Sunrise in Potrerillos Arriba, Panama

For some unknown reason I wake up earlier in Panama than I did in the States. It’s not like I have anything special to get accomplished. I am, after all, retired. But somewhere between 5:45 and 6:00 in the morning some alarm clock goes off in my brain and I wake up and it’s impossible to snooze back off.

So, I get up and make a cup of locally grown coffee. I’ve tried Duran, Flor de Chiriqui and two from Finca Ruiz, an espresso roast and an Italian roast. I think the Italian roast is the tastiest. Absolutely delicious. I miss my espresso machine but my single mug French press makes a good cup and a lot of coffee aficionados swear by the press.

With my steaming mug I go sit for a while out on the front steps of the house looking down the mountain towards the Pacific coast and the islands off shore. The clouds are beautiful. This is what it looked like this morning at 6:00 a.m.

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English Class At American School

One of the blogs I read without fail over my morning cup of coffee is Chiriqui Chatter. The city of David and Potrerillos are in the Province of Chiriqui in the western part of the country bordering Costa Rica. Several months ago Don Ray, the blog’s author, wrote about meeting with students at the American School in David who were studying English. Native English speakers would meet with the students once a month to help them train their ears to hear the English language. One of the hardest things to do when you’re studying a foreign language is to “hear” it. I find that I “speak” Spanish much better than I “hear” it.

I remember so well when I landed in France without speaking French, that I didn’t hear anyone speaking French. All I heard was noise. None of it made sense. It wasn’t even babble. It was simply static that I couldn’t comprehend. I remember quite well the day as I was walking back to my boat after visiting Antibe’s wonderful open air fruit and veggie market I HEARD A WORD! Out of all that noise there was a distinct WORD. Not only that, it was as if the entire town had held a meeting the night before and said, “tomorrow we’re going to teach Richard a word,” because everywhere I went I heard that word. I don’t remember what that word was, but it was the start of my immersion into the French language.

I thought these sessions were an excellent idea and got in touch with a young lady named Patricia and asked to be put on a mailing list if they had one so I could attend when I finally moved full-time to Panama. Yesterday I went to my first meeting. The instructor is a young man named Marvin who actually attended American School when he was a lad before living in the States and in London, England, for several years.

It was thought that there were going to be five or six gringos (by that I mean anyone foreigner whose first language isn’t Spanish) coming. I was the only one who showed up possibly saving the day’s agenda from total failure. I had a great time. Guess it’s the ham in me. My year teaching Nautical Science at West Jefferson High School in Gretna, LA, stood me in good stead. I was placed at the teachers desk and easily went around the room asking questions of each of the students, all adults I should say, making them tell me why it was they wanted to learn English. Everyone answered that it was, first, to advance in their jobs and secondly the challenge of learning something they thought was important to them. Several of the students are teachers, themselves, and apparently learning English has become a requirement for them.

In turn I answered their question to me. They were, I’m sure, those they ask all the gringos who come to their sessions. “Where do you come from?” “How do you like Panama?” And from the girls, “Are you married?” What do you think of Panamanian women?” “Do you think you will ever have another girlfriend?” Hmmmmmmmmmm, I wonder if they’re hinting at something? Of course I’m old enough to be grandfather to each of them.

The session lasted for about an hour and a half and didn’t seem that long at all. It whizzed past and I think everyone enjoyed it. I made sure everyone participated and the level of fluency was quite good for people who had only been attending classes once a week for the past six months. There was a real level of dedication here.

When the Q&As were over cake, snacks and sodas were brought into the classroom.

I didn’t bring my camera with me and in any event I rarely take pictures of people. Perhaps I believe, just a little bit like so many indigenous people do, that each photo takes a little of that person’s soul. But Don Ray has graciously given me permission to use photos from his blog of his previous visits to the class.

These two girls, whose names I don’t remember, are teachers  The gentleman, Guillermo, is a hair dresser. Many of his clients are foreigners who don’t speak Spanish but DO speak English, and he believes, rightly so, that if he can learn English and be able to talk to the women his income will increase. I don’t know the woman in the photo.

Most of the women who attended were teachers.

These girls teach at American School. Those smiles weren’t just for the camera, they were on the whole time the class was in session.

The lady in the center of the picture and the one on the right work for Super Baru, one of the supermarket chains in Chiriqui. They are studying English hoping to advance in their jobs. I don’t know who the woman on the left is though by the blouse she’s wearing I’d say she’s on the school staff. She wasn’t there yesterday.

The girl on the right is a lawyer and the other girl is an environmental engineer. I have to confess that while I was polite with the guys and made it a point to be sure they were included in the exercise with so many attractive women in attendance…well, you understand.

Finally there were these two. Though Don pegged her as a teacher in the post where I picked up the photo, she said she was a physicist. One with a winning smile. Oh, yeah, there’s a guy in the photo. He was a nice kid and had one of the better grasps on the language of the entire group.

I’m looking forward to next month’s get together.

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R.I.P. Gerry Glombecki

Back in 1966 when I was attending college in the small Missouri town of Canton on the banks of the Mississippi River there was a 19 year old blond kid from Chicago, Gerry Glombecki, who lived in my dorm and had what was probably the first skateboard the town had ever seen.

Gerry was a carefree sort who always sported a great smile. I knew him for a year before I left Canton and, of course lost contact with him. Withing the last year, through Facebook, we reestablished contact of sorts. Gerry had gone on from that small river town to become an accomplished musician and a fixture in the Tuscon, Arizona, music community. He was inducted into the Arizona Blues Hall of Fame and was a founder of the Tucson Folk Festival.

This video shows Gerry playing slide guitar, and one of his sidelines was the making and distribution of authentic guitar slides: http://gerryglombecki.com/Sliders.html

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Out Of Touch

Almost three days, well in another couple of hours, since there has been no internet at the house. I called twice and they say they know of the problem in Potrerillos and are working to fix it. I don´t believe Potrerillos is a huge profit center for them so I doubt they´re working real hard. I found this internet place in Dolega a  small town heading down the mountain to David. It costs seventy cents an hour for access and it’s really difficult using the Spanish keyboard. While the letters are in the right places the punctuation marks are all over the place. Forinstance, to get the @ you have to press control+alt+q.  That{s the easiest example I can come up with. Also, the left hand shift key is tiny and I’m constantly hitting< so, I’m going to wait until I get reconnected at the house.

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Bread…Just For Today

Recently I’ve come across three different blog posts concerning bread. The most recent was Don Ray’s Chiriqui Chatter about the opening of a French Boulangerie that relocated to the city of David from Bouquete.

Joyce who lives not far from where I’m house sitting decries the lack of decent bread in Panama and describes baking her own in http://joycepa.wordpress.com/2010/05/12/the-staff-of-life/ I have to agree with her. I bought some hot dog buns last week and they were inedible not only to myself but the generally ravenous dog that came along with the house turned her nose up at the things, too. I hope they won’t destroy the compost heap.

The post that made a lasting impression came from American author T (Teresa) Stores who has a blog entitled Strangers in the Village where she chronicles her 10 months stay in a small village in the south of France. Bread from the boulangerie just outside Port Vauban in Antibes was a daily joy and I rarely eat bread since I left France. But the opening paragraph of Teresa’s post have echoed in my head since I first read them:

“When I was a child, I memorized the Lord’s Prayer, Christ’s response to his disciples when they asked him to teach them to pray. The only request for a tangible thing in the entire prayer is “give us this day our daily bread.” Not for tomorrow, just for today, because we must remember to let the future take care of itself. We must eat today. And it’s not a six-course dinner we need, or even a full meal or meat or vegetables. Just bread. Just for today…”

Just for today. Have any of us really thought of those words we learned by rote when we were children? I must confess I never did…Just for today.

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BP Disaster And The Use Of Dispersing Agents On Oil Slicks

The ongoing tragedy of the BP oil rig disaster and attempts to mollify it with dispersing agents remind me of two experiences I have had with these things.

The first time I dealt with this was while I working as a crew boat captain in the Kerr-McGee oil production field in Breton Sound, Louisiana which is where the BP slick is centered. We actually lived on Breton Island and serviced the hundreds of oil and natural gas wells covering several hundred square miles to the north and south of the island. Scattered throughout the field there were six “facilities.” These facilities were about 50’X50’ and stood , maybe, 40’ out of the water. Each one was the center for several hundred wells. At the top of each facility was equipment to separate water, sand and gas from the crude oil which was then sent to large “collection barges” where the crude was stored until tug boats would come out once a week to swap the filled barges for empty ones.

One day one of the large hoses that transferred the oil from the facilities to the barges broke and an unknown amount of crude oil was released into the water. The four crew boats servicing the field were immediately called into action. We were loaded with what looked like those pump up insect sprayer things you buy at Home Depot but much larger. They were filled with a dispersing agent not unlike liquid detergent.

We spent the next few hours running around through the slick that covered several square miles spraying the dispersing agent and using the boat’s wakes to mix it all together. Eventually the sheen wasn’t noticeable anymore and the spill never happened as far as the Coast Guard knew.

My second go-round was much more personal and is told only with the safety of time and the certainty that the statute of limitations has run out.

After bringing Jolie Aire, the 85’ ketch I’d been running on the French Riviera to the States we were docked at a well-respected boat yard, which will remain anonymous, on the Dania Cut Off Canal outside of Fort Lauderdale.

It was a Saturday evening just after dark and I was filling the water tanks with a hose from the dock. The only other person on board was the young Irish lad, Martin, who had helped make our crossing of the pond such a delight. I had planned on making chili with some excellent steaks left over from the cruise and Martin came on deck and offered to finish topping off the tanks so I could start dinner. I’d been in the galley for about 20 minutes when the strong odor of diesel fuel pervaded the boat followed by diesel fuel itself spilling out of the galley vents.

I burst out on to the deck to find the fuel tank overflow vents spewing diesel fuel into the winch island recess. The photo shows the recess full of snow from over on the Riviera but you get an idea of how big it is.

It was almost filled to the brim with over 30 gallons of instant disaster and more being added every second. What had happened was after filling the first water tank Martin, without using the flashlight I’d left with him, opened another deck fill and stuck the water hose in a fuel fill!

Luckily we were the only boat in the yard with anyone on board, so except for the guard at the gate there was no one around to smell the diesel in the air. I looked over the side and there was a slick that filled the yard’s turning basin and it was being sucked out towards the Intracoastal Waterway by the falling tide.

We got into the car and raced to the nearest Publix supermarket where I was able to buy a small pump sprayer and eight gallons of Tide laundry detergent. Back at the boat we rode around the area spraying Tide on the slick then putting the bow of the dinghy against the floating docks and revving the outboard as high as it would go to bring the water to a rolling boil to mix it with the detergent. We kept this up for several hours until all the Tide had been used up.

The next morning I got up early and there was still a light sheen over the entire area. We drove to another supermarket and bought an additional five or six gallons of laundry detergent and repeated the process until the detergent and ourselves were exhausted. Since it was Sunday there was no one around the yard to witness our nefarious activities. On Monday morning there was no evidence that anything had been amiss.

It was our good fortune, if there was any in this story, that the night of our spill was also the night of the annual Christmas boat parade in Fort Lauderdale so every Coast Guard, police and Sherriff’s boat was on duty at the event and none around to catch us.

Am I proud of what I did? Of course not, but I also could not have borne the burden of the multi-thousand dollar fine that would have resulted had I reported what had happened to the authorities.

Granted neither of those events come close to the catastrophe that is occurring daily in the Gulf of Mexico, but I do have first-hand knowledge of the use of dispersing agents on oil slicks.

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Rainy Season In Panama

I had planned on descending to David to do a bit of shopping today. Top item on the list was to buy an umbrella. It’s the rainy season here in Panama and it’s been doing that on a daily basis. Some of it quite hard at times and, I believe, has been the cause of the two power failures in the 10 days I’ve been living up here in Potrerillos. The excursion to the lowlands has been postponed for a while mainly because I don’t have an umbrella, paraguas in Spanish, and it’s raining at 8 a.m. Recently it hasn’t started until the middle of the afternoon.

Here are a some videos of rain. The first is a heavy downpour in Fort Lauderdale recorded from the back porch where I lived and the second and third were recorded on the back porch here in Panama…

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Potrerillos Arriba, Panama Home

Photos are okay as far as they go, but videos give a better idea of a situation so I’m going to show you what it’s like where I live in Potrerillos Arriba.

The roof of the house extends about 10 feet from the sides and provides wonderful shade throughout the day. I like to sit and work at the back of the house and this is my view.

The house sits around 2,800 feet above sea level and when you look out the front of the house you’re looking south towards the city of David (Dah VEED), the third largest city in Panama, and the Pacific Ocean in the distance.

There’s a gate at the end of the driveway leading to a dirt road that goes out to the main highway. Coming in you get a panoramic view of the area.

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Lunch or Dinner?

Here’s a scary photo and it’s NOT photoshopped, either. Once again found on Duckworks, one of the really great sites for and about boats.

That kayaker is actually in the mouth of the whale who is feeding. Read the whole story. Apparently the man wasn’t injured in the incident.

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The Learning Curve

Well, my first full day of being by myself in the Potrerillos house. Yesterday Jane, the owner of the house, went to the bank in Boquete and I went along to do a little bit of shopping there. It was just a little since the market wasn’t very large and what they offered was limited. This morning I went down to David to go shopping at the El Rey supermarket and to replenish my supply of Plavix. Catching the bus down to David wasn’t hard at all. Coming back was where the learning curve began.

I got what I wanted at Rey and then walked a couple of blocks to a fruit and veggie market nearby. I waited about 20 minutes for the bus to arrive.

What happened next is part of the learning curve of riding the buses here. As you come up the road from David there are two places where road forks. Bearing right at the first fork takes you to Boquete and the left to Potrerillos. At the second fork left takes you to Potrerillos ABAJO and the right fork leads to Potrerillos ARRIBA (don’t forget to roll that double R), Jane, had told me she had once taken the bus to Abajo and then had a couple of mile hike to get to the house.

Since I had two heavy bags full of canned good and other food stuffs I sure didn’t want to have to make such a hike and this bus was a bit different than the previous two rides I’d taken before. Different driver, different assistant (all the buses have a “conductor” to help people on and off the buses, take care of their bags and collect the fares (you pay when you get off) (the bus that is). Admittedly I wasn’t paying close attention to where we were and when the bus veered off to the left hand fork in the road I assumed it was going to Abajo and called “parada” to be let off. I paid my fare and as the bus left I realized I’d gotten off where the road branches towards Boquete. I then had to wait another 20 minutes to get on a bus to take me the rest of the way to the dirt road that leads to my house.

Now, as I said, one of the reasons I went to David and El Rey was to visit the pharmacy. Two months ago when I got my Plavix at Costco in the States it cost me $154! Here in Panama all medications, except narcotics, are over-the-counter, no prescription needed. Since I’ve been on it for nearly two years now my doctor in the States said I only need to take it every other day, doubling up on the aspirin on the days I don’t take the Plavix. And I know it’s working because I bleed like a hemophiliac at the slightest scrape and bump. Here in Panama they sell the Plavix in a box of 14 instead of getting a bottle of 3o. So, here’s the breakdown on cost. Fourteen pills list for $48.86. The Jubilado (that’s me) discount is $9.97, so the final price was $39.09. Roughly $2.80 a pill versus $5.14 in the States. VIVA PANAMA!!!

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