“calle alberto navarro, senor.”

“como no, mi reina.”

mi reina? bastard. i’ve been in his taxi only seconds, and already he’s hitting on my girlfriend. he’s smooth, i’ll give him that. and handsome, in a swarthy way. but his rig’s all twisted, knobs are missing, widows are frozen open, the steering wheel’s rusted and partially crushed.

i don’t know how he drives the fucker. his foot violently punches the clutch when he shifts, like he’s trying to kill a cockroach. the taxi squeal’s and rattles. we bounce and shriek. alex’s hair and short skirt flutters wildly in the wind.

down via argentina we fly, barely missing a maid walking an iguana. at least it looks like a maid. i’m ready to vomit. i stick my head out the widow and cling to an armrest that looks as if it’s been chewed by a terrified passenger.

right about now i’d happily give alex to the driver if he’d just let me out of the taxi alive.

when we finally arrive at our apartment, the situation’s bleak; half of alex’s birthday cake, and all of the booze is gone. any fool knows, these natives are one piece of cake away from reverting to cannibalism.

“por cuba libre!” i cry, waving the bottle at the anxious crowd.

an hour later, i’m outside on the balcony holding court. the breeze off the bay of panama is cool, my ice-filled rum and coke’s cooler. judging from the empty cups lined up in front of me i’ve already had several. who knows? the evening’s become a tropical blur.

como tu libro?” a voice says.

libro? my eyebrow darts upwards. i think she means panama after hours.

“ah, bien, gracias,” i say, ” yo estoy escribiendo sobre rabiblancos,”

all the natives exchange looks. as if i’ve collectively called their sainted mothers filthy whores.

i’ve stepped in it, but i go on anyway. i tell them i’d read somewhere that rabiblanco means white butt, and comes from the days when only the rich could afford toilette paper.

“cuna de oro,” alex almost sneers. the others murmur agreement.

that’s cradle of gold. for these simple people of arrijan, a rabiblaco is any light skinned man or woman born into wealth and privilage. but it’s more than that. for them it’s anyone who’s untouchable, above the law. they have a saying down here, “en Panamá, las leyes son para el hijo de la cocinera.”

i mix another drink, and make sympathetic noises. i figure if i feign solidarity there’s still a chance i won’t be murdered in my sleep.

“quizas cosas cambiar?” i offer.

i tell them panama’s being sued by the inter american commission for human rights. perhaps a measure of justice is on the horizon? the crowd looks back at me with their vague liquid eyes. they’re not buying it.

here’s the thing: if these poor natives had their way, you’d bludgeon just one priest, poison just a few hundred jubilados, toss just one hooker off a balcony, and your whole world would come crashing down.*

how could anyone survive such scrutiny? if cash and connections cannot keep the rich from the noose of public opinion, then none of us are safe. pedophiles, embezzlers, wife beaters, and colombian drug smugglers would retire in other lands. panama’s tourist industry would be crushed.

this night ends like so many others, with me talking nonsense, and passing out on the cool tile of the bedroom floor. somehow i’ve survived another night in panama. i’m thankful for that.

i know that without sheet-cake and rum, i’d be just another blue eyed devil turning on a spit.

*inspired by harry hutton

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