Panama: The Corridor of Despair

Pology Magazine - Adventures in Travel and World Culture.

Photo: Juan Jose Gutierrez Barrow

Photo: Robert Lerich

Panama: The Corridor of Despair (cont.)

Later, when I was back in my house tidying up and feeling bad for the young couple, she came over again, saw my face and said, "Don´t worry, that won´t happen to you. You have a cement floor and a zinc roof."

The couple moved in with the husband’s parents, and people gave them some clothes. People said it could happen to anyone, at any time, because there is no rain and the winds are so fierce. The dry season is dangerous for the palm huts, but in the wet season there are three inches of muddy water on every floor.

There was once a campaign to change Coibita to Esperanza, meaning hope, but it didn’t catch on. People who really want to be polite refer to it simply as el sector.

“I have some ideas,” I tell the local Representante, “about, um, el sector.”

“Oh really?” he says, leaning in.

“I was thinking that we should find a way to take advantage of all the tourist traffic that comes by on the road. Maybe we could set up a weekend market, where people could sell crafts or food or anything they have to sell. Maybe there could be a place for tourists to stop and meet some of the local people and learn about their lives.”

“Wow,” he says. “You American girls are cute when you have ideas. But let me tell you what I learned at the tourism seminar I attended last month. You have to know the tourist. What are his needs, what are his interests? See, the tourist who drives down that road is going to Coiba, and he wants to get there as fast as he can. He wants to sleep in a clean bed and eat good food. He doesn’t care about the local culture, and he doesn’t want to buy empanadas and chicha from any roadside stand. If you let him catch a fish, and then fry it up for him, maybe he’ll enjoy that. They’re starting to do that down at the beaches. Not with rice though, the tourist doesn’t like to eat much rice. Salad, and bread, those are important to have. And special drinks, like piña coladas.”

I frown.

“What you’re talking about, learning about the culture and everything, that’s what they call ethno-tourism. But that only works for the indigenous. You know, how they have their dances, their body paint, their loincloths. The women don’t wear shirts in some of those places. The tourist likes that.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“It’s true. You see, you have to know the tourist. La Soledad, el sector, where you live, has nothing to offer the tourist. It’s as simple as that. Coiba Island is going to explode soon. I mean, it’s going to start attracting more tourists than the Canal. Have you been to Coiba yet? Why on Earth not? It’s gorgeous. My brother-in-law and I are starting to invest in it. Hotels, restaurants, luxury spas, that island is going to bring in billions.”

“All the more reason to try to attract tourists driving down the road!” I say.

“The road?” he laughs. “No, no, my dear. They’ll come direct from Panama City. By plane.”

An empty cattle truck passes each morning at 5:00 to pick up men and women from Coibita. Those who stand close to the sides of the pen can hold onto the bars. The ones in the middle have to lean on each other. The truck takes them down the road that leads to the beaches, but drops them off at the coffee plantation. When it brings them home thirteen hours later, they are each four dollars richer.

I watch the fish trucks pass, with their blue and red coolers and rooftop speakers, the amplified voices of their drivers crying “¡Pescado-pescado-pescado-pescado!” as rapidly as they can. When the banana man drives by, his cry is long and mournful, “¡Guineeeeeeeeeeeeeooooooooooooo!” The red truck that sells watermelons has a little siren, and the driver says, “¡Sandia!” just like Celia Cruz says “¡Azucar!” —like it isn’t something to eat, but a way to move your hips.

I see the priest go by in his white pick-up truck. What he sees is a white girl lost in Coibita. I am being asked for money, for milk for a baby. I am saying no without knowing why.

After fifteen months, I move out of the Corridor, north to a different village, hidden away from any road. And when I go down to the beaches, cramped in a mini-bus full of uniformed schoolchildren, I look out the window as I pass La Soledad. I watch the slideshow of still frames and try to imagine what it would be like not to recognize the faces, not to think of any names. My old friends are sitting on their wooden benches and swinging in their hammocks, or standing and staring at the passing cars. They are not posing for pictures at all. They are watching a parade. I imagine them turning to each other and saying, “One of those tourists looked like Lorena.”

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