If you'd be reluctant take Nicaragua home to meet your Mother, Panama City is Martin Sheens Badlands. Lock up your daughters. The schism between the haves and nots is vast, theres very little in between. Indolents stare from the mockery of their own filth whilst black tinted glass cruises passes at a sinister pace. Skyscrapers stench of money yet in their skirts shanty-sprawls scrapple in rubble. And the canal spews its American Dollars into the Pacific. American tourists looking for a slightly bigger kick than Barbados point and shoot their dutyfree cybershots from the new viewing platform at Miraflores. The mules haul and the till rings, the canal nor the city sleep.
Miraflores, Gatun Lake, The Gailliard Cut. Pretty words obscure a snakes belly of corruption and wealth. Fat men sweat in tropical suits, girls pout and sashay. Billy's got a gun. The big days the really big days, were Panamanian days. Jungle transit racing the ship, helicopter flight chase the light, streets the driver point blank refuses to take me down. All commanded by minders stuffed uncomfortably into pressed shirts. They conduct endless fervent conversation on mobiles. He grimaces with that weary look of men paid American Dollars to indulge me. Hating his life, hating me. He drinks his coffee and checks his watch and idly thinks about shooting me to shut me up.
The Kuna Indians flout garish embroidery to grapple back what's been taken away. She doesnt like me either.
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