Dia de Jesus.

On the corner, halfway up Via Argentina, two taxi drivers playfully banter in the shade of a tall palm. Panama City’s quiet, almost deserted. Shops are closed. There’s no tranque (traffic), no hookers, no diablo rojos prowling the streets like hungry dinosaurs. Some have left to watch [tag]Jesus[/tag] get whipped in the streets. He takes a beating in various parts of the country this time of year. Others have fled to parts unknown. As if they got word of a plague. But, I’m still here. If the plague or Jesus comes I’m ready. I’ve got the cure; Glenfiddich over ice. read more»

semi-drunk and down $40 I step out of the casino and get hit with warm rain. I dash across the busy street. Grenade-like dollops explode on my face and slam the roofs of cars on either side of Via Espania. It sounds like I’m shooting the rapids. Several Kuna Indians with brightly colored leg bands huddle in a doorway. Street vendors scramble for cover. Cars and taxis shuttle past like water bugs. read more»