CONSTIPATED IN COLON
(Panama Yacht Club, Colon, Panama) (After the Mutiny)
 This is probably the strangest place I’ve ever been stuck.
Dave said his wife made some comment about “going through the canal with lucky
sperm and getting stuck in colon”. That about describes it. This place is good
material for a sit-com or an episode on “Twilight Zone.” The yacht club, I was
told, was built in 1928 and doesn’t look like it has changed since the day it
was built.
There are two finger docks with end ties and sideslips and
then a make shift area where some boats tie up to a wall “Med Style”. Lucky
Sperm was on the Med tie dock now after spending a couple days on the fuel
dock. I went by to say “hello”. He was trying to get off his boat and the only
way he could get off was to tie a kayak behind the boat, crawl across the kayak
to the shoreline and then physically climb up the concrete wall. He had a sense
of humor about it all. He said he found a worker that is going to make him a
20-foot or more plank so he can just walk across the plank. He concurred about
what a pit this was. He was hoping to get out of there in a few weeks and head
to Bocas Del Toro.
The Yacht Club has a do-it-yourself haul out for one boat.
There was a small dinghy dock for those out in the “flats” (the anchorage). It
was always full with dinghies. There’s a $2 charge to land your dinghy there
each day.
We had no power but we did have water to wash the boat
down. We didn’t even consider putting it in the tanks though it may have been
OK. The cleats to hold your lines and secure the boat were hard to find if any.
You had to be creative and make up things to tie the boat to. Some of the
cleats that were there had been re-cemented in so many times that they just
popped out when you put any pressure on them.
There was an indoor bar and a small outdoor area for the
bar. Adjoining that was a covered patio for the restaurant and beside that was
an indoor restaurant that we never saw used. It was what they must have
considered “upscale” since it had tablecloths and hotel type stack chairs. The
place was pretty pitiful actually. The chairs on the patio are barely standing
and the tables had some sort of old brown Formica tops that were not even close
to being level. The floor was old cracked and chipped concrete. The
fluorescent lighting added to the grey dull atmosphere.
Everything on the menu seemed fried and greasy but actually
wasn’t that bad. You could eat it. We ate there only once when we were stuck
in the flats. I guess I was so glad to get out of the flats that night that I
thought anything was good. Several resident alley cats hung out at the tables.
They were the toughest things this side of Detroit. They didn’t even flinch
when Ziggy came by. Someone warned me to be careful because those cats would
easily take Ziggy out like he was a squashed fly on a windshield.
The night we had dinner, one of the cats, picked me out. I
think he figured me for a softy. He looked like a pirate. He was missing one
eye and some of his teeth but had two big fangs sticking out. His fur was
scarred up from fights. His method of intimidation was the stare. It was the
most intense thing I’ve ever seen. It was like he was putting a spell on me. I
gave him half my meal. I had to throw it at him so he wouldn’t bite a chunk out
of my hand.
As I mentioned there was no other place to go, as the
surrounding town is not safe. You were stuck here and that was it. I called it
the compound. We were surrounded by concrete walls and barbed wire and a guard
at the front entrance. It wasn’t like a gated community, as you would imagine
back home but like a penitentiary.
The bar, now that was a whole other experience. Dave
likened it to the space bar in Star Wars and I really couldn’t describe it any
better. The outside was almost as ugly as the inside. There was a brown plain
door with a round window that you couldn’t see through because it was all
blacked out. There was a handmade sign out front listing all the requirements
for entry: no bare feet, no swimsuits, must have shirts, no pets, etc.etc. I
don’t why they had so many rules. You’d think they were trying to turn people
away. Inside there was a big bar in the center. It was shaped like a boat.
It was a huge monstrosity. There were bar stools on each side and the
characters that planted themselves in those seats were much like the bar in Star
Wars. If one came in with an elephant trunk hanging from his face, I don’t
think anyone would think it out of place.
There were all nationalities, Panamanians, Americans,
Germans, and French, sitting at that bar and speaking their native languages.
There was some loud funky music blasting and smoke was in the air. There was
one bar tender and he was slow as molasses serving the drinks. These people
looked like the “living dead” and probably because they had been stuck here for
weeks waiting out the Trade Winds to die down or having repairs done. There was
a big large clock hanging from the ceiling, suspended, with no hands on it. I
guess no one wants to know the time here because it seems like an eternity.
They looked gray faced, eyes sunken in, and hardened. There was no merriment in
this place just hard-core.
In the back room was a pool table and a few guys playing
pool. The walls were worn and graphitti was scrawled on the walls. The guys
playing had cigarettes hanging from there mouths and holding Panamanian beers.
It was dark and one light bulb hanging from a cord.
 Someone came in the door and a dog snuck in at the same
time. He looked around and took a dump in the center of the floor. No one
bothered to clean it up, nor were they much interested in it. Someone left
looking for the owner to come clean it up. There were a few tables around the
perimeter of the room with more of the same. There were a couple tables with
men and their Panamanian cohort. These women looked like they’d been around a
few times. These people down on their luck and stuck.
The office was not too helpful. Roger, a Blackman was
never at the desk but behind the partition doing what, you never knew. It
always took him forever to come out to see what you wanted and he would then
have to contemplate any answer he gave back. The day I went in to buy two
Panama YC tee shirts, there was a sailboat cruiser asking him about the area.
He asked Roger if it was safe to go outside the gate and walk down the street a
block. Roger contemplated that for a long time and finally motioned his hand
back and forth and said “50-50”. The poor guy looked down on his luck. He was
skin and bones and his clothes were worn, he looked dejected. He was another
victim of the Panama Yacht Club.
We decided to go to the supermarket to get some eggs and
bread. Roger recommended the Super 99 at the new cruise ship terminal. He said
it would be safe. So we caught a taxi at the yacht club and went out into the
war zone. Outside the gate you drive down a road past a bunch of rundown
warehouses. We then passed what must be the bus terminal but there’s no
building, it’s just a bunch of brightly colored buses lined up. There must have
been about twenty buses. In Panama the bus driver has his bus custom painted
bright colors. They all have a different theme that must represent something
important to them or something they like. They don’t scrimp on the colors
either. It’s the full spectrum and in full intensity.
We passed the buses and headed into the central part of
town. It looked like Baghdad. There were dirty decrepit buildings with many
people hanging around. The unemployment statistics must be huge. Loud music
ghetto type music was blasting everywhere and it was scary. It looked like the
place had been bombed. It’s a shame because through it all I could see some of
the old colonial buildings on their last leg, overrun with the poverty and
desperateness of the area. There’s a past here that will be lost forever.
We passed the duty free zone, which is why I guess many of
the cruise ships stop here because there couldn’t be any other possible reason
for stopping. The duty free zone is like a huge city built behind tall concrete
walls with barbed wire. A large guarded gate office with armed guards screen
those coming in and going out. It looks like a huge prison. This zone is
literally like a city. It’s huge and they sell big items: furniture,
appliances, whatever you can think of and it’s not attractive. There’s nothing
fancy here, it’s just essentials. Since we weren’t in the market for a
refrigerator we passed it by.
 The taxi driver dropped us off at the shopping center where
the Super 99 market was. This is the new center that’s the drop off for
passengers from the cruise ships. I’d compare this to a cheap strip center at
home. It had a parking lot in front, which was again guarded by armed guards.
There were a few tourist shops, Internet café and the grocery store. There may
have been more, but that’s all that caught my eye. The tourist shops sold the
molas and other native crafts that we saw at the large artisan warehouse in
Panama City. This was a far cry from the quaint warehouse Panama City. The
shops were crowded with passengers from the cruise ships and they were under
surveillance by the store clerks. They watched the customers like they were
going to shop lift. It was surprising. I guess that’s the life they have
around them and they think that everyone else is the same way.
I headed to the Super 99 to complete my original objective,
to get eggs and bread. I was surprised at how nice the store was. It had so
much more than I remember at the Rey in Panama City although it was smaller in
size. I found products that were familiar from home and don’t remember seeing
them in Panama City. How could this be? With all the poverty nearby, who is
buying these things? Can’t be the few boaters that get stuck here. That will
be a mystery for me.
I picked up the items I came for and threw a few other
goodies in the cart, knowing I should hurry as Dave, Larry and Ziggy were
waiting outside in the heat. It was hard for me to rush through the store. I
can’t tell you how much I miss the grocery stores from home and my favorite
foods that we can’t get here. We headed back through the war zone and entered
our guarded area. We were trapped in the twilight zone.
We got word back from Walt and our weather window was still
for tomorrow. It would still be rough going to Isla San Andres. We decided
we’d go to Bocas Del Toro, which is almost directly West of us. We would leave
around noon the next day after we get our papers cleared. It would be an
overnite run and we should arrive in Bocas around 7:00 AM. Larry called Bocas
and got a reservation for a dock slip. It was still supposed to be rough for
the passage but Dave keeps insisting that that’s how it’s going to be and you
just have to go “suffer”.
We took a walk on the other finger pier and met up with
some people sitting on the back of an older De Fever called Lady J. The owner
was sitting with another woman in her early 60s with long hair to her waist. We
started chatting about the weather and found out they had been there for weeks
waiting out the weather. She was in an old renovated fishing boat from Seattle
area. They both talked of their experiences like ours of putting their nose out
beyond the breakwater and getting slapped around so bad they thought their boat
would break in two. We told them there was a weather window tomorrow and we
were leaving in the morning. She got all upset at the thought of this and began
a tirade about the horrors of going out there. She and someone else joined in
and seemed crazed by the idea and said we were foolish.
 The guy on the De Fever
seemed a little more interested in the idea of getting out. He wanted to know
how we figured there was a window. He even came over that evening at 8:00 when
we got our weather fax to see. I guess he was contemplating following us. His
face looked gray and worn out like the rest of the living dead here. He said in
a desperate voice “I’ve got to get outta here!” She on the other hand said she
wasn’t leaving until May until the Trade Winds settled down.
Her son, who was supposed to be a qualified captain, added
to the hysteria. He said we’d never get out tomorrow. We told him our friends
on "Uno Mas" were leaving tomorrow from San Blas and heading for Isla San Andres.
He said there was no absolute way that they could do that tomorrow. The more
they tried to scare me the more I decided I had to get out of here. I didn’t
want to get caught up in this insane hysteria that was going on at the docks
here. Not only was this a hellhole but I think the people were worn down and
discouraged that I think they were really starting to believe they’d never get
out of there. I agree that the experience coming out through the breakwater is
frightening in these conditions but I was determined to get out tomorrow. I was
going to button up our boat and we were going come hell or high water.
They wanted us to be sure and call them on the radio when
we got out there to give them a report. They said they would save our dock
space for when we turned around and came back. Larry was worried that these
people had made me more afraid to leave and I told him actually it gave me more
strength and determination to get out of here and not end up, day to day, afraid
to go out like these poor souls. I couldn’t stand the thought of spending a few
more days here, yet a month or several months like many of the others.
We buttoned up the boat as well as we could. I put towels
in the cupboards to keep glasses and dishes from moving around. I took
everything off counters and stuffed them away. I secured lamps and chairs and
put things so far away that I don’t know if I’ll ever find them. I made sure
all the cabinets were in the secure locked positions and doors were latched. I
checked the outside of the boat to make sure all was put away and secure. I
made sandwiches and other snacks to have on hand because I knew it would be too
rough to make any food. I felt like I was preparing for war. I was ready.
now on to Bocas Del Toro
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