Every morning Mari leaves the room she shares with her sisters, takes a cold shower, makes her mom breakfast, then looks out the window to see what she will need to wear. Today the skies are dark, and fat drops are flying into rusty metal buildings, turning the street outside into a milkshake of mud and water.

Inside, Mari’s eyes are wet with tears. Her sisters say Mari has been crying a lot lately. Ever since she’s come back to her past life. Ever since her boyfriend “abandoned” her.

Mornings are the worst. These are the moments when La Chorrera, a forgettable little city on the other side of the Panama Canal, feels like it could be the end of the line.

“If this is what Dios wants for me, then … ”

She buries her smooth dark face in her hands, her voice becomes a whisper. People don’t believe Mari when she tells them she’s over 40 and never married. She’s still beautiful, and this morning she’s wearing new Reeboks, jeans and a tight black top, gifts from a lover.

“I ashamed. I alone,” she says.

Mari’s not alone. Her youngest sister is frying plantains on a hotplate in the kitchen. Another sister is pulling a shift in the bakery department of a nearby supermarket. Together the sisters spend all their days cooking, cleaning, working and fussing over their 76 yr old mother, a diabetic, who is slowly going blind.

The girls adore their mother. Just last week Mari depleted her savings to pay for her mother’s laser surgery. Now she’s broke and wondering how she will pay for food. In a sense the girls have been taking care of their mother since their father left. At the time Mari was 14, the oldest, and it fell on her to manage the household and look for work.

In or out of the home, Mari has always worked. And there was always a price to pay: long hours, verbal abuse, slave wages, bosses who expected sexual favors. One night she was robbed at knife point. Another night she was raped. Still, life seemed manageable back then. She was young, beautiful and she still had hope.

“When I young, I dancing in disco and club. Many men want me and I love fucking. But I no want to be like my mother. I careful. Now I 40. I have no man, no kids, and I think, who take care of me when I old?”

Mari leans across the table and wipes food from her mother’s chin. Mari loves children. And even though she already raised her sisters she worries that she’ll never have a little girl of her own. For a time she thought she’d marry the handsome Sargent she met while working 60 hours a week in the old canal zone.

“We would fuck all night. In his barracks, in hotels. I never have sex like that before. So many orgasms. But then all American servicemen have to go. I lose my job. I lose my man. He write he want to marry. But he family no want him to marry a poor girl like me. I think no one want poor girl like me.”

That could be the self-loathing and depression talking. Two of her sisters have married gringos in the U.S. And until recently Mari lived with her gringo boyfriend in Panama City. A man she calls her “unico hombre.” By all accounts they were happy. They lived together for several years. Then the stock market and her world came crashing down.

“The economy is bad there. He lose money, and no can live in Panama anymore.” She says.

An economic downturn in the north means fewer tourists and expats, less money being sent to family or girlfriends in Central America. Money sent from the U.S. is an important part of the local economy.

If America was really the open, free society it pretended to be, Mari could simply get a tourist visa and visit. But due to strict visa rules she can’t join her boyfriend in the U.S. These days everyone in the third world is a suspected terrorist or potential welfare mom.

“I can come to U.S only if we marry. My lover, he divorced. He no want to marry again. So I here. He is there.”

She has no shortage of local suitors. You can find handsome men all over La Chorrera. But Mari and her sisters don’t trust Panamanian men. They have their reasons.

“Panamanian men no sirve,” She says.

Even with ample evidence to the contrary, Mari and her sisters believe gringos are kinder, and more likely to do the right thing. Until recently they kept their hopes alive by writing men on Adult Friend Finder, a website catering to adults looking for sex.

“No only sex. I make friends on Adult Friend Finder. Sometimes they want guide. Sometimes they want girlfriend and lover. On other sites men no write back.”

She keeps a thick stack of yellowed emails in her dresser. She yanks them out like rotted teeth, then drops them on the table. For Mari hope is fading. Thanks to a new law Adult Friend Finder, and anything rated “Adult,” is blocked from the poor. Now only the wealthy are uncensored in Panama.

“I like men on Adult Friend Finder. They help me, they fun, they treat me with respect. Now I no even have that.

She gets up and checks the window. The rain has stopped. The neighbor’s skeletal dogs are barking in the muddy street.

“There is nothing for me here,” she says.

Normally I despise this kind of cultural hubris. But they had a point. You can only listen to the accordion for so long before you want to hack your ears off with a rusty machete.

Good news. These days there are several excellent accordion-free musicians plying their trade in Panama. For example, Panamanian Rocker Cienfue, aka Camilo Navarro, has made the rotation at MTV. He’s also garnered several local awards for his music.

Ok, that may not be saying a whole lot. MTV’s unwatchable, and in Panama they give out awards like pedophiles hand out duros. Still, I think Cienfue’s creating some of the most interesting music coming out of Panama today. And I say this, knowing his fine song “Mi Colombiana” is a condemnation of the sex trade, something I celebrate like a 3 day erection.

Cienfue describes his influences like this:

“Alternative rock laced with Panamanian folklore, shamanism and social lyrical content. In the interior of Panama, an instrument (the Mejoranera) exists that’s integral to our Folklore, a rudimentary 5 string guitar, whose manufacture goes back to colonial times.”

You can hear and see the Mejoranera played on Cienfue’s song “Este Amanecer Hasta Amanecer” below. Good song. But I still prefer the killer guitar on “Macho de Monte Suite, or the great vibe and views of Panama on “Terroristas Tercermundistas.”

If you were extremely lucky you caught Cienfue at the Fiesta de Musica last June over in Casco Antigua. But in case you missed it, I’ve posted a couple of his music videos below.

Mi Colombiana

Este Amanecer Hasta Amanecer

Terroristas Tercermundistas

Once, while sitting in Manolos waiting for my sancocho to arrive, I got bored and began counting ants. The ants were getting stuck on the dirty table top making it easy to get an accurate count. On my way out I smugly informed my waitress there were exactly 11 ants on my table.

It wasn’t until after I got home I realized I’d added 2 flies and 1 silverfish into my calculation, thus inflating the number of ants I’d claimed were stuck to my table. I would like to apologize to my waitress and the owners of Manolos for any confusion or embarrassment my remarks may have caused.

Another time, I flippantly told my girl baked plantain looked like monkey penis. I understand now this was culturally insensitive. I would like to publicly apologize to Panama’s plantain growers, and my girlfriend’s brother, who, it turns out, needed a monkey penis transplant after he was attacked by a vengeful Colombiana.

Speaking of Colombians. My portrayal of Colombian men as machete wielding thugs, and Colombian women as silicone stuffed whores may have strayed a bit over the line. Now that I think on it, I shouldn’t have implied Panamanian women live to get pregnant, play the lottery, and get their hair done. Lo siento.

Too many times I’ve glamorized the effects of Abuelo and Flor de Cana. I would like to sincerely apologize for getting drunk and exposing myself during Carnival of ‘05, ‘06′ ‘07 and ‘08. That should not have happened. And I regret screaming “Can a gringo get a reach around!” as I ran naked through the holiday crowd.

In 2006 I was “dating” a massage therapist named Ana when I inadvertently inserted the Cojito penis into the wrong opening. I would like to apologize to Ana, the excellent staff at Oasis, the makers of KY Petroleum Jelly, and my sainted girlfriend, who stood by me, even though I am in the final stages of untreated syphilis, and continue to have unprotected sex with random hookers.

To the Nica stripper I dated for 2 months while living in San Jose: I may have given you the impression I was marriage minded, disease free, rational, and solvent. That was wrong of me and I am sorry.

To my lawyer: I understand now that it’s part of the culture for professionals to show up an hour late to every meeting, refuse to take client calls, and charge 5 times the going rate in the U.S. I am deeply sorry for calling you an “embarrassment.” My bad.

And finally, to the ancient Kuna woman who begs with a Styrofoam cup over on Via Espania: I regret chiding you for your environmentally unfriendly use of Styrofoam, and for telling you I was broke. The truth is, you’re probably not contributing to global warming, and my pockets were stuffed with cash that day.

“It’s been 110 degrees for 3 days straight,” the van-man says.

That would be perfect if I was in town to cure meat.

“Take me to the bone yard my good man - and step on it.”

He shoots me a confused look.

“We only go to Sun City,” he says.

“Close enough. But hurry man. I have delicate skin.”

My van-man’s a retiree from the Midwest. A nice enough guy. But it doesn’t take me long to realize he’s got issues.

“These damn Mexican immigrants,” he says, shaking his big red head at the pickup full of Latinos on our left. “They’ve ruined the economy. But thank god for Sheriff Joe. He’s not giving them to the government for deportation. He’s rounding them up and throwing them in jail.”

Sheriff Joe Arpaio, the son of immigrants, is known to some as America’s toughest sheriff, and to others as a liar, bully, and megalomaniac. According to the local paper Sheriff Joe has been raiding local businesses, and pulling over anyone that looks a bit too swarthy. It’s an illegal practice. But …

“We don’t mind,” the van-man says, his gold flag pin glimmering under the city lights. “As long as we get rid of these damn illegals.”

It’s perhaps one of Arizona’s greatest mysteries. Midwesterners move here, hire Mexican gardeners, painters, cleaning ladies, food servers, mechanics etc., and then begin whining about Mexicans slipping over the border. You have to wonder why they’re too cheap to pay for white help. And why they think anyone but a desperate immigrant would be willing to change their dirty diapers.

I can see the van-man’s milky eyes watching me in the rear view mirror. He seems dangerously excited. As if someone pulled off his hood on the way to a rally. I need to get out of here before I punch him in the back of the head. I tell him I need a drink.

“No stops,” he says.

“Were you expecting a tip?” I say.

We stop. When I get back, I drain a Corona, burp, and tell him that even if I believed immigrants damage the economy, George Bush and the republican party have done much more damage.

“Billions upon billions wasted,” I say. “Perhaps we should round up Republicans and throw them in jail.”

Then I hold out an olive branch.

“Let’s stop for Mexican. My treat.”

I could really go for a burrito about now. I haven’t eaten since I left Panama. But I figure the irony is too much for him. He declines. It’s about 11pm when we finally roll into the bone yard. Immediately, I crack open another beer. Cold beer is the only thing when you’re dealing with old people.

I left Panama only 12 hrs ago and already I miss the rain, the food, my girl, and the legal poker. Here I mostly play poker online or watch it on TV. Honestly, I’m afraid to go out. If sadist Sheriff Joe doesn’t bust you, the heat doesn’t kill you, or you aren’t torn apart by rabid coyotes, then you’ll go broke filling the tank with gas.

About a 6 pack later I dial up the TV to find Gus Hansen matched up against JJ Liu, Beth Shak, Erica Schoenberg, Vanessa Rousso, and Clonie Gowen. Most of these sexy ladies play at my site Full Tilt Poker. The cool thing about Full Tilt is they give you a killer $600 sign-up bonus and let you play against some of the hottest women of poker.

My favorite poker babe is Liz Lieu. She’s from Vietnam. You ever notice how no one complains about all these sexy Asian immigrants damaging our economy?

I must warn you. There are other, less reputable sites, claiming that Jennifer “Jennicide” Leigh is the hottest poker babe out there. She’s the chubby Aryan in the gallery below.

Forget about her. Full Tilt Poker has Lynette Chan, Erica Schoenberg, Clonie Gowen, Amanda “Mandy B” Baker and they’re one of the few trusted sites with the stones to remain open to Americans.

Good poker, hot girls, and cold beer, that’s how my trip ends. Now if I could just find someone to make me a god damn burrito.

You can check out the sexy women of poker here.

Or play against Cojito at Full Tilt Poker here

Search parties found Costa Rica’s missing energy minister Saturday suffering from a nasty bite by a wild tapir after he got lost in a jungle reserve two days earlier. - Rueters

While no one’s willing to go on record and talk openly about the smug tapir in our living room, there appears to be mounting evidence that highly-placed government officials are being targeted in these vicious attacks.

This year alone there have been numerous reports of alleged animal mayhem: former Justice Minister Olga Golcher of Panama, (smeared with howler monkey feces), former Colombian Justice Minister Alberto Santofimio (thrown off an angry burro and nearly buggered to death in the streets of Cartagena), The Nicaraguan Minister of Agriculture and Forestry Mario A. De Franco (skinned, and made into a handsome set of luggage by a vengeful crocodile).

Police report they are investigating other possible attacks: Health Minister Carlos Vallejos of Peru, (head-butted by a llama on his way home from a brothel), Costa Rica’s Planning Minister, Kevin Casas Zamora (suffered broken legs when he was ambushed by a leatherback turtle), Roberto Dobles, Costa Rica’s Environment Minister (had his toes eaten off by an iguana after he passed out from too much guaro), and Panama’s Minister of Tourism and Salsa, Rubén Blades (dragged out to sea by a bottle nose dolphin while skinny dipping off Bocas Del Toro).

Word is officials will immediately begin installing security cameras in all national parks. Later plans include hiring naturalist bodyguards for all government officials until Central and South America’s dangerous national parks can be sanitized (clear cut and burned), and all the animals rounded up and put into zoos where they belong.

San Jose Costa Rica - I’m in the middle of another liquid lunch at El Patio when the waiter checks in.

“Listo senor?”

“No, traigame otra cuba libre por favor.” I tell him.

My table’s near the street. An odd assortment of mostly light-skinned people pass by: gringos, ticos, bums, old men hustling Cubans.

I have mixed feelings about San Jose. There’s danger and filth on every street corner. Still, it feels good to be back. The air is cool, the women stunning, and I’ve just found “Ask The Dust,” over at Mora Books.

I caress the worn paper cover as if it was an old lover. It cost me 3000 colones. That’s about $7. Cheap here. But in Nicaragua I could get a bottle of Flor de Cana, and still have enough cash left over to rent Daniel Ortega’s stepdaughter for the night.

As silly as it sounds, I need this book, and all the rum. It’s keeping me from getting angry with the dark-skinned Nica who’s holding up my lunch.

When she finally arrives, Nita’s bristling with energy. She drapes a leather pouch over the chair, takes off her wrap-around stripper shades, sits, and folds her arms across her chest.

“You’ve changed.” she says

She sneers at the book, as if she’s just caught me in bed with a Mexican whore.

I’ve changed? The words swim in my head. No one’s ever accused me of that before.

“All you care about is books. You always read, and write on computer. Ella es tu amante.”

“I like to think rum’s my mistress. The computer’s for work.”

“Talk to me. Why you no talk to me?”

I lean back in my seat, and watch a gecko chase insects on the bamboo ceiling. A shaft of sunlight stabs at me from the street.

“What did you want to talk about?” I finally say.

“There’s no sex. You no want me anymore.”

“We had sex the day before yesterday.”

“Not like before. You don’t want me like before.”

“You mean when you were a stripper?”

I let that hang there while I finish my drink and flag down the waiter. I really don’t want to have this conversation. I just want to read, and enjoy my time here.

“Is it because I’m fat?”

“Fat?”

This is something many men fail to consider when they lure a stripper off the pole. Stripping is very physical, it keeps women lean, and financially independent. I’ve known women who gave up the life, a year later I almost couldn’t recognize them. They were 50 lbs heavier, and broke.

“Other men tell me I’m not fat”

“Then it’s settled. You’re not fat.”

“That’s why I started the gym” she says.

“You’re not fat” I say. And she isn’t. Not even close. She’s just gone from a perfect 95lbs to a healthy 125lbs. Most gringas would kill for that.

But this is not about other women, or weight. It’s the whole deal. The I can’t find a job, stay fit, entertain myself, do anything without the stupid gringo’s help deal. Right now I despise her. I despise myself.

When we first met Nita was poor and just over from Nicaragua. Almost 50% of the population lives in poverty in Nicaragua. Many of them end up in Costa Rica looking for work.

It was a mutual attraction. I asked for nothing Nita didn’t already have. Be yourself I said. I’m easy. You don’t need to clean or cook for me. Just do what makes you happy.

And I was honest. I told her I was a writer. I told her how I was, and what I liked. I never asked her to stop working. In fact, I advised against it.

And now to learn that what I do is not enough. That I need to sex her up 3 times a day like before, instead of 3 times a week, that the time I spend writing, and reading is somehow a betrayal.

It’s too much. A man tells you what’s expected. You say cool, or fuck off. There’s nothing workable in between.

So we go back to our room in Bario Amon and fuck. Outside of a marriage proposal, or tossing her into the street, it’s the only way to shut her up.

When we finish Nita sprawls on the damp sheet and surfs the channels on the TV. She’s happy now that she’s cum. As if an orgasm could really change anything.

I crack open a bottle of cold Imperial from the mini fridge, and go back to my book. I’m happy now that I have something more to write about.

As if my writing could really mean anything.

Sexo • Chicas

the hood: this apartment is in an older, structurally sound, 6 story building, located in the desirable el cangrejo area. centrally located. you won’t need a car. however, there’s secure parking if you want one.

calle alberto navarro is a safe tree-lined street with easy walking to restaurants, bars, coffee shops, Chinese market, ATM’s, banks, drug store, supermarket, Spanish schools, gym, bakeries, and casinos.

This is one of the very best neighborhoods in Panama City. and calle Alberto Navarro is easily the best street in el cangrejo.

the crib: Renovated (new wiring, hardwood doors, plumbing, cabinets, fixtures etc), freshly painted, 3 bed, 2 bath apartment on the 4th floor (tree level). it gets a killer sea breeze and most times there’s no need for a fan or air-conditioner.

Secure parking, low monthly fee, video intercom, elevator, gas hot water, air conditioning, good neighbors, pets OK, cable TV, high speed internet, nice balcony and bar area.

actual size: as i noted, there’s one large bedroom with a double closet and master bath (full shower), one smaller bedroom with full closet, a 3rd bedroom/den/office, a smaller maid’s bathroom (full shower), dinning area, kitchen, laundry area. also, many owners choose to enclose the balcony to make the living area even larger. total interior size equals 96 meters squared.

Update: I saw your ad in craiglist. How much are all of the costs, taxes, condo fees etc? Is there security in the building? Is there an elevator? Does it have a pool? Any other info will be appreciated.

Right now there are no taxes on the apartment. But I believe there will be taxes for the next owner. A rough guess would be about $350 hundred a year. The condo fee is only $100 a month. That includes gas, water, building maintenance, exterior insurance, management, and the salary of our doorman.

There is also an $80 a month assessment that’ll run for another year. The assessment is for a new elevator. The existing elevator works, but is an older model. There is no security (other than a video cam), because it’s cheaper, and safer without them.

There’s no pool. The maintenance fee’s for buildings with pools is typically over $300 a month. And few people swim in Panama pools. Maybe because it gets so hot and humid the water turns into sancocho, or maybe because they live in a tropical paradise and can just head out to the beach.

this apartment’s value is due to the location not its features or furnishings. We’ve lived here for 5 years. This is a great location: safe, easy, central, cheap. And if any buyer doesn’t like something - anything, it’s not a big deal to change it. Labor is cheap in Panama. And it’s easier to repair or upgrade something than it is to find an affordable apartment in a great location

Contact: the apartment can be seen anytime. use the Panama After Hours contact page or the comments section below to inquire or ask questions.

selling furnished or unfurnished: $99,800

Biracial caramel BBW Beauty - Open to Travel

I know. Sounds almost too good to be true.

For only $1k plus travel expenses, Vee, a mixed race BBW, promises to rock your weekend in the Caribbean. I don’t know how she came up with the thousand dollar price tag. Maybe she’s charging by the pound.

In fairness, the airlines do have new weight restrictions. If you plan to stay longer with Vee the price goes up. Which is fair. No doubt she’s as good in bed as she is beautiful. Although you may have a fight on your hands for the last Dove Bar.

It could get ugly. And you want your vacation to be relaxing. So my advice is travel solo. It’s easy to meet women of color south of the border. There’s absolutely no reason to drag a girl with low blood sugar along.

A thousand dollars goes a long way in Central America, South America, and the Caribbean. For the price of a nice dinner, a couple of mojitos, and a new pair of shoes the local girls will follow you anywhere.

On the net - Craigslist