, Ginger is probably going to give you a lot more than just a wink.

I’m counting on it, Ronnie replied in anticipation. And all the more reason to get back home.

*     *     *

I had considered ourselves lucky when we had walked through the dangerous evening darkness of the Casco Viejo neighborhood of Panama City. Fortunately, nothing out of the usual happened. We had gone on a nice stroll through the city and had arrived safely back at our hotel. But I didn’t want to try our luck again.

The next morning, I wanted to take the train to cross the isthmus at the Balboa station. I didn’t want to walk from the hotel to the station. It wasn’t that far, but today, I just didn’t want to walk it. Maybe the bad guys in this neighborhood wouldn’t be awake in these wee morning hours. But I didn’t want to take a chance.

I think we ought to call a cab, I told Ronnie.

He was surprised by my suggestion.

I’ll pay for it, I told him. And I headed for the lobby to ask a hotel attendant to call a cab company. Though we surely were not staying at a five-star hotel, I assumed that this minimal request could be met. In fifteen minutes, Ronnie and I were climbing into a taxi.

To the train station in Balboa, I told the cabbie.

The driver was surprised by my request.

But the train station here in the city is closer, he replied in his broken but understandable English.

I know, I answered. But I wanted to go to Balboa. Not only did I consider it a safer neighborhood, but I had other reasons of my own for wanting to go to the Balboa station.

My initial memories from my army days in Panama took place at the Balboa train station: I had been in-country for just a couple of hours. I and about two dozen other soldiers were waiting for our train to cross the isthmus. It was there that I was confronted by the command sergeant major of the United States Military Southern Command.

I was approached by a man dressed in heavily starched green jungle fatigues. I had no idea who this oriental-looking man was, though I would later learn he was from Guam, the Philippines, or some other place over there. He had a stocky build, with impressive biceps bulging out from underneath his shirt sleeves, which was rolled up high and tight—a style the serious military personnel took great pleasure in wearing to prove to the world that they were squared away. Unfortunately for me, he initiated a conversation.

Who do you belong to? he asked.

Obviously, he was a military sort of a guy. Command sergeant majors tend to be that way. But for me? It was just me. And I answered that way.

Oh, I guess I just belong to myself.

It was not the kind of answer the command sergeant major wanted to hear.

No! Goddamn it! he screamed in response. What fucking unit do you belong to?

He now had my full attention, though none of my respect.

Fortunately, I had just earlier memorized the name of my unit when I received my orders and destination shortly after arriving at Howard Air Force Base.

So I responded accordingly. Ninth Psychological Operations Battalion, Eighth Special Forces. Fort Gulick.

My answer did not impress the sergeant major.

So you’re one of those commie, hippie, pinko fags, yeah? he yelled at me.

His response confused me. I had never been spoken to in such a way.

With little hesitation, I answered. No, I don’t think so.

But the sergeant major was convinced I was guilty as charged.

Sure you are! he boldly declared. And if I was your first sergeant, I’d know how to deal with the likes of someone like you! Concluding his declaration, the sergeant major turned and walked away, I assumed, with a desire to search out and initiate another ass-chewing of another undeserving innocent young private. But the sergeant major’s words caught my attention, and I began wondering what kind of a unit I was going to.

From across the train station, I now noticed I was again being approached by another lifer. This one was an E7. And this one had a smile beaming across his face from ear to ear.

His uniform was as starched as the sergeant major’s. In his own fashion, he was equally muscled and looking just as fit and looking strack. But there seemed to be something different about him. Maybe it was his shit-eating grin! Something about the approaching master sergeant told me that there was no reason to fear him. He wore a Green Beret and black jump boots so shiny that a guy could shave using their glare