ROAD RAGE - ROAD TERROR

panama city skyline


ADVICE FOR BUS PASSENGERS: JANUARY 18/19
Panaline coaches depart San Jose at 1 PM and are scheduled to arrive in Panama City at 5 AM. The fare is US $25.
The highway south from San Jose heads for the mountains and keeps climbing. Don't look out unless you have a head for heights. Never watch the road: oncoming traffic will scare the hell out of you.
I read a book. A truck removes our side mirror. Our driver halts on the soft shoulder. My idiot fellow passengers crowd that side of the bus to scope the drop. What they see is clouds. The bus tilts a little. I resist a desire to curl into a feetal ball.
8:30 PM – our driver swerves. Thump...We've killed a bicyclist. No lights on the bike.
An ambulance removes the corpse. Cops remove our driver He will be held six days pending investigation.
We wait for a replacement bus.
In England passengers would be in shock. Central America, dead bicyclists are standard. The small boy in the seat ahead drapes a sheet to make a play house. Even a pair of nuns smile. I keep thinking of the driver. Horror must be churning his belly. The family of the deceased - do they know he's dead? Or are they waiting up for him?
All these lives changed.
I was under a truck in Tierra del Fuego. How come I survived?
Terror almost did for me in Venezuela.
Giving up takes more courage than continuing - the shame factor.
A local bus arrives to take us to the frontier to meet a coach sent from Panama City.
I sit in the front seat and watch the driver. He drives with one hand on the wheel while jabbering into his cell phone. The bus shimmies on the soft shoulder as he overtakes a truck. An instance of murder being justified?

NYCPD AND BOOZE

SAN JOSE: JANUARY 17
A retired New York cop is a property developer. He began with rundown buildings on South Beach, Miami. Now he invests in San Jose. He owns a nine-bedroom town house that was a small hotel and two commercial buildings.
He plans opening a bar in one of the commercial buildings. Every New York cop dreams of owning a bar. The dream is a rebellion: for serving cops, bar ownership or dealing in booze is prohibited.
The ex cop is a Richard. He enjoys San Jose.
“You don't find it dangerous?”
“Nah,” Richard says – No, in English.
We drink a couple of beers while he considers.
Then, “Yeah, maybe a little.” Richard tilts his head to display the scar on the underside of his chin. A local kid knifed him, a real mess. A cosmetic surgeon worked magic.
We drink a few more beers. We briefly discuss US politics.
Were he to vote, Richard would vote Democrat – though all the Presidential candidates are full of shit.
The bar owner buys a final round. Then Richard escorts me to the Posada Amon. His nine-bedroom home is on the next block. At first glance I took him for mid-forties. Closing on sixty is correct. His father is back in Florida. They have enjoyed eighteen cruises together on cruise ships over the past few years.
Richard is a nice man, unusual...

LIFE

SAN JOSE: JANUARY 17
A Costa Rican complains of gringos owning so many hotels and bars in San Jose – the bars tourists frequent. We are drinking at a bar owned by a US citizen.
“Even the beaches are owned by foreigners,” he says. “They build walls to keep us out, Resentment is natural. Violence is natural.”
I nod commiseration.
He buys me a beer.
I listen to his complaints.
Such is life.

RAZOR WIRE CAPITAL

SAN JOSE: JANUARY17
San Jose remains the razor-wire capital of the World. A cab is the safe way into town.
I am greeted with a kiss on both cheeks from the owner of the Posada Amon. My room is ready, the room I occupied on my previous visit. “And the grandchild?”
“No grandchild.”
Her sympathy is for my daughter, “Boys are always late.”