Dave does Panama, ¡cuidado!

My dad visited me in March and although the trip led him to want to help people it simultaneously prevented him from doing so (he will explain below). Although Panama has its many unfovorable characteristics it brought out the best in my dad two times. The first was at Estero beach in Santa Catalina, an adorable and quaint surf town. After a couple hours of laughing at my epic crashes, he took off to wait for the big waves with the good surfers. A while later he swam up and said "Scott did you see me catch that wave?!" "No, I missed it. Was it sweet?" "Ohhhh mannnn, it was perrrrfect! I was in the swell, oh man, wahooo. It´s rides like that that keep me interested after seven years off the board."

The second classic Dave moment came on our way to visit another volunteer´s site. The boat we were in was full of young missionaries as it made its way up a very dry river. When we ran aground and the driver said nothing, who do you think was the first person out of the boat to push? Yep, my old man, saying "come´n guys lets push." The second time we ran aground, same thing. My worry that this was a little too "rugged" for my dad who came here to surf and soak up the sun was immediately quashed when, after the tenth or so stop to push, he looked at me with a big grin and said "now this is my kind of vacation!" His blog is below. 

Dave in Panama City

As I typically do every few months, I went to give blood.  After the requisite question and answer period (which I usually breeze through), the technician said “Since you were in Panama recently you may not give blood for a full year.”)  Say what?  I picked up my dignity, since for whatever reason I felt something was now “wrong” with me, and gloomily headed for the door.  I would not feel that familiar prick of the skin, nor feel the wonderful feeling of possibly helping another anonymous soul.

What does this have to do with anything you might ask?  Well, I’m pissed!  Yes, I don’t think it’s fair to me since I am healthy, I don’t do drugs, get tattoos, or play with other peoples blood among the myriad of other “don’ts” on the blood campaign list.  I eat and sleep well, have a comfortable home, nice truck, lots of vacation time, it’s…just…not…fair! 

Wow, what a baby I’m being.  Didn’t I just return from Panama where the median income is somewhere between what I spend at restaurants in a year and gas for my truck?  Where the typical home is more like a “hut”, or maybe a one bedroom concrete apartment with significantly more than one occupant?    Traveling is a nightmare of loud music, crowded conditions, blaring horns and death defying bus drivers who think they are Mario Andretti. The heat of the day compared to my Alaskan “heat” feels like an iron being held about 1 inch away from your skin, your entire skin, far beyond what’s humanely endurable.  The cool porcelain of my toilet seemed like a distant memory just after a few challenging bathroom breaks.  Life expectancy of dogs (and jaywalkers) is counted in minutes I think, and the tight-quarter hustle and bustle of Panama City is a far cry from the vast expanse of Alaska and the acres separating you from another human being.

Father-son temporary Emberá tattoos

Despite the drastic changes from 10F degrees to 95F degrees during the 20 hours of flight time and the complete alien feel which accompanied me as I stepped off the plane, I fell in love with the place!   Spending time with groovy (yes, I’m in my fifties) Peace Corp Volunteers and trying to decipher all the acronyms which accompany their conversations, I started to feel more at ease.   Surfing and Cerveza’s,   dinner at outdoor eateries with Expats and locals, Panama cowboys and their herd of cows blocking traffic in the middle of nowhere, the thrill (well, maybe the “thrill” is a strong term) of watching a container ship go through the locks, and the wonderful experience of slicing up a mud colored river in a 30” wide x 24’ long dugout canoe with guides at either end never giving directions even when we bottomed out in the shallows, threatening to leave us twelve stranded tourists until the rainy season.  Visiting a PCV (Peace Corp Volunteer, I’ll decipher that one for you) site with the local welcoming band, singing and dancing, lunch and woven goods to ogle over and purchase topped off a wonderful trip.  I even learned which plant is the equivalent of the Panamanian Viagra, who would’ve known.

I may not be able to give blood for a year, but it’s a small price compared to the lessons learned and the wonderful memories.  Thank you Panama!