A local Ngobe Indian who lives on this Island, Isla Solarte, showed up on my doorstep last Friday looking for work. The landscaping had suffered from years of neglect so I thought I'd give him a go. I pointed out some trees that needed branches removed and was met with the response that he had no machete with him. I handed him a very sharp 26" machete and he walked down the hill, climbed 30 feet up a trunk with nothing but splayed toes and his hands, stood on slender branches and pruned, hacking through three inch limbs in a minute or two then descending, chopping them into smaller lengths and hauling down to the water beneath the mangroves. There was a flurry of activity for a couple of hours then I made the mistake of inviting him to take a rest and have some water. It was difficult to get him to resume any meaningful activity. I had some tasks I needed to take care of in town so I headed out. Upon returning a little after five he indicated that I owed him for fifteen dollars for eight hours work. He had done nothing in my absence, claiming that there was too much rain. He took the new machete and sheath that I gave him earlier along with a full days pay for a couple of hours asking for a beer. No, I don't have any beer here, would you like some iced tea or water? He told me Geoffery always had beer and drank it warm, that would be ok. I told him I thought there were some in the cooler on the boat and he could have one.
The following Monday he returned and with much coaxing put in about three hours of actual labor, contented to sit on the deck, smoke cigarettes and gaze out out on the water. As I continually had to point out the same trees that I had previously indicated needed trimming and with more than a little reluctance he half-heartedly resumed work. I was heading into town anyway, I offered him a ride. He accepted and used the opportunity to buy some laundry soap. Six miles is a fair haul in a dugout canoe.
On Tuesday I tended to some business in Changuinola, leaving shortly after sunset and not reappearing until near sunset. The "worker" was here and told me he had worked all day and wanted another $15. I couldn't figure out what he had done. He indicated that he had cut down some grass and swept out the bodega. Maybe an hours work, if that. I gave him yet another $15, took his mother's number as he doesn't have a cell phone and told him I would call if I ever needed him again. He left, looking very dejected as I was his sole source of money. He raises cattle on 40 hectare, 100 acres of land about a five minute boat ride east of here, but it is hard to barter a cow for laundry detergent.
Most of the Ngobe laborers here are strong reliable workers. Leave it to me to find a slackard. Maybe I'll find another worker, maybe I'll invite him back, maybe I'll just do the work myself. I know one thing for sure, he'll go a month with no income and if I do give him an opportunity he better deliver.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Herpers
While attempting to supervise the installation of a security system at one of my most frequent haunts I was approached by Worth a local. Intrigued by the fact that a friend of mine mentioned the fact that I had seen a crocodile a couple of nights ago he came over to talk to me about it. Turns out he is quite a herper himself and a former snake breeder. I joined him and Erwin,who much to my delight revealed that he is also a herper. Erwin has introduced three new species of frogs to science. We agreed we all had to go on a snake hunting expedition in the near future. A couple of the expats have expressed doubts that I actually saw a croc, but some locals have seen them on rare occasions. I can tell the difference between a croc, an alligator (there are none here) and a caiman (there are plenty) but after a few minutes Worth was telling me that he knew where lots of crocs around here and stated that he once saw one near Saigon, a neighborhood just north of town on Isla Colon.
We spent a while discussing the large number of reptiles each of us has owned and made non-committal but enthusiastic plans to conduct some deep jungle snake hunting. Erwin expressed a far greater eagerness to capture a couple of bushmasters. I've seen but one of these snakes, in Bolivia, and I don't might saying that a twelve foot viper is better viewed on the far side of piece of plate glass.
We shall see where this goes.
We spent a while discussing the large number of reptiles each of us has owned and made non-committal but enthusiastic plans to conduct some deep jungle snake hunting. Erwin expressed a far greater eagerness to capture a couple of bushmasters. I've seen but one of these snakes, in Bolivia, and I don't might saying that a twelve foot viper is better viewed on the far side of piece of plate glass.
We shall see where this goes.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Boating
Around Solarte
With keys to my boat in hand I had to go somewhere, anywhere, just burn some gas and explore. I headed out from behind Tropical Paradise past Hospital Point on the west end of Isla Solarte, so named as it was the site of the hospital for United Fruit Company when it had its headquarters on Isla Colon. A mile to the north lay Old Town on the western tip of Isla Bastimentos, known locally as Jurassic Park densely inhabited on the west end, the end nearest Bocas Town. Old Town is almost exclusively populated by Caribbeanos, blacks that came to this region before the turn of the last century, when this was part of Colombia. I continued down past a vacant stretch of the island, unoccupied by anything but birds, frogs, capybara, snakes and lizards. Across from Red Frog beach, I neared the shore to look at the house I was to close on the next day. On the east end of the island I meandered in crystal clear waters rich with fish through mangroves. Now and again a wooden shack, built over the water served as the residence of a Ngobe Indian. The Ngobe took up residence in the archipelago in the 1950's, formerly dwelling on the mainland, usually in the mountains, rich with game and currently one king, the sole remaining king in the western hemisphere.The run south was short but slow, I was just sucking in the view. I proceeded back south southeast on the south side of the mangrove islands, rising from the sea bed and hosting crabs, snapper and all manner of young aquatic life. Deciding it was time to head back I picked up speed. The water colors continually changed from deep blue to dare I say light aquamarine to near clear the color influenced by the depth and the composition of the sea bed. I soon found myself rapidly upon a patch of water that was but a couple of feet deep as indicated by the depth finder my eyes had not deceived me. I throttled back completely and made it past apparently unscathed. Hmmm, the depth finder no longer works, I'll have to check on the transponder later. Back to town I was joined by a couple of women and we headed out again to the house, sat on the deck and returned to town.
Lomo Partida
I took three passengers to Lomo Partida a remote island on the south end of the archipelago. Seven years ago there was nothing there but Indians, snakes, crocs, monkeys, various small wild cats and jaguars. Now it is gringoville. The round trip was about 40 miles, not a bad days boating. I'll cover that more in another entry.Off to Town
Needing supplies, I boarded the boat on the morning following my first night at my new house. Hayu joined me and then hopped off at the last minute. The tide was out, being but 18" it is not significant, neither was the two foot chop. Frequently, I dare say usually the water is as flat as a pond, disturbed by little more than ripples. About a hundred yards off the justly famous snorkeling spot in front of hospital point I saw a fully exposed coral head directly ahead of me. Six feet long and directly ahead but 10 feet, I throttled back again and braced for the impact that would surely rip a hole in the bottom of the boat and deprive me of a good deal of dentition. Riding high on two swells I again thought I had escaped disaster, but now the engine revved another thousand RPM than it was capable of previously. Ok, a chunk of prop must have been torn off. After docking I raised the motor, the skeg on the outboard was undamaged but a couple of inches of the tip of one blade was now decorating the coral. Ah well, the prop was overpitched anyway, I had planned to replace it with the 14" x 13 prop that came with the boat.Prop Replacement
The following day, I took the preferred prop into town and with the help of a friend, who has a satisfactory collection of tools replaced the prop. The new prop certainly allowed the motor to operate in the power zone, 5k-6k RPM and with a load of four people pushed through the water at an improved rate of near 17 knots. I dropped off three at Red Frog and headed home. At 6000 RPM I proceeded by myself at a slower rate than I formerly managed at 4,200 RPM. Damn. I guess I'm going to have to pop for a new prop. The next day I put the damaged prop back on. At least this way I could cruise at 17.8 knots at 4,800 RPM.Rain
Lying in bed, I heard the rain, starting without notice. I walked down the stairs to check on the boat. A bumper lay in the stern, atop the float lever for the bilge pump. I moved the bumper to the shelf attached to the stern and the bilge pump kicked to life. Good thing I checked.Gas Repair and Wildlife
Two days with no propane I popped into town to pick up a propane specialist to tell me why nothing was working after I replaced my propane tank. As I got the boat on plane, water flowed from the bilge into the uncovered stern. Ensuring that no one was around, I reduced speed to about 12 knots and walked to the back to pull the plug to the passive drain, nothing much more than a hole in the boat with a simple plug, not much more than one would use to reseal a wine bottle that had not been emptied, a concept which eludes people on islands. Holding the plug so that it wouldn't get lost and just as importantly so I wouldn't forget to replace it I cruised for a while while hundreds of gallons of sea water met its intended destination. The boat having been drained, I pulled into Casa Verde, located the technician, a friend and was ready to set sail. A pair of sisters, one of whom runs a resort on Bastimentos tagged along for a free ride. Hugging the shore of Bastimentos to avoid the shallows in the middle of the channel. What was that? "An iguana" to much laughter. Strong swimmers it was but a quarter mile off shore, apparently coming to visit me on my island. After the repairs were effected I returned to town to drop off my friend and the technician. The night was moonless and the sun sets rapidly in the tropics, it was not going to get any darker. My flashlight, strobing at 200 lumens made me the most visible object on the water. The boat died, sounding like it was out of gas. I had just filled up earlier in the day. What the hell? Turns out the rubber tube that comes from the tank had rubbed against the bumper which I had relocated the prior evening and had a small hole that was treated with pressure from Walter's thumb until we made it to dock at which time the damaged portion was cut off and the end reattached. With the lights of old town in view I kept a respectful distance from Hospital Point. I hung around for a bit and headed back out using my flashlight to check the GPS, the water, the gas line. Navigating by lights on shore is a really bad idea. Yup, the house on the point had its light out. Had I the first house with a light on as a reference point I would have beached the boat.I received a phone call. "Are you back home yet?" "No, man, I'm going slowly." I returned to my vigilance. Shortly I saw a large log floating in the water. No, it wasn't a log, it was a large crocodile. Not a five or six foot caiman but a full blown croc. Holy Shit! I made my way home without further incident. The stars were radiant in the cloudless sky, a view I could not appreciate with all other concerns at hand. Fish of some species I know not jumped
Conclusions
I need a bigger motor. The bulb on GPS needs to be replaced. A spare plug, a spare bilge pump. A boat is not a luxury, it's five miles to the nearest store, by water, there are none on the Isla Solarte and walking through the jungle would not be possible if there were.Catching Up
Where does all the time go? Lot's of things to catch up on, from my new little puppy, close encounter with a coral head on my boat, nearly hit a crocodile in an inky black night, landscaping with machetes, computer repairs, how the utilities work. I've only been in this house ten days, but they've been busy, by island standards. Another perfect day in paradise, I'll see what I can catch up on this evening.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Puppy from Lomo Partida
A couple of weeks ago a new group appeared on Facebook, "Bocas Buy and Sell".
A few days later a local ex-pat posted that she had puppies for sale. A few minutes later we were exchanging messages then phone calls. Hayu needed a playmate. The owner, Michelle, offered to bring one to town of the three remaining available from a litter of seven or eight. I preferred to check out all the puppies and make my choice. A few days later Michelle was coming to town, to have a tooth pulled from one of her workers. A couple of friends and I decided that it was a good day for a long boat ride so we headed out behind Bocas Paradise, a hotel and restaurant and met Michelle on the dock. Her boat was loaded down with five 35 pounds of dog food and a great deal of other supplies. The worker was anxious to get home and get on with not working so he was left in her faster boat and Michelle came with us.
The four of us proceeded to her farm in Lomo Partida. Lomo Partida is out there on the edges, an appropriate place for a woman whose interests vary from permaculture to string theory, who has traveled through Tanzania and decided it was her destiny to create a permaculture farm on the outskirts of an already exotic location and is as likely to have a monkey on her head as not. Michelle came to Panama seven years ago and created an organic farm on the other end of this archipelago the only gringo in a land rich with wildlife and inhabited nearly exclusively by mestizos, a mixture of Spanish and Indian. Our first way point was a dip between two hills referred to as "Split Hill". About ten miles into the trip we wandered around mangroves. Michelle indicated that all routes lead safely through the mangroves in easily navigable waters. Ngobe Indians fished from their little dugouts or were were on their way to parts unknown. From a whole lot of nothing but sea, mangroves and jungle a gringo village appeared. Large yachts were moored, a big Hatteras, "There's Scott's boat. It's for sale only $200,000." Strange, I thought Scott had poured a great deal more into restoring the vessel. Something more akin to a small ship than a yacht enormous, "That's Mike's boat". Michelle adamantly corrected that it was not Mike's but his wife's.
View Trip to Puppy Land in a larger map
We moored at the end of a dock upon which sat a lovely that roofed guest room constructed of Cana Fistula wood, walls that rose above the eves but far short of the roof to allow the cool breeze into the the room. The space between the top of the walls and the roof was strung with fishing line to keep out bats, an appropriate precaution in an area inhabited by vampire bats. "This is wonderful! Who built it?" "I did." Whoa, my hats off to you. Next the hat was off to a monkey, not as a gesture of respect, but because the monkey wished it so. A capuchin monkey rules the place. On to see the puppies. An ascending boardwalk provided a serpentine path up the hill punctuated by kodak moment spots with benches. Each bench was employed by our hostess as an invitation to rest from climbing and have a cigarette. We arrived at a series of small cabins used as guest quarters and rental units and met momma and the puppies. Seven bundles of fluffiness and a monkey. Monkey on my head, on the roof, up a tree, on my head, mounting a puppy, swinging off a branch, on my head, wrestling a puppy, a non stop simian sideshow.
I invited myself to see Michelle's "shack" in the jungle. We entered through an open dining room with half walls and a ceiling and a table adequate for many guests. The rooms flowed into one another with little ceremony, devoid of ceilings, better for the open-ness and breeze. The house was simply a masterpiece of unconventional, open living that reflected Michelle's spirit, constructed of wood from a wild tobacco tree. At the rear of the house was a small bedroom, with a curtain for a door, overlooking the slope to the edge of the sea, the sea stretching to the mainland and rising to the mountains.
We returned to the puppies, coming and going, under the boardwalk, Now three, now four, six, four, three and, of course a monkey in the middle of it all. It was getting time to go. One puppy was a bit weary of the monkey and the little dog named Jezebel came out from beneath the board walk and sent the monkey on his way. Michelle had chosen wisely. I paid my $25 and taking the puppy in my arms started the descent toward the dock while the monkey climbed my back, swung from my free hand and climbed on my head while Nikelda took pictures of my abuse and Stephen laughed at the whole process. Down at the dock the monkey boarded the boat, gave everything an inspection and decided that it was in ship shape and hopped off the boat. We sailed off and encountered more Ngobe in cayucos. I wanted to buy a couple of the small boats for putzing around near my house so Nikelda asked two women in a cayuco if it was for sale. They looked at us as though we were from another dimension. They looked at each other. They looked at us again. The looked at each other. Now it appeared as though they were thinking about it. How often does some guy come by in a boat and offer one money for a little dugout canoe? Probably a once in a lifetime event down here. Nikelda asked again. There was a long pause and they indicated that the boat was not for sale.
I returned to town, dropped off my passengers and took the puppy to her new house.
I have three puppies looking for a good home ~ $25 each. All have been wormed and seen by the vets, are in great health ~ the only consideration is that they are going to be a bit on the HUGE side. Mother is a US bred Lab mixed with brindle Boxer (Laboxers!) weighing in around 90lbs, Father is a Rottweiler. Let me know ~ they are officially weaned, gentle, and accustomed to playing with monkeys. 6482-XXXX
A few days later a local ex-pat posted that she had puppies for sale. A few minutes later we were exchanging messages then phone calls. Hayu needed a playmate. The owner, Michelle, offered to bring one to town of the three remaining available from a litter of seven or eight. I preferred to check out all the puppies and make my choice. A few days later Michelle was coming to town, to have a tooth pulled from one of her workers. A couple of friends and I decided that it was a good day for a long boat ride so we headed out behind Bocas Paradise, a hotel and restaurant and met Michelle on the dock. Her boat was loaded down with five 35 pounds of dog food and a great deal of other supplies. The worker was anxious to get home and get on with not working so he was left in her faster boat and Michelle came with us.
The four of us proceeded to her farm in Lomo Partida. Lomo Partida is out there on the edges, an appropriate place for a woman whose interests vary from permaculture to string theory, who has traveled through Tanzania and decided it was her destiny to create a permaculture farm on the outskirts of an already exotic location and is as likely to have a monkey on her head as not. Michelle came to Panama seven years ago and created an organic farm on the other end of this archipelago the only gringo in a land rich with wildlife and inhabited nearly exclusively by mestizos, a mixture of Spanish and Indian. Our first way point was a dip between two hills referred to as "Split Hill". About ten miles into the trip we wandered around mangroves. Michelle indicated that all routes lead safely through the mangroves in easily navigable waters. Ngobe Indians fished from their little dugouts or were were on their way to parts unknown. From a whole lot of nothing but sea, mangroves and jungle a gringo village appeared. Large yachts were moored, a big Hatteras, "There's Scott's boat. It's for sale only $200,000." Strange, I thought Scott had poured a great deal more into restoring the vessel. Something more akin to a small ship than a yacht enormous, "That's Mike's boat". Michelle adamantly corrected that it was not Mike's but his wife's.
View Trip to Puppy Land in a larger map
We moored at the end of a dock upon which sat a lovely that roofed guest room constructed of Cana Fistula wood, walls that rose above the eves but far short of the roof to allow the cool breeze into the the room. The space between the top of the walls and the roof was strung with fishing line to keep out bats, an appropriate precaution in an area inhabited by vampire bats. "This is wonderful! Who built it?" "I did." Whoa, my hats off to you. Next the hat was off to a monkey, not as a gesture of respect, but because the monkey wished it so. A capuchin monkey rules the place. On to see the puppies. An ascending boardwalk provided a serpentine path up the hill punctuated by kodak moment spots with benches. Each bench was employed by our hostess as an invitation to rest from climbing and have a cigarette. We arrived at a series of small cabins used as guest quarters and rental units and met momma and the puppies. Seven bundles of fluffiness and a monkey. Monkey on my head, on the roof, up a tree, on my head, mounting a puppy, swinging off a branch, on my head, wrestling a puppy, a non stop simian sideshow. I invited myself to see Michelle's "shack" in the jungle. We entered through an open dining room with half walls and a ceiling and a table adequate for many guests. The rooms flowed into one another with little ceremony, devoid of ceilings, better for the open-ness and breeze. The house was simply a masterpiece of unconventional, open living that reflected Michelle's spirit, constructed of wood from a wild tobacco tree. At the rear of the house was a small bedroom, with a curtain for a door, overlooking the slope to the edge of the sea, the sea stretching to the mainland and rising to the mountains. We returned to the puppies, coming and going, under the boardwalk, Now three, now four, six, four, three and, of course a monkey in the middle of it all. It was getting time to go. One puppy was a bit weary of the monkey and the little dog named Jezebel came out from beneath the board walk and sent the monkey on his way. Michelle had chosen wisely. I paid my $25 and taking the puppy in my arms started the descent toward the dock while the monkey climbed my back, swung from my free hand and climbed on my head while Nikelda took pictures of my abuse and Stephen laughed at the whole process. Down at the dock the monkey boarded the boat, gave everything an inspection and decided that it was in ship shape and hopped off the boat. We sailed off and encountered more Ngobe in cayucos. I wanted to buy a couple of the small boats for putzing around near my house so Nikelda asked two women in a cayuco if it was for sale. They looked at us as though we were from another dimension. They looked at each other. They looked at us again. The looked at each other. Now it appeared as though they were thinking about it. How often does some guy come by in a boat and offer one money for a little dugout canoe? Probably a once in a lifetime event down here. Nikelda asked again. There was a long pause and they indicated that the boat was not for sale. I returned to town, dropped off my passengers and took the puppy to her new house.
It's only 10:30
Hayu jumped off the boat back onto the dock, apparently he didn't want to go to town. No coffee at Casa Verde.
Approaching I saw the women I wanted to take out to Split Hill leaving before I had time to dock. Ahh well, there's always another day.
I sent an email:
Approaching I saw the women I wanted to take out to Split Hill leaving before I had time to dock. Ahh well, there's always another day.
Sitting on the Dock
I sent an email:
After crashing the boat into the dock and my boat on the fifth attempt Captain XXXX got the XXXXXXX boat into the slip, banging the outboard against the dock. Then he tried to lash the boat firmly with the outboard touching the dock so the waves wouldn't let it crash.
Maybe a big metal pan should be installed under the slip to make it easier to collect the pieces when he is done.
This is bugging me
YYYYYY to XXXXXXXX
show details 10:04 AM (36 minutes ago)
What are those little white grains in all the kitchen drawers?
I wash them out and I have many tablespoons full per drawer the next day.
XXXXXXXX to YYYYYY
I have no idea what you are talking about. Did not see them or look for them. Might be the little wood eating bugs. Not termites but something else. Arrivo should take care of them. Or maybe Geoffrey is really an international Cocaine smuggler and there is coke hidden in the cabinets?
YYYYY to XXXXXXXXWho is Arrivo? How do I get hold of him? How do I get hold of the Indian? He came, but I sent him away, didn't know he was the guy, just thought he was some random dude casing the place.
XXXXXXXX to YYYYYY
Arrivo....is a chemical you mix yourself. Buy it at any hardware store.
Try Arrivo but don't drink it.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Charging the Batteries
As I went to bed last night the power status indicated that the charge level of the batteries had dropped to 65%. They really shouldn't drop below 80% to maintain a long life. I had a load of laundry to do and it was a cloudy day so I went down to the boat, got my spare gas can and filled the generator. It took about three hours to restore full charge. The indicator stated that I had a net influx of 48.7 amps while I was running my propane powered dryer. The generator three outlets, a 30 amp 120 volt, a 20 amp 120 volt and a 20 amp 240 volt, why that's not 25 amps eludes me. The system charges off the 30 amp outlet. The generator should only be run at full speed. Could I charge faster running off both the 20 and 30 in parallel? Are the two in phase? Surely they must be. Am I wasting gas and putting unnecessary wear and tear on the generator? I don't know. That reminds me. I should probably change the oil, the house sitter was as irresponsible as could be.
What was I running that consumed 25% of my electrical capacity? One ceiling fan and a portable fan. The night was cool and with the breeze I needed a comforter. With the big windows open air moves through the house readily. I have no air conditioning but have never been hot in the house.
Back to the math, 48.7 amps at what voltage? AC or DC? Time to break out the manuals to compute system efficiency. Next time I'll meter the gas for full system computation, but of course I won't know the efficiency ratio of the engine or the generator.
I put on some coffee and watched the parrots flying through a light drizzle. A swarm of hummingbirds visited the flowers near the deck, the sea was flat. Life was good. Some unknown insect, mandibles with wings. startled me but continued on its way. I cleared another swath of jungle but my poor hands were not up to the task having been cut and blister during a flurry of activity yesterday. Hayu ran up and down the hills manically. "This beat's the hell out of being in the apartment old man."
The kitchen needed a little sorting out, there was far more cookware than necessary. The house was stocked with pots and pans and I brought a complete set. I really don't need two to four of every type of pot and pan. I struggled with the pressure cooker. How could the primary release be inoperative, it is little more than a conical weight. Something else to look into, I don't need a high pressure explosion with aluminum shrapnel.
Some programming, a trip to town, down to the bank, pay for all the crap I've been having shipped to me that I don't yet feel comfortable storing in the house. I was reproached by several people for "abandoning them." Sorry, not my job to entertain the town, I have plenty of ways to wile away the days. A very slow return on a ripple free sea met its conclusion in the form of my dog wagging his body from the neck down on the dock.
What was I running that consumed 25% of my electrical capacity? One ceiling fan and a portable fan. The night was cool and with the breeze I needed a comforter. With the big windows open air moves through the house readily. I have no air conditioning but have never been hot in the house.
Back to the math, 48.7 amps at what voltage? AC or DC? Time to break out the manuals to compute system efficiency. Next time I'll meter the gas for full system computation, but of course I won't know the efficiency ratio of the engine or the generator.
I put on some coffee and watched the parrots flying through a light drizzle. A swarm of hummingbirds visited the flowers near the deck, the sea was flat. Life was good. Some unknown insect, mandibles with wings. startled me but continued on its way. I cleared another swath of jungle but my poor hands were not up to the task having been cut and blister during a flurry of activity yesterday. Hayu ran up and down the hills manically. "This beat's the hell out of being in the apartment old man."
The kitchen needed a little sorting out, there was far more cookware than necessary. The house was stocked with pots and pans and I brought a complete set. I really don't need two to four of every type of pot and pan. I struggled with the pressure cooker. How could the primary release be inoperative, it is little more than a conical weight. Something else to look into, I don't need a high pressure explosion with aluminum shrapnel.
Some programming, a trip to town, down to the bank, pay for all the crap I've been having shipped to me that I don't yet feel comfortable storing in the house. I was reproached by several people for "abandoning them." Sorry, not my job to entertain the town, I have plenty of ways to wile away the days. A very slow return on a ripple free sea met its conclusion in the form of my dog wagging his body from the neck down on the dock.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
First Day in the House
Woke, batteries down to 80%. Hmm. Sunny day, let the sun do its thing.
I sharpened my machete and thrashed swaths of jungle, vines, ferns, saplings, low hanging branches. I never advanced until I could see clear ground lest I encounter the scurge of the tropics, the fer-de-lance, the most feared reptile in the western hemisphere. Bushmasters are much larger, but are more retiring. The fer-de-lance packs attitude and a very nasty bite. I nicked myself a couple of times with the machete, bleeding profusely on the handle and tended to it in my usual manner, a look of disdain mixed with disgust and a pinch of nonchalance "It's only a flesh wound." One one particularly vicious slash the blood soaked handle slipped and the machete flew 20 feet behind me and wedged itself beneath a fallen log. Using a stick, I pried it loose. I sure as hell wasn't putting my hand somewhere that I couldn't see, even a single bullet ant will put one out of commission, in agony for 24 hours. (Do you want to visit yet?)
Ok, I'm done, I can't even hold a damn machete. I walked down to the dock, stripped and started descending the dock ladder. The steps were covered in slime and barnacles. Great, slip and slash. So I dove in and tried to coax Hayu to join me without luck. Back up on the dock I provided all the persuasion he needed by throwing him into the water. He swam back to the ladder and I showed him how to climb out. That having been accomplished, I swam most of the way to the Garden of Eden, an upscale resort on a tiny island near my house. The salt water strung my cuts, but cleaned off the sweat and blood. Returning to the dock I grabbed the machete and walking to the house found Hayu frolicking in the muck at the base of some mangroves. A vital part of the environment, it is illegal to cut down mangroves. Permits may be obtained to cut the minimal amount to create a dock, but wholesale clearing is expressly forbidden and the prohibition is actively enforced. Never the less, they seem to have a habit of fading subtly out of existence by some mysterious process where they obstruct the view.
Back up the stairs, I got a towel, laid it on my deck couch and proceeded to sharpen my machete. A timid Indian came near, wearing long pants, a long sleeve shirt and a jacket looking cold thought it was in the low seventies. I was wearing nothing but a machete. I advised him to go and he did so.
No longer able to walk 100 feet to the local grocery store I packed my notebook into my backpack, grabbed my camera and deciding there was no point in locking the flimsy doors and shutters and headed out for a boat ride back to town A woman in town advised me that I could go to a specific supermarket and get the discount provided to the hotel. I had no moral compunction; I wouldn't have shopped at the store otherwise, so they got some additional business, the volume of the hotel increased making them a more valued customer. Strange things happened at the check out. A written receipt was provided with each of the items and their prices and the total tallied twice. Usually the chinos just bang a bunch of numbers on a calculator once and come up with the wrong answer, invariably high. Hey, I can multiply and add in my head. 3 * 1.40 = 4.20 1.69 * 4 = (1.70 * 4) - 4 = 6.76 plus the 4.20 is 10.96. How the hell did you come up with 12.65?
Provisioning done, I returned home to enjoy the tranquility of Isla Solarte.
I usually read a few chapters before I go to sleep. Where the hell is my netbook? Wasn't I reading it last night? Search proved fruitless. Maybe I left it back at the apartment. Wait, here's the charger, here's' the case. Did somebody come in and snatch it while I was gone?
I sharpened my machete and thrashed swaths of jungle, vines, ferns, saplings, low hanging branches. I never advanced until I could see clear ground lest I encounter the scurge of the tropics, the fer-de-lance, the most feared reptile in the western hemisphere. Bushmasters are much larger, but are more retiring. The fer-de-lance packs attitude and a very nasty bite. I nicked myself a couple of times with the machete, bleeding profusely on the handle and tended to it in my usual manner, a look of disdain mixed with disgust and a pinch of nonchalance "It's only a flesh wound." One one particularly vicious slash the blood soaked handle slipped and the machete flew 20 feet behind me and wedged itself beneath a fallen log. Using a stick, I pried it loose. I sure as hell wasn't putting my hand somewhere that I couldn't see, even a single bullet ant will put one out of commission, in agony for 24 hours. (Do you want to visit yet?)
Ok, I'm done, I can't even hold a damn machete. I walked down to the dock, stripped and started descending the dock ladder. The steps were covered in slime and barnacles. Great, slip and slash. So I dove in and tried to coax Hayu to join me without luck. Back up on the dock I provided all the persuasion he needed by throwing him into the water. He swam back to the ladder and I showed him how to climb out. That having been accomplished, I swam most of the way to the Garden of Eden, an upscale resort on a tiny island near my house. The salt water strung my cuts, but cleaned off the sweat and blood. Returning to the dock I grabbed the machete and walking to the house found Hayu frolicking in the muck at the base of some mangroves. A vital part of the environment, it is illegal to cut down mangroves. Permits may be obtained to cut the minimal amount to create a dock, but wholesale clearing is expressly forbidden and the prohibition is actively enforced. Never the less, they seem to have a habit of fading subtly out of existence by some mysterious process where they obstruct the view.
Back up the stairs, I got a towel, laid it on my deck couch and proceeded to sharpen my machete. A timid Indian came near, wearing long pants, a long sleeve shirt and a jacket looking cold thought it was in the low seventies. I was wearing nothing but a machete. I advised him to go and he did so.
No longer able to walk 100 feet to the local grocery store I packed my notebook into my backpack, grabbed my camera and deciding there was no point in locking the flimsy doors and shutters and headed out for a boat ride back to town A woman in town advised me that I could go to a specific supermarket and get the discount provided to the hotel. I had no moral compunction; I wouldn't have shopped at the store otherwise, so they got some additional business, the volume of the hotel increased making them a more valued customer. Strange things happened at the check out. A written receipt was provided with each of the items and their prices and the total tallied twice. Usually the chinos just bang a bunch of numbers on a calculator once and come up with the wrong answer, invariably high. Hey, I can multiply and add in my head. 3 * 1.40 = 4.20 1.69 * 4 = (1.70 * 4) - 4 = 6.76 plus the 4.20 is 10.96. How the hell did you come up with 12.65?
Provisioning done, I returned home to enjoy the tranquility of Isla Solarte.
I usually read a few chapters before I go to sleep. Where the hell is my netbook? Wasn't I reading it last night? Search proved fruitless. Maybe I left it back at the apartment. Wait, here's the charger, here's' the case. Did somebody come in and snatch it while I was gone?
Friday, September 16, 2011
House Closing and Move
Down to the realtors, ensured that the documents were in order, sent instructions for wire transfer and headed out the door. I was sure my realtor was going to start drinking damn near immediately. This was not the easiest commission he ever earned. On the way home I stopped at the corner store, nope, no cardboard boxes today. Ayahh. Down to the next chino. There was a large pile of cardboard boxes stacked in front of the meat counter. Sure, I could have one. No, I need a bunch. The clerk referred me to the meat cutter, who referred me back to the clerk. The butcher was Chinese, so he obviously outranked the Indian. The Chinese own every grocery store in this town except two seriously upscale store that no local would patronize. Back to the butcher who referred me to the ultimate authority, the chinese woman who controlled the money, who referred me back to the clerk. Come on guys, they are empty cardboard boxes, you must go through 50 a day. Nope, I could have just one.
I headed back home and started haphazardly bunging kitchen supplies in the box. I removed my mattress to access the storage under my bed, filled my backpack with more stuff, took out the microwave box and stuffed it with stuff. Miscellaneous item were tossed into a duffel bag. A suitcase was used inappropriately, I'll get the worcestershire sauce out tomorrow. The closet contained a suit, dress shirt, tie, a pair of Allen Edmunds cap toe shoes, one of a couple score of pairs of dress shoes I have in storage in Dallas, never to be used again. Ahhhhhhhhhh, I wore that suit back from my mom's funeral last May. I turned it over in my hands a few times and covered it with a plastic trash bag. Sundry supplies were jammed into a big rubber boat bag. What is this? Oh yeah, some strange sexual device ordered by a former room mate. Something so extraordinary that came with an instruction manual bigger than came with my compact camera. There! Done! Not everything was packed, but that was all the containers I had.
I staged all of the items on the front porch of the first apartment and headed to the corner, hoping to catch a taxi. Streams of yellow HiLux pickup trucks passed me in both directions, heading to or from the fair full of passengers. Nobody would stop. Life's not fair, fair fares fared well but I was hapless. I called the logistics manager of a local hotel, the jack of all trades: carpenter, plumber, chauffeur, boat operator, mechanic. He said he would be there in five minutes. He never showed. Finally a neighbor stopped for lunch in his taxi truck and agreed to take me in twenty minutes. I bunged my bags in the back and we headed down to Casa Verde. Arriving the driver decided to help me and picked up the microwave, turning it bottom side up for no apparent reason, the glass platter crashing against the door and then the top. Did I say I packed haphazardly?
The bags were moved from out front to the dock, I entrusted my dog to someone and headed down to the real estate office to get the keys to the house, having received confirmation that the wire transfer had completed. My realtor offered to hold onto my documents for me. "But then they'll go up in smoke in the fire!" "What fire?" "When I burn your damn office down!" He laughed, "Why do you think I offered to keep them?" We were both very glad this was over. I continued to a store to buy a standing fan for use on the deck, both for keeping cool and discouraging the chitras, and proceeded to the hotel behind which my boat was moored, returned and loaded it up. Fifteen minutes later I was at the dock of my house, with a stack of heavy goods and a 100 step flight of stairs to my house. I made trip after trip and unpacked. The only damage observed was, surprisingly, to a pressure cooker, the lock release on the top snapped off but it could still be used. Damn! All the spices, knives and utensils and nothing but spaghetti and potatoes to eat. Ah well, starch it up.
As the sun set the birds announced themselves, a few frogs chirped, but other than that, all was silent save for the fan, which served me well on the deck. I think I read a few chapters of "A Brief History of Nearly Everything." I'm virtually certain of it. Did I?
I headed back home and started haphazardly bunging kitchen supplies in the box. I removed my mattress to access the storage under my bed, filled my backpack with more stuff, took out the microwave box and stuffed it with stuff. Miscellaneous item were tossed into a duffel bag. A suitcase was used inappropriately, I'll get the worcestershire sauce out tomorrow. The closet contained a suit, dress shirt, tie, a pair of Allen Edmunds cap toe shoes, one of a couple score of pairs of dress shoes I have in storage in Dallas, never to be used again. Ahhhhhhhhhh, I wore that suit back from my mom's funeral last May. I turned it over in my hands a few times and covered it with a plastic trash bag. Sundry supplies were jammed into a big rubber boat bag. What is this? Oh yeah, some strange sexual device ordered by a former room mate. Something so extraordinary that came with an instruction manual bigger than came with my compact camera. There! Done! Not everything was packed, but that was all the containers I had.
I staged all of the items on the front porch of the first apartment and headed to the corner, hoping to catch a taxi. Streams of yellow HiLux pickup trucks passed me in both directions, heading to or from the fair full of passengers. Nobody would stop. Life's not fair, fair fares fared well but I was hapless. I called the logistics manager of a local hotel, the jack of all trades: carpenter, plumber, chauffeur, boat operator, mechanic. He said he would be there in five minutes. He never showed. Finally a neighbor stopped for lunch in his taxi truck and agreed to take me in twenty minutes. I bunged my bags in the back and we headed down to Casa Verde. Arriving the driver decided to help me and picked up the microwave, turning it bottom side up for no apparent reason, the glass platter crashing against the door and then the top. Did I say I packed haphazardly?
The bags were moved from out front to the dock, I entrusted my dog to someone and headed down to the real estate office to get the keys to the house, having received confirmation that the wire transfer had completed. My realtor offered to hold onto my documents for me. "But then they'll go up in smoke in the fire!" "What fire?" "When I burn your damn office down!" He laughed, "Why do you think I offered to keep them?" We were both very glad this was over. I continued to a store to buy a standing fan for use on the deck, both for keeping cool and discouraging the chitras, and proceeded to the hotel behind which my boat was moored, returned and loaded it up. Fifteen minutes later I was at the dock of my house, with a stack of heavy goods and a 100 step flight of stairs to my house. I made trip after trip and unpacked. The only damage observed was, surprisingly, to a pressure cooker, the lock release on the top snapped off but it could still be used. Damn! All the spices, knives and utensils and nothing but spaghetti and potatoes to eat. Ah well, starch it up.
As the sun set the birds announced themselves, a few frogs chirped, but other than that, all was silent save for the fan, which served me well on the deck. I think I read a few chapters of "A Brief History of Nearly Everything." I'm virtually certain of it. Did I?
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Beyond Redemption
While rushing to Casa Verde, to try out their new breakfast offering and bid some friends adios, I received a call from the seller of my boat. I was to meet him at 9:30 at the notary's office to get a notarized bill of sale. Breakfast was quick, as I had none and I rushed down to the notary office and tied up my dog outside. Five minutes later I had a notarized bill of sale in hand. I went to collect my dog to be met by some administrative personnel from the office who tried to tell me I had to pay a fine for my dog fertilizing the lawn. Near his deposit was a styrofoam plate that I used to clean up his mess. They were adamant that I needed to pay a fine. I feigned complete lack of understanding and thanked them profusely for advising me and left without paying. I'm sure the money would never have hit any municipal coffers. I wish this had this been the only shit I had to deal with for the day.
The seller was telling me all about the fishing in Pedasi and didn't want to let me go, but I had a former commitment. Finally my real estate agent paged me and I used that as an excuse to break off.
Now, I was supposed to close last week, but the paperwork never made it to Bocas. I entered the real estate office and started going over the documents. I wanted to go through the documents in the order in which they were enumerated in the purchase contract, my real estate agent insisted that I work on them in the order in which they were clipped. I grabbed the first document and asked him what it was. "That's your certificate of occupancy from the ministry of health." No, it's not, it's a receipt for dental treatment. WTF? I can read that much. examen odontológico does not mean certificate of occupancy. My real estate agent called his girlfriend to translate. I was hoping for someone with some familiarity with Real Estate transactions in Panama as there appeared to be none in the room.
I looked at the sales contract, which was written in English. WTF? Only Spanish documents are legal in Panama. He wanted me to wire a different amount than was on the contract. WTF? It says that upon full payment... and he wanted me to withhold some money and give it to other parties. No, I don't think so.
I grabbed the next document and my agent told me "that covers item 11" and took it out of my hand. No, that covers half of 11 there should be another document, please stop helping me. We got to the survey. I said "There are supposed to be two government reference points on this document, there are none." He looked at me blankly, called the surveyor, then the attorney, who I had just recently found was representing the seller too. Back to the surveyor. "You only need those if you are using the survey for titling. That costs $600 more." "Well, then what the f**k good is this survey? It's from the same guy and has the same information as the last survey." "But you couldn't find the markers." "There was supposed to be a cleared out boundary." "I didn't know where the boundaries were." He was happy to point to random spots on the land until I actually wanted to locate the markers. What a cluster f**k.
This land is right of possession, a far more nebulous means of owning rights to property than buying titled property. I had insisted that all of my neighbors sign off on the boundaries. I found one document, that hadn't been notarized and another document was missing. He called the attorney. Yes, she had the missing document in Panama City. Great. I'm not closing today. I left in disgust.
My attorney called to tell me that the document was on the way. I've heard that one before. Fuming, I walked down the street. My attorney called again. "XXXX has gotten the document notarized." WTF? Got to love it when the person who signed the document is 310 kilometers away and it gets notarized anyway.
The seller was telling me all about the fishing in Pedasi and didn't want to let me go, but I had a former commitment. Finally my real estate agent paged me and I used that as an excuse to break off.
Now, I was supposed to close last week, but the paperwork never made it to Bocas. I entered the real estate office and started going over the documents. I wanted to go through the documents in the order in which they were enumerated in the purchase contract, my real estate agent insisted that I work on them in the order in which they were clipped. I grabbed the first document and asked him what it was. "That's your certificate of occupancy from the ministry of health." No, it's not, it's a receipt for dental treatment. WTF? I can read that much. examen odontológico does not mean certificate of occupancy. My real estate agent called his girlfriend to translate. I was hoping for someone with some familiarity with Real Estate transactions in Panama as there appeared to be none in the room.
I looked at the sales contract, which was written in English. WTF? Only Spanish documents are legal in Panama. He wanted me to wire a different amount than was on the contract. WTF? It says that upon full payment... and he wanted me to withhold some money and give it to other parties. No, I don't think so.
I grabbed the next document and my agent told me "that covers item 11" and took it out of my hand. No, that covers half of 11 there should be another document, please stop helping me. We got to the survey. I said "There are supposed to be two government reference points on this document, there are none." He looked at me blankly, called the surveyor, then the attorney, who I had just recently found was representing the seller too. Back to the surveyor. "You only need those if you are using the survey for titling. That costs $600 more." "Well, then what the f**k good is this survey? It's from the same guy and has the same information as the last survey." "But you couldn't find the markers." "There was supposed to be a cleared out boundary." "I didn't know where the boundaries were." He was happy to point to random spots on the land until I actually wanted to locate the markers. What a cluster f**k.
This land is right of possession, a far more nebulous means of owning rights to property than buying titled property. I had insisted that all of my neighbors sign off on the boundaries. I found one document, that hadn't been notarized and another document was missing. He called the attorney. Yes, she had the missing document in Panama City. Great. I'm not closing today. I left in disgust.
My attorney called to tell me that the document was on the way. I've heard that one before. Fuming, I walked down the street. My attorney called again. "XXXX has gotten the document notarized." WTF? Got to love it when the person who signed the document is 310 kilometers away and it gets notarized anyway.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Boat Keys
I got the keys to the boat today. Tomorrow I deal with the bill of sale. Seems strange tooling around wearing life jackets. The coast guard is out in force as he fair is in town, an affair I'm almost certain to miss as it is purportedly mayhem of a sort that doesn't attract me.
The boat seller thanked me in person and in email for being such a straightforward person, saying that this was a rare attribute in this day and age and especially in Bocas.
With eight hundred pounds of crew and passengers the boat top ended at about 16 knots. With just me and my dog it barely topped 20. I have the unused prop that came with the motor, a 19 pitch, versus the 21 pitch blade that is on the engine and I will install it soon. As the engine was unable to break 4,200 RPM it wasn't able to get into the power zone of 5-6k. Sure it needs some more power, I'm not really in a hurry, but it's nice to get out of the way of coming weather. I'll bide my time. Deals come along when people leave town.
She needs some paint and the gas gauge doesn't work, but these are minor issues. Tomorrow I should be closing on the house.
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The boat seller thanked me in person and in email for being such a straightforward person, saying that this was a rare attribute in this day and age and especially in Bocas.
With eight hundred pounds of crew and passengers the boat top ended at about 16 knots. With just me and my dog it barely topped 20. I have the unused prop that came with the motor, a 19 pitch, versus the 21 pitch blade that is on the engine and I will install it soon. As the engine was unable to break 4,200 RPM it wasn't able to get into the power zone of 5-6k. Sure it needs some more power, I'm not really in a hurry, but it's nice to get out of the way of coming weather. I'll bide my time. Deals come along when people leave town.
She needs some paint and the gas gauge doesn't work, but these are minor issues. Tomorrow I should be closing on the house.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
On Not Buying a Boat
Last Tuesday a friend called me to advise that he was going to look at a boat in which I might have some interest. He wants bargain boats that need work, I just want a nice boat in which I can tool around. I met him at the designated place and met the intermediary, Antonio. Antonio is well known and well regarded in town as a hard working honest soul who raises crops on the mainland, fishes and will perform a wide range of duties as long as they are ethical.
My friend, Stephen encountered Antonio at the sole remaining boat engine repair facility on this island, one which will be shuttering its doors this week. Stephens inquiry to Antonio set the man on a quest to find a boat. A short time later Antonio approached Stephen and advised him that he had located a boat, hence the call.
We shot the shit while waiting for the boat owner to make the long trip from his apartment to our table. We were sitting in a restaurant he owns beneath his apartment. Finally the owner showed up and asked if we wanted to see the boat. 1 That was kind of the point. Maybe "we'd like to see the boat you have for sale" is some secret passphrase used before getting into child pornography exchanges, I don't know.
The boot is kept moored behind Tropical Suites, one of the high end hotels in town. That was news to me; I didn't know they leased slips there. It's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission so we all walked through the lobby to the back of the hotel, me with my dog in tow. The boat was a nice 21 foot center console panga powered by a yamaha 60 hp. The owner didn't know if it was a two stroke or a four stroke. 2 "Do you add oil to the gas?" "No." "Then it's a four stroke."
"Do you want to take it for a test drive?" "Yeah." "I didn't bring the keys."3 So he went off, fetched the keys and returned. Stephen, the boat owner, Antonio, and Hayu, my affectionate little pissing machine went for a ride. The boat road well, but certainly wasn't overpowered. The owner described how much he liked the boat. He said the Yamaha had given him no trouble, unlike the Etech he formerly had. The instrumentation indicated that the Yammie had 396 hours on it. After we toured around for a bit he said he wasn't sure if he wanted to sell it, Antonio had talked him into it. 4
He allowed me to take it out with Stephen to see that she was an adequate performer with less of a load. I took it out about a mile and a half and we headed back. The owner indicated that he was heading off to Panama City and that he would think about whether he wanted to sell it and would let me know by Friday, when he returned. Later that night he called and told me that he was ready to part with it.
After returning Antonio told me that the boat had been flipped out by bird island. Yup, with the Etech.5 Submerging an engine in saltwater is not a recipe for reliability.
Erwin, the local mechanic, was quite familiar with the boat and suggested that I put a 115 on it and while doing so, replace the seriously undersized conduit that ran between the console and the stern, but said that the engine would be fine for tooling around in the bay, he just wouldn't take it offshore (deep, unprotected water). Hell I wouldn't go twenty miles into the ocean without a backup motor.
After returning on Friday the seller called me to ask if I was still interested in the boat. Yup, I was, but I was in the middle of dinner in a busy place, so we kept the conversation short. Couldn't do anything about it until the bank opened anyway.
On Monday, I tried to buy the boat and kept sending him emails. "I need your route and transit number, your bank account number, your mailing address for the account. You need to find the receipt for the engine, the hull, the registration, receipts for the electronics, owners manuals. More emails exchanged.
I need the mailing address for your bank account. 6He promptly emailed me the code and I set up the payee.
Today I got online to my bank and initiated the wire transfer. Hours later, while trying to check on the status I was advised that my online access had been deactivated and that I needed to call the bank. Back in the states my attorney had been called to verify the transaction. This was not a huge amount of money, far less than I have wired in the last couple of months. After the usual screening questions, something anybody who casually knew me in my former life could answer, which of the following makes and models of cars have you owned, which of these houses was the the last house you lived in, which of the following companies have I owned, they reactivated my account and authorized the transfer.
In the meantime the seller was down at the town notary, trying to get a bill of sale translated into Spanish as all legal documents in Panama must be in Spanish. The usual failure to return from lunch in a timely manner caused, what by now I have come to expect, a delay. I made my way down to the office. We have a 9:30 appointment on Thursday to get the sale notarized. Now he has my money and I have no boat.7
My friend, Stephen encountered Antonio at the sole remaining boat engine repair facility on this island, one which will be shuttering its doors this week. Stephens inquiry to Antonio set the man on a quest to find a boat. A short time later Antonio approached Stephen and advised him that he had located a boat, hence the call.
WTFs
We shot the shit while waiting for the boat owner to make the long trip from his apartment to our table. We were sitting in a restaurant he owns beneath his apartment. Finally the owner showed up and asked if we wanted to see the boat. 1 That was kind of the point. Maybe "we'd like to see the boat you have for sale" is some secret passphrase used before getting into child pornography exchanges, I don't know.
The boot is kept moored behind Tropical Suites, one of the high end hotels in town. That was news to me; I didn't know they leased slips there. It's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission so we all walked through the lobby to the back of the hotel, me with my dog in tow. The boat was a nice 21 foot center console panga powered by a yamaha 60 hp. The owner didn't know if it was a two stroke or a four stroke. 2 "Do you add oil to the gas?" "No." "Then it's a four stroke."
"Do you want to take it for a test drive?" "Yeah." "I didn't bring the keys."3 So he went off, fetched the keys and returned. Stephen, the boat owner, Antonio, and Hayu, my affectionate little pissing machine went for a ride. The boat road well, but certainly wasn't overpowered. The owner described how much he liked the boat. He said the Yamaha had given him no trouble, unlike the Etech he formerly had. The instrumentation indicated that the Yammie had 396 hours on it. After we toured around for a bit he said he wasn't sure if he wanted to sell it, Antonio had talked him into it. 4
He allowed me to take it out with Stephen to see that she was an adequate performer with less of a load. I took it out about a mile and a half and we headed back. The owner indicated that he was heading off to Panama City and that he would think about whether he wanted to sell it and would let me know by Friday, when he returned. Later that night he called and told me that he was ready to part with it.
After returning Antonio told me that the boat had been flipped out by bird island. Yup, with the Etech.5 Submerging an engine in saltwater is not a recipe for reliability.
Erwin, the local mechanic, was quite familiar with the boat and suggested that I put a 115 on it and while doing so, replace the seriously undersized conduit that ran between the console and the stern, but said that the engine would be fine for tooling around in the bay, he just wouldn't take it offshore (deep, unprotected water). Hell I wouldn't go twenty miles into the ocean without a backup motor.
After returning on Friday the seller called me to ask if I was still interested in the boat. Yup, I was, but I was in the middle of dinner in a busy place, so we kept the conversation short. Couldn't do anything about it until the bank opened anyway.
On Monday, I tried to buy the boat and kept sending him emails. "I need your route and transit number, your bank account number, your mailing address for the account. You need to find the receipt for the engine, the hull, the registration, receipts for the electronics, owners manuals. More emails exchanged.
- I need the mailing address for your bank account.
- I need the mailing address for your bank account.
I need the mailing address for your bank account. 6He promptly emailed me the code and I set up the payee.
Today I got online to my bank and initiated the wire transfer. Hours later, while trying to check on the status I was advised that my online access had been deactivated and that I needed to call the bank. Back in the states my attorney had been called to verify the transaction. This was not a huge amount of money, far less than I have wired in the last couple of months. After the usual screening questions, something anybody who casually knew me in my former life could answer, which of the following makes and models of cars have you owned, which of these houses was the the last house you lived in, which of the following companies have I owned, they reactivated my account and authorized the transfer.
In the meantime the seller was down at the town notary, trying to get a bill of sale translated into Spanish as all legal documents in Panama must be in Spanish. The usual failure to return from lunch in a timely manner caused, what by now I have come to expect, a delay. I made my way down to the office. We have a 9:30 appointment on Thursday to get the sale notarized. Now he has my money and I have no boat.7
Breakfast
"Hello. Where are you from?"
"The Netherlands."
"Would you like some pancakes or an omelette?"
11:40 am "It's too early to eat, I just woke up. I'll have a beer."
"The Netherlands."
"Would you like some pancakes or an omelette?"
11:40 am "It's too early to eat, I just woke up. I'll have a beer."
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Cluster F**k
I was supposed to close on my house on Friday but my real estate agent and attorney decided that I should make payments to them due by the seller but couldn't come up with a number by the end of the day. The closing papers were in Panama City and were supposed to have been sent to Bocas, but never made it.
It is banana's country.
Hola Jim. I sent my assistant on friday to send the original documents to aeropelas but instead of taking it to the airport, he drop it off at the aeroperlas offices at Crown Plaza Hotel since it is located in the city closer to were he was. Unfortunately the aeroperlas driver or Messenger that was supposed to take this package to the airport missed our envelope and the Crown plaza offices are closed today. The package was supposed to arrive yesterday (Sat) in Bocas. I just called their offices and they said that they would arrive tomorrow afternoon ...sorry to bother you on a Sunday
It is banana's country.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
House, Boat and English
I feel almost an obligation to write, despite the fact that I have nothing good to report on the house front. If I had bought the boat I might take my real estate agent on a trip and leave him on an island. Maybe I'll feel more like writing this afternoon.
On the lighter side of life, I think it would be easier for an English speaking person to learn Spanish than vice versa. Consider the following, sent from a buddy in Los Santos this morning.
1) The bandage was wound around the wound.
2) The farm was used to produce produce .
3) The dump was so full that it had to refuse more refuse.
4) We must polish the Polish furniture.
5) He could lead if he would get the lead out.
6) The soldier decided to desert his dessert in the desert.
7) Since there is no time like the present, he thought it was time to present the present.
8) A bass was painted on the head of the bass drum.
9) When shot at, the dove dove into the bushes.
10) I did not object to the object.
11) The insurance was invalid for the invalid.
12) There was a row among the oarsmen about how to row
13) They were too close to the door to close it.
14) The buck does funny things when the does are present.
15) A seamstress and a sewer fell down into a sewer line.
16) To help with planting, the farmer taught his sow to sow.
17) The wind was too strong to wind the sail.
18) Upon seeing the tear in the painting I shed a tear.
19) I had to subject the subject to a series of tests.
20) How can I intimate this to my most intimate friend?
Let's face it - English is a crazy language. There is no egg in eggplant,
nor ham in hamburger; neither apple nor pine in pineapple.
English muffins weren't invented in England or French fries in France .
Sweetmeats are candies while sweetbreads, which aren't sweet, are meat. We
take English for granted.
But if we explore its paradoxes, we find that quicksand can work slowly,
boxing rings are square and a guinea pig is neither from Guinea nor is it a
pig.
And why is it that writers write but fingers don't fing, grocers don't
groce and hammers don't ham? If the plural of tooth is teeth, why isn't the
plural of booth, beeth? One goose, 2 geese. So one moose, 2 meese? One
index, 2 indices?
Doesn't it seem crazy that you can make amends but not one amend? If you
have a bunch of odds and ends and get rid of all but one of them, what do
you call it?
If teachers taught, why didn't preachers praught? If a vegetarian eats
vegetables, what does a humanitarian eat?
Sometimes I think all the English speakers should be committed to an asylum
for the verbally insane. In what language do people recite at a play and
play at a recital? Ship by truck and send cargo by ship? Have noses that run
and feet that smell?
How can a slim chance and a fat chance be the same, while a wise man and a
wise guy are opposites? You have to marvel at the unique lunacy of a
language in which your house can burn up as it burns down, in which you fill
in a form by filling it out and in which, an alarm goes off by going on.
English was invented by people, not computers, and it reflects the
creativity of the human race, which, of course, is not a race at all. That
is why, when the stars are out, they are visible, but when the lights are
out, they are invisible.
PS. - Why doesn't 'Buick' rhyme with 'quick' ?
Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana.
On the lighter side of life, I think it would be easier for an English speaking person to learn Spanish than vice versa. Consider the following, sent from a buddy in Los Santos this morning.
1) The bandage was wound around the wound.
2) The farm was used to produce produce .
3) The dump was so full that it had to refuse more refuse.
4) We must polish the Polish furniture.
5) He could lead if he would get the lead out.
6) The soldier decided to desert his dessert in the desert.
7) Since there is no time like the present, he thought it was time to present the present.
8) A bass was painted on the head of the bass drum.
9) When shot at, the dove dove into the bushes.
10) I did not object to the object.
11) The insurance was invalid for the invalid.
12) There was a row among the oarsmen about how to row
13) They were too close to the door to close it.
14) The buck does funny things when the does are present.
15) A seamstress and a sewer fell down into a sewer line.
16) To help with planting, the farmer taught his sow to sow.
17) The wind was too strong to wind the sail.
18) Upon seeing the tear in the painting I shed a tear.
19) I had to subject the subject to a series of tests.
20) How can I intimate this to my most intimate friend?
Let's face it - English is a crazy language. There is no egg in eggplant,
nor ham in hamburger; neither apple nor pine in pineapple.
English muffins weren't invented in England or French fries in France .
Sweetmeats are candies while sweetbreads, which aren't sweet, are meat. We
take English for granted.
But if we explore its paradoxes, we find that quicksand can work slowly,
boxing rings are square and a guinea pig is neither from Guinea nor is it a
pig.
And why is it that writers write but fingers don't fing, grocers don't
groce and hammers don't ham? If the plural of tooth is teeth, why isn't the
plural of booth, beeth? One goose, 2 geese. So one moose, 2 meese? One
index, 2 indices?
Doesn't it seem crazy that you can make amends but not one amend? If you
have a bunch of odds and ends and get rid of all but one of them, what do
you call it?
If teachers taught, why didn't preachers praught? If a vegetarian eats
vegetables, what does a humanitarian eat?
Sometimes I think all the English speakers should be committed to an asylum
for the verbally insane. In what language do people recite at a play and
play at a recital? Ship by truck and send cargo by ship? Have noses that run
and feet that smell?
How can a slim chance and a fat chance be the same, while a wise man and a
wise guy are opposites? You have to marvel at the unique lunacy of a
language in which your house can burn up as it burns down, in which you fill
in a form by filling it out and in which, an alarm goes off by going on.
English was invented by people, not computers, and it reflects the
creativity of the human race, which, of course, is not a race at all. That
is why, when the stars are out, they are visible, but when the lights are
out, they are invisible.
PS. - Why doesn't 'Buick' rhyme with 'quick' ?
Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Survey
,
The survey of the lot I am trying to acquire lacked geographical coordinates, everything being relative to everything else. Furthermore I was unable to reach any of the monuments, the concrete markers placed at reference points. Today the man who made the original survey was to conduct a second survey. I negotiated a ten dollar fare for a water taxi, hardly a profitable venture for the operator. I inquired about boats for sale and he indicated that he had a large one at his house on Bastimentos so we went to check it out. His house was on the water in Bastimentos Town. The boat in question had been lifted up onto a pier and was partially under the house. My inquiries on how this was effected was met with the response, "a lot of man power". Mulling it over I couldn't imagine how one would pull this off, the water is four feet deep, the dock is three feet over the water and the boat must weigh near 2,000 pounds. I snapped a few pictures of this abused beast for a friend of mine who is one a junker boat accumulation spree.
A large pig restlessly paced, to the extent possible, in a very small sty, an extension of the dock, over the water. I hoped this was but temporary quarters but the lack of grounds hinted at the improbability of my hope. I am not in the habit of carrying pig food but I did fill up a five gallon bucket with water and place it in the sty. Other boats were similarly situated notably an 18 foot center console panga with an 85 HP Yamaha outboard. Apparently it doesn't get much use as the effort to do so would be extraordinary, so I snapped a picture of this for Stephen too. I got the drivers name and number and told him I'd give him a call if anybody was interested in his boats, but indicated that the price he wanted was not going to We headed off to the house. Upon arrival the boat operator had no change. He suggested I give him the twenty and that he would give me ten when he saw me next. I suggested I pay him ten dollars when I saw him next. "I don't know when I'll see you next." Exactly. He hailed a passing boat, a local on his way back from a provisioning run and we recieved the required change.
The surveyors were to be there but there was no boat at the dock. If I got dropped off, without my cell phone or a scheduled pickup I could be stranded for a while. I spotted an Indian in the water, chest deep, scraping barnacles off the boat that is/was to come with the house. Maybe I could use the boat for parts, maybe I could fix it up. The Indian indicated that Maria, my real estate agent's girl friend was up at the house with some other people. Ok, they must have gotten dropped off. Up the stairs, 100 of 'em. I found a few workers behind the house but as they were Indians the I walked down to the first marker, up to the second. The third marker was within a foot of the outbuilding, not that anybody is going to build within a hundred meters of the house anyway and with the dense jungle, I'd never know if they did. I could see the trail that had been slashed through the jungle, it dropped off precipitously. Standing at the summit I looked down the trail. Saplings half an inch to an inch in diameter had been cut throw with a single blow of a machete at a sixty degree angles leaving thirty inch pointed spears the length of the trail. Stumble, fall forward and be impaled. I nearly grabbed a tree to steady myself, a palm that caused much misery in Bolivia bearing a dozen needle sized and equally sharp pins that break off in the flesh and rather than fall forward to certain death fell backwards. The workers behind the house must have been laughing but suppressed it completely.
Up the next hill I encountered more workers, one with a Leica digital transit. I guess I underestimated my surveyor, he was using top notch gear. "Donde este Walter?" "Está en la casa rascándose las pelotas." My Spanish might not have been up to the task but his gesture conveyed that Walter was up in the house scratching his balls. We all had a good laugh at that. They asked the name of my dog and new enough to be confused. They didn't comprehend that someone would call his dog something that sounds exactly like "Hey You." This was as far as I could go. "Tu perro este macho?" "Por que?" "Él tiene grandes bolas." Well, that one I got, and yes, he swings a prominent pair. Gotta like these guys. Back to the house, around the grounds, back to the house, sitting on the deck observing the view. Back down the trail, a big Indian thrashing a large machete with abandon, sundering the foliage in a three foot wide path, branches, vines, ferns, saplings, fibrous trees three inches in diameter, switch hands, keep on walking, never slow down, slash, slash, slash.
I spied a few tiny red frogs and several tiny lizards but the fauna was amazingly scarce. Just across the bay sits Isla Bastimentos. While examining a parcel there the chorus of toads was thunderous near the shore, in the jungle birds flitted, Montezuma Oropendola PICTURE filled the air with their characteristic cries and hermit crabs scurried about. Why the difference over such a short distance? I shall have to work these jungles, cutting vines and thinning things out, allowing for floral diversity, the foundation of a habitat for varied wildlife. I have many months of hot machete work to look forward to.
I made another return to house, sit on porch and return trip to find they'd reached the end of the back line of the property and were heading back toward the shore. Walter, the surveyor, not my running mate has a differential GPS accurate to 2cm. !!!! Watching the spot get centered on the rebar, yes centering a laser beam on a half inch rod. Again forgive my former expectations. Using the range finding feature the operator was yelling instructions to the laborer plowing and slashing his way through the junge. "Vente metros mas... un meter medio." Digging around the guy found the former mark, located 80 meters away right where he was instructed. In the meantime Walter scratched his balls, told me to stay still as a statue so I didn't shake the soft earth as I swatted mosquitoes. After they found the final marker I made my way back parallel to the shore but not on the property line which cut through mangroves. Twenty minutes later my dog found his way back to the house.
The task of the day having been completed my real estate agent showed up to convey the team back to Isla Colon. During my inspection of the house, which had been delayed forty some days as previously documented I noted some matters that needed to be addressed.
In a former life I would have driven seven minutes to Home Depot, looked at hundreds of ceiling fans then crossed the street, looked at hundreds of ceiling fans at Lowes and purchased one. Returning home I would choose the most appropriate ladder from a choice of seven, an electrical supplies bucket and one of the many tool boxes filled with every conceivable tool that could be employed in a simple electrical repair. Installation would take about 15 minutes.
In Bocas I would have to ride a boat from Solarte to Colon, about ten minutes, walk to the water taxi, wait for the next one, take a boat to Almirante, on the main land, walk around for an hour or two to find one of the grand total of five I would likely find after visiting near a dozen stores, grab a taxi back to the water taxi with some wholely unsatisfactory fixture and make the return trip. Returning to the house I would find nothing but an extension ladder, completely unfit for the job and then spend a day improvising or trying to secure a tall folding ladder for a day, effect the repair then return the ladder.
My real estate agent had put a D cell battery in the water heater. Down here everybody uses heaters that heat on demand. This is far better than a large tank which wastes seventy percent of its energy consumption keeping the water warm in a house that needed to be cooled eight months of the year. On demand water heaters are less than two feet square and less than a foot thick. When water is needed they turn on, providing hot water as long as desired and then shut off.
This hot water heater is located in the outbuilding. Turning on the kitchen faucet I waited for several minutes and stated that the heater was not working. My agent went out to the outbuilding and turned up the temperature on the heater and told me to try again. After several more minutes of observing a poor water flow it started to flow out warm. Really, I don't want to wait five minutes to get water adequate for washing dishes while depleting my water supply which is filled by rain catchment unless it isn't. Weeks can goo by with minimal rainfall.Back to the outbuilding. Hot water gurgled from the tap. "There is still no water pressure." "What's wrong with that?" I turned on the cold water. Water gushed out. "That is water pressure." This was a replay of a couple of weeks ago, when the cold water was gurgling and I was told that this was adequate pressure. Upon inspection the water filters were near completely clogged; replacing the filter element remedied the situation.
It is obvious to the casual observer not suffering from rectal-cranial inversion that a water heater must be obtained, placed in an optimal location in the house and be plumbed in. It's possible that the water heater in the outbuilding could be reused, but Mr. Murphy dictates that the more effort that goes into relocating it the more likely the existing heater is irredeemably clogged.
A diversion
The survey of the lot I am trying to acquire lacked geographical coordinates, everything being relative to everything else. Furthermore I was unable to reach any of the monuments, the concrete markers placed at reference points. Today the man who made the original survey was to conduct a second survey. I negotiated a ten dollar fare for a water taxi, hardly a profitable venture for the operator. I inquired about boats for sale and he indicated that he had a large one at his house on Bastimentos so we went to check it out. His house was on the water in Bastimentos Town. The boat in question had been lifted up onto a pier and was partially under the house. My inquiries on how this was effected was met with the response, "a lot of man power". Mulling it over I couldn't imagine how one would pull this off, the water is four feet deep, the dock is three feet over the water and the boat must weigh near 2,000 pounds. I snapped a few pictures of this abused beast for a friend of mine who is one a junker boat accumulation spree. A large pig restlessly paced, to the extent possible, in a very small sty, an extension of the dock, over the water. I hoped this was but temporary quarters but the lack of grounds hinted at the improbability of my hope. I am not in the habit of carrying pig food but I did fill up a five gallon bucket with water and place it in the sty. Other boats were similarly situated notably an 18 foot center console panga with an 85 HP Yamaha outboard. Apparently it doesn't get much use as the effort to do so would be extraordinary, so I snapped a picture of this for Stephen too. I got the drivers name and number and told him I'd give him a call if anybody was interested in his boats, but indicated that the price he wanted was not going to We headed off to the house. Upon arrival the boat operator had no change. He suggested I give him the twenty and that he would give me ten when he saw me next. I suggested I pay him ten dollars when I saw him next. "I don't know when I'll see you next." Exactly. He hailed a passing boat, a local on his way back from a provisioning run and we recieved the required change.
The Survey
The surveyors were to be there but there was no boat at the dock. If I got dropped off, without my cell phone or a scheduled pickup I could be stranded for a while. I spotted an Indian in the water, chest deep, scraping barnacles off the boat that is/was to come with the house. Maybe I could use the boat for parts, maybe I could fix it up. The Indian indicated that Maria, my real estate agent's girl friend was up at the house with some other people. Ok, they must have gotten dropped off. Up the stairs, 100 of 'em. I found a few workers behind the house but as they were Indians the I walked down to the first marker, up to the second. The third marker was within a foot of the outbuilding, not that anybody is going to build within a hundred meters of the house anyway and with the dense jungle, I'd never know if they did. I could see the trail that had been slashed through the jungle, it dropped off precipitously. Standing at the summit I looked down the trail. Saplings half an inch to an inch in diameter had been cut throw with a single blow of a machete at a sixty degree angles leaving thirty inch pointed spears the length of the trail. Stumble, fall forward and be impaled. I nearly grabbed a tree to steady myself, a palm that caused much misery in Bolivia bearing a dozen needle sized and equally sharp pins that break off in the flesh and rather than fall forward to certain death fell backwards. The workers behind the house must have been laughing but suppressed it completely. Up the next hill I encountered more workers, one with a Leica digital transit. I guess I underestimated my surveyor, he was using top notch gear. "Donde este Walter?" "Está en la casa rascándose las pelotas." My Spanish might not have been up to the task but his gesture conveyed that Walter was up in the house scratching his balls. We all had a good laugh at that. They asked the name of my dog and new enough to be confused. They didn't comprehend that someone would call his dog something that sounds exactly like "Hey You." This was as far as I could go. "Tu perro este macho?" "Por que?" "Él tiene grandes bolas." Well, that one I got, and yes, he swings a prominent pair. Gotta like these guys. Back to the house, around the grounds, back to the house, sitting on the deck observing the view. Back down the trail, a big Indian thrashing a large machete with abandon, sundering the foliage in a three foot wide path, branches, vines, ferns, saplings, fibrous trees three inches in diameter, switch hands, keep on walking, never slow down, slash, slash, slash. I spied a few tiny red frogs and several tiny lizards but the fauna was amazingly scarce. Just across the bay sits Isla Bastimentos. While examining a parcel there the chorus of toads was thunderous near the shore, in the jungle birds flitted, Montezuma Oropendola PICTURE filled the air with their characteristic cries and hermit crabs scurried about. Why the difference over such a short distance? I shall have to work these jungles, cutting vines and thinning things out, allowing for floral diversity, the foundation of a habitat for varied wildlife. I have many months of hot machete work to look forward to. I made another return to house, sit on porch and return trip to find they'd reached the end of the back line of the property and were heading back toward the shore. Walter, the surveyor, not my running mate has a differential GPS accurate to 2cm. !!!! Watching the spot get centered on the rebar, yes centering a laser beam on a half inch rod. Again forgive my former expectations. Using the range finding feature the operator was yelling instructions to the laborer plowing and slashing his way through the junge. "Vente metros mas... un meter medio." Digging around the guy found the former mark, located 80 meters away right where he was instructed. In the meantime Walter scratched his balls, told me to stay still as a statue so I didn't shake the soft earth as I swatted mosquitoes. After they found the final marker I made my way back parallel to the shore but not on the property line which cut through mangroves. Twenty minutes later my dog found his way back to the house.
Inspection
The task of the day having been completed my real estate agent showed up to convey the team back to Isla Colon. During my inspection of the house, which had been delayed forty some days as previously documented I noted some matters that needed to be addressed.
Ceiling Fan
The first was easily dismissed; the lights in the guest bedroom don't work. No, I don't want a credit. I've had sufficient experience to grasp the scope of effecting such a simple repair.In a former life I would have driven seven minutes to Home Depot, looked at hundreds of ceiling fans then crossed the street, looked at hundreds of ceiling fans at Lowes and purchased one. Returning home I would choose the most appropriate ladder from a choice of seven, an electrical supplies bucket and one of the many tool boxes filled with every conceivable tool that could be employed in a simple electrical repair. Installation would take about 15 minutes.
In Bocas I would have to ride a boat from Solarte to Colon, about ten minutes, walk to the water taxi, wait for the next one, take a boat to Almirante, on the main land, walk around for an hour or two to find one of the grand total of five I would likely find after visiting near a dozen stores, grab a taxi back to the water taxi with some wholely unsatisfactory fixture and make the return trip. Returning to the house I would find nothing but an extension ladder, completely unfit for the job and then spend a day improvising or trying to secure a tall folding ladder for a day, effect the repair then return the ladder.
Water Heater
My real estate agent had put a D cell battery in the water heater. Down here everybody uses heaters that heat on demand. This is far better than a large tank which wastes seventy percent of its energy consumption keeping the water warm in a house that needed to be cooled eight months of the year. On demand water heaters are less than two feet square and less than a foot thick. When water is needed they turn on, providing hot water as long as desired and then shut off.
This hot water heater is located in the outbuilding. Turning on the kitchen faucet I waited for several minutes and stated that the heater was not working. My agent went out to the outbuilding and turned up the temperature on the heater and told me to try again. After several more minutes of observing a poor water flow it started to flow out warm. Really, I don't want to wait five minutes to get water adequate for washing dishes while depleting my water supply which is filled by rain catchment unless it isn't. Weeks can goo by with minimal rainfall.Back to the outbuilding. Hot water gurgled from the tap. "There is still no water pressure." "What's wrong with that?" I turned on the cold water. Water gushed out. "That is water pressure." This was a replay of a couple of weeks ago, when the cold water was gurgling and I was told that this was adequate pressure. Upon inspection the water filters were near completely clogged; replacing the filter element remedied the situation.
It is obvious to the casual observer not suffering from rectal-cranial inversion that a water heater must be obtained, placed in an optimal location in the house and be plumbed in. It's possible that the water heater in the outbuilding could be reused, but Mr. Murphy dictates that the more effort that goes into relocating it the more likely the existing heater is irredeemably clogged.
Back to the apartment
Smelling like a buck goat in rut I made my way down to the boat and road back with the laborers, my feet atop tripods, poles and other surveying equipment. A few people wanted to socialize but as as my pants were covered in mud and my shirt was drying to a salty funk I felt it inappropriate to linger. I made my way back across town and stood at the front gate to the small complex. Somewhere in my fanny pack was my key. Last Sunday, at the chili cookoff I lost a set of keys. The cargo pants I was wearing at the time dumped contents every time I sat down, leaving a trail worth of those famous Grimm travellers, so I kept them in the capacious pack. They settled as they will at the bottom of the pack. My neighbor observed me. "Lost your key again?" Everybody knows what's up in Bocas. My dog wandered over to the bushes, compelled to mark what little he hasn't sprayed on my daily route while I emptied my fanny pack and dug out the keys. After opening the gate I looked for Hayu, who had departed for parts unknown. Great! "Hayu, Hayu, come!" No response. "HAYU! HAYU!" A little girl sat by the side of the road, she indicated that the dog had entered the gates of the rectory directly across the road. The rectory is probably the finest house in Bocas. When the priests take home the underaged girls I guess the luxury helps close the deal. I walked up the drive way and around the spacious grounds calling for my dog. After a few minutes a priest came out and approached me. I started explaining that I lived across the street and that my little chocolate dog had been spotted in his yard availing himself of the opportunity to play with the young alsation that usually assumes a position by the drive gate. Nope, nobody had seen my dog. I started back to put my groceries away before I started scouring the town. My little mutt, seeing that I was abandoning him sauntered out from beneath a high priced car, the priest alerted me and I took the little peckerhead home.Saturday, September 3, 2011
The gracious hostess at my Panama City lodgings called the computer technician, he wanted $45 to install my replacement keyboard. Yeah, right. I decided to go to the Super 99 (a huge supermarket chain owned by President Martinelli) in San Francisco and call on a technician with a small stall. I walked three blocks to an area near the well known Waikiki restaurant to catch a taxi. Traffic was at a standstill, a big problem in Panama City and it's only going to be worse for the next two years. After 15 minutes I got a taxi and I arrived at my destination in short order. The technician said he could install the replacement keyboard in my laptop in an hour for $15, giving a grimace after viewing the abuse to which the keyboard had been subjected at the airport. We'll see what happens.
A couple blocks down the street I found a restaurant. It was too late for breakfast and too early for lunch but they were open. I asked for the key for the WiFi and was advised that they had none. After pointing out a WiFi connection with maximum signal strength with a network name "Antonio's Pizza" he went out back and asked the owner and promptly returned with a key. Almost out of power on my netbook, (doesn't everybody walk around with a backpack with two computers in it?) he ran an extension cord across the floor and up to the ceiling. Very accommodating. Now I wait for my sopa marisco to finish.
I returned to inspect the computer work. The keys all worked but the surface undulated in consequence of the the abuse suffered in the hands of airport personnel, but this is merely an aesthetic deficiency. I found no difficulty securing a cab to my dentist and was quickly accommodated there. Leaving I stood on the street and tried in vain to hail a taxi to Albrook Mall. First I stood in front of traffic that didn't move for five minutes. When cars started moving I couldn't get a taxi to stop. I walked down to the corner, with the hope that doubling the traffic would result in some interest. Taxis on the larger street stopped but I failed time and again to find someone interested in transporting me. Apparently taxi drivers in Panama take a course in gestures as each request was met with a wagging of the right index finger to reinforce the verbal expressions which all conveyed an adamant refusal to consider the request as worthy of merit. A junker of a car stopped and two enormous men asked me where I was going. These people looked like something out of a missing persons show in the states. Where would I end up? Just bloodied on the side of the road, in the canal, or were they more imaginative and would find some wild pigs to which my corpse could be fed? "No thanks, I'll wait for a taxi." Asking passers by I was advised with the usual certainty that I was on the wrong side of the street and that I would have better luck on the other as taxis would be heading toward my destination. After that failed I returned to the original side of the street. Text messages kept arriving from someone who was expressing interest in a particularly odd boat I had seen the day before, a massive aluminum hull catamaran. Time was running short, no way I could shop for a smoker or a grill, I just needed to get to the airport.
Finally I spotted a diablo rojo (red devil) the notorious colorful buses of Panama City. I believe these buses are remnants from a vehicular spinoff of "Night of the Living Dead." After buses are seen unfit to transport school children in the U.S. the zombified version is brightly painted in a rainbow of colors, half the windshield is obscured with the destination and other graphics. Seemingly mandatory signs of Christianity are affixed, possibly to remind passengers to prepare for the ultimate destination of the good. I paid my quarter and made my way to the back of the bus in the only seat available and started playing a game on my netbook. After a while a youth approached me and said something I didn't understand. I looked up and said "No comprende." wishing that he would sell his wares or do his begging elsewhere, but he was adamant. I finally understood, looked up and realized that I was in an empty bus at the mall. "Hey, dickhead, get off now or take another trip around the city." I got off and quickly grabbed a taxi to the nearby airport. When asked the fare the driver replied "What do you want to pay?" It's a very short ride, necessitated by the fact that the route is nothing but narrow ramps with no walkways. I handed him two bucks and he was pleased.
Having purchased my ticket online I was left to merely get my boarding pass which took but a minute. Rather than the plastic slabs used in Bocas, this was a bookmarker sized piece of flexible plastic. Taking a seat I availed myself of the free WiFi, No reply from the guy who brings boats down from Florida. I had been advised that if he responds too quickly to my email, it must be a scam as it means he has nothing else to do. Either my contact knew the game or he actually was working on other deals.
Immediately after purchasing a couple of coffees the waiting room started emptying out as people filed through security. We finished our coffees as people were boarding the plane. The X-ray attendant noticed a cigarette lighter in my day pack but couldn't find it and started digging through my bag. Great! Now she'll get to the bottom and find the roll of crocodile hide I didn't really want and I would find myself in high demand as the recipient of some unwanted attention in a urine soaked hell hole. Well, I guess I had pissed her off. She insisted on xraying my hat and shoes a bit of attention no one else warranted. Finally she found a lighter and I was on my way, sans my boarding pass. Looking out the window I saw but one person left to climb the stairs and board the plane. Just not my day. I managed to get an airline employee to assist me, he counted the boarding passes that had been gathered and found that he was one short, checked my passport and escorted me to the plane. The woman who had given me my boarding pass having communicated via two way radio stood at the bottom of the ramp and allowed me to board without my pass.
My daypack was overloaded and couldn't fit under the seat in front of me so my right leg stuck out into the aisle. After we took off the man across the aisle asked me "Are you Jungle Jim?" "Many people call me that, but I don't recall your name." Actually I had no idea who he was but this seemed a little less dismissive. It turns out that he was kidding, he was just commenting on my attire. He turned out to be an amiable guy who had grown up in Colon and was coming to see Bocas for the first time. We talked about our favorite westerns for most of the flight, Rawhide, Have Gun Will Travel, Gunsmoke, Bonanza, Rifleman. American black and white broadcasts were a staple of his childhood. After disembarking, the woman who gave me my boarding pass on my outbound trip advised me that I had to return the boarding pass or pay $5. "Do you know where I live?" "No." "Then I guess I need do neither." was tendered with a smile. "I''ll check my luggage, but if it doesn't show up in Panama, I'll come by and pay you."
After arriving, Walter waited for his luggage, which held four shock absorbers for the infamous red minivan while I walked back to my apartment. I don't think any of the shock absorbers that remained on the van were secured on each end. Walter and Flaco found me on the street on my way to town and picked me up, my little dog in the back seat, who greeted me with a "mehh, I've got other friends, I'm not pissed but don't expect back flips." We headed to our usual venue where I was greeted immediately with something close to "Our notebook is dead, can you work some magic on it?" while my second foot was hitting the street. What horrible things have been inflicted on this aged piece of hardware now? Believe it or not I don't always walk around with CD's, screwdrivers, cables and drive cases. As a spare was in place this was not urgent I replied with an inscrutable, "I'll get to it right after my meeting with the president."
The restaurant started to fill up, people were coming from other provinces for the Saturday pig roast and Friday Fish Taco night was an apparent success in strong contrast to the nearly vacant night on Wednesday. Yet another quiet and peaceful night on the dock with the usual suspects.
A couple blocks down the street I found a restaurant. It was too late for breakfast and too early for lunch but they were open. I asked for the key for the WiFi and was advised that they had none. After pointing out a WiFi connection with maximum signal strength with a network name "Antonio's Pizza" he went out back and asked the owner and promptly returned with a key. Almost out of power on my netbook, (doesn't everybody walk around with a backpack with two computers in it?) he ran an extension cord across the floor and up to the ceiling. Very accommodating. Now I wait for my sopa marisco to finish.
I returned to inspect the computer work. The keys all worked but the surface undulated in consequence of the the abuse suffered in the hands of airport personnel, but this is merely an aesthetic deficiency. I found no difficulty securing a cab to my dentist and was quickly accommodated there. Leaving I stood on the street and tried in vain to hail a taxi to Albrook Mall. First I stood in front of traffic that didn't move for five minutes. When cars started moving I couldn't get a taxi to stop. I walked down to the corner, with the hope that doubling the traffic would result in some interest. Taxis on the larger street stopped but I failed time and again to find someone interested in transporting me. Apparently taxi drivers in Panama take a course in gestures as each request was met with a wagging of the right index finger to reinforce the verbal expressions which all conveyed an adamant refusal to consider the request as worthy of merit. A junker of a car stopped and two enormous men asked me where I was going. These people looked like something out of a missing persons show in the states. Where would I end up? Just bloodied on the side of the road, in the canal, or were they more imaginative and would find some wild pigs to which my corpse could be fed? "No thanks, I'll wait for a taxi." Asking passers by I was advised with the usual certainty that I was on the wrong side of the street and that I would have better luck on the other as taxis would be heading toward my destination. After that failed I returned to the original side of the street. Text messages kept arriving from someone who was expressing interest in a particularly odd boat I had seen the day before, a massive aluminum hull catamaran. Time was running short, no way I could shop for a smoker or a grill, I just needed to get to the airport.
Finally I spotted a diablo rojo (red devil) the notorious colorful buses of Panama City. I believe these buses are remnants from a vehicular spinoff of "Night of the Living Dead." After buses are seen unfit to transport school children in the U.S. the zombified version is brightly painted in a rainbow of colors, half the windshield is obscured with the destination and other graphics. Seemingly mandatory signs of Christianity are affixed, possibly to remind passengers to prepare for the ultimate destination of the good. I paid my quarter and made my way to the back of the bus in the only seat available and started playing a game on my netbook. After a while a youth approached me and said something I didn't understand. I looked up and said "No comprende." wishing that he would sell his wares or do his begging elsewhere, but he was adamant. I finally understood, looked up and realized that I was in an empty bus at the mall. "Hey, dickhead, get off now or take another trip around the city." I got off and quickly grabbed a taxi to the nearby airport. When asked the fare the driver replied "What do you want to pay?" It's a very short ride, necessitated by the fact that the route is nothing but narrow ramps with no walkways. I handed him two bucks and he was pleased.
Having purchased my ticket online I was left to merely get my boarding pass which took but a minute. Rather than the plastic slabs used in Bocas, this was a bookmarker sized piece of flexible plastic. Taking a seat I availed myself of the free WiFi, No reply from the guy who brings boats down from Florida. I had been advised that if he responds too quickly to my email, it must be a scam as it means he has nothing else to do. Either my contact knew the game or he actually was working on other deals.
Immediately after purchasing a couple of coffees the waiting room started emptying out as people filed through security. We finished our coffees as people were boarding the plane. The X-ray attendant noticed a cigarette lighter in my day pack but couldn't find it and started digging through my bag. Great! Now she'll get to the bottom and find the roll of crocodile hide I didn't really want and I would find myself in high demand as the recipient of some unwanted attention in a urine soaked hell hole. Well, I guess I had pissed her off. She insisted on xraying my hat and shoes a bit of attention no one else warranted. Finally she found a lighter and I was on my way, sans my boarding pass. Looking out the window I saw but one person left to climb the stairs and board the plane. Just not my day. I managed to get an airline employee to assist me, he counted the boarding passes that had been gathered and found that he was one short, checked my passport and escorted me to the plane. The woman who had given me my boarding pass having communicated via two way radio stood at the bottom of the ramp and allowed me to board without my pass.
My daypack was overloaded and couldn't fit under the seat in front of me so my right leg stuck out into the aisle. After we took off the man across the aisle asked me "Are you Jungle Jim?" "Many people call me that, but I don't recall your name." Actually I had no idea who he was but this seemed a little less dismissive. It turns out that he was kidding, he was just commenting on my attire. He turned out to be an amiable guy who had grown up in Colon and was coming to see Bocas for the first time. We talked about our favorite westerns for most of the flight, Rawhide, Have Gun Will Travel, Gunsmoke, Bonanza, Rifleman. American black and white broadcasts were a staple of his childhood. After disembarking, the woman who gave me my boarding pass on my outbound trip advised me that I had to return the boarding pass or pay $5. "Do you know where I live?" "No." "Then I guess I need do neither." was tendered with a smile. "I''ll check my luggage, but if it doesn't show up in Panama, I'll come by and pay you."
After arriving, Walter waited for his luggage, which held four shock absorbers for the infamous red minivan while I walked back to my apartment. I don't think any of the shock absorbers that remained on the van were secured on each end. Walter and Flaco found me on the street on my way to town and picked me up, my little dog in the back seat, who greeted me with a "mehh, I've got other friends, I'm not pissed but don't expect back flips." We headed to our usual venue where I was greeted immediately with something close to "Our notebook is dead, can you work some magic on it?" while my second foot was hitting the street. What horrible things have been inflicted on this aged piece of hardware now? Believe it or not I don't always walk around with CD's, screwdrivers, cables and drive cases. As a spare was in place this was not urgent I replied with an inscrutable, "I'll get to it right after my meeting with the president."
The restaurant started to fill up, people were coming from other provinces for the Saturday pig roast and Friday Fish Taco night was an apparent success in strong contrast to the nearly vacant night on Wednesday. Yet another quiet and peaceful night on the dock with the usual suspects.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Real Estate Attorney
Ruth, my attorney agreed to meet me at Villa Michelle, my preferred play to stay in Panama City. I didn't want to go to her office at 3 in the afternoon. I've had the fun of trying to catch a taxi in Panama at 5; they are all reserved, every weekday. That was a nice accommodation, she is working at a fix price on this house closing. This place is in an upscale neighborhood near where she lives. She showed up promptly, we exchanged civilities and proceed to go down a list from the sales contract through all of the documents that she had, reviewing them and checking them off.
I noted several documents that I expected that had not yet been retrieved. Ostensibly it was my fault that I wanted a signoff on the property boundaries with the owners or custodians of any property adjoining this property. Gringos might not understand this, but this is Right of Possession property. There is no title to the land, one gets a right to live there or use the land for other purposes, ownership is not as clear as it is with titled property. Only recently have these ocean front properties become eligible for title. It is a long process, when one is done the land becomes more desirable to people who are spooked by non titled property. This is not to say that there aren't a great many risks associated with ownership of Right of Possession property, I won't bother trying to educate you here, if you have reason to care, drop me a line.
I was told I should have the land resurveyed. The original surveyor says it will be $850. Now he plans to use a GPS. Interesting, with no geo coordinates on the original survey I'd like to know what that means. If he is not using a differential GPS reproducibility might put the same coordinates as far as 8 meters away. This is a circle jerk. I advised my attorney that the fence my real estate agent said is in place does not and never has existed. One has to question the value of a survey that gives a different result every time it is conducted. Trust me, on these slopes, in this jungle and in bananas country no transits, compasses, verniers or tape measures were employed.
The discussion of the boat was very short. I don't want it. I don't think it's registered in Panama, no registration fees have ever been paid, the hull is filled with water and can't be drained, the console and the floor would have to come up, the gas tank needs to be replaced as does the tilt bar and the engine. My real estate agent thinks he was slick telling me for 45 days that the house sitter, "Geoffery says there is nothing wrong with the boat." When I inspected the boat and then had it surveyed this duplicitous worthless specimen of humanity said, "Oh, I knew it had no value all along. I said 'Geoffery says there is nothing wrong with the boat'". Bite me.
In any event progress is being made. It would have been nice if the real estate agent (he who shall not be named) would have started executing the tasks for which he was responsible in time to get this deal done in the time he allotted for its completion.
I noted several documents that I expected that had not yet been retrieved. Ostensibly it was my fault that I wanted a signoff on the property boundaries with the owners or custodians of any property adjoining this property. Gringos might not understand this, but this is Right of Possession property. There is no title to the land, one gets a right to live there or use the land for other purposes, ownership is not as clear as it is with titled property. Only recently have these ocean front properties become eligible for title. It is a long process, when one is done the land becomes more desirable to people who are spooked by non titled property. This is not to say that there aren't a great many risks associated with ownership of Right of Possession property, I won't bother trying to educate you here, if you have reason to care, drop me a line.
I was told I should have the land resurveyed. The original surveyor says it will be $850. Now he plans to use a GPS. Interesting, with no geo coordinates on the original survey I'd like to know what that means. If he is not using a differential GPS reproducibility might put the same coordinates as far as 8 meters away. This is a circle jerk. I advised my attorney that the fence my real estate agent said is in place does not and never has existed. One has to question the value of a survey that gives a different result every time it is conducted. Trust me, on these slopes, in this jungle and in bananas country no transits, compasses, verniers or tape measures were employed.
The discussion of the boat was very short. I don't want it. I don't think it's registered in Panama, no registration fees have ever been paid, the hull is filled with water and can't be drained, the console and the floor would have to come up, the gas tank needs to be replaced as does the tilt bar and the engine. My real estate agent thinks he was slick telling me for 45 days that the house sitter, "Geoffery says there is nothing wrong with the boat." When I inspected the boat and then had it surveyed this duplicitous worthless specimen of humanity said, "Oh, I knew it had no value all along. I said 'Geoffery says there is nothing wrong with the boat'". Bite me.
In any event progress is being made. It would have been nice if the real estate agent (he who shall not be named) would have started executing the tasks for which he was responsible in time to get this deal done in the time he allotted for its completion.
Boat Shopping in Panama City
Walter and I traveled to Panama yesterday, for different reasons. He was had to sign some documents for Casa Verde's water concession and I have a list of things to do including shop for a boat as the boat that was to come with the house I am trying hard to buy is less than worthless, I found out even more today about that but let's cut to the chase as I have too many things to write about today.
I was sitting poolside at Villa Michelle, killing time and Walter called to tell me that he was out front. I've known the guy for two years and I didn't know he had a personal car that he kept in Panama City. Walter's mother was riding shotgun and I took the back seat. The first order of business was for him to go to the National Maritime Authority and meet with his attorney. We arrived at the designated time but his attorney hadn't shown yet so we started the boat search. First we headed off to Diablo, a part of town near the canal formerly serving as housing for the U.S. Army. On the way we passed near Albrook Airport, now an international airport, formerly a U.S. Air Base. After escaping stop an go traffic we entered a road which bisected a huge urban park of raw jungle giving way to well kept, three story houses, with one residence per floor situated on fair sized lots. Office buildings in the neighborhood that at one time housed military administrative personnel were being used for a variety of purposes including university school rooms.
Walter was surprised that there were so few boats for sale near the residences. Presently we entered a large lot beside the canal and saw a lot of junk and a few boats of which one could be proud. At one location a man manufactured pangas, a type of boat extremely common in the entirety of Central America. He was in a 40' x 40' enclosure laying fiberglass in a mold, in the process of manufacturing a 23' panga, a boat frequently used to transport 21 to 30 people between the islands on bench seats. A canopy was $800, he read my raised eyebrows and said, "the canvas is $16 a yard" I looked at the boat and said to Walter, "6 yards, that's 96 bucks, 14 poles, there's another $140 dollars, I guess it costs a hell of a lot to sew." The man kindly explained that 16' to 23' boats are all made using the same mold. A false transom is slid in the mold at the appropriate spot to vary the length of the boat. Foam filled bench seats could be added at a cost of $400. The benefit of these seats is that they take up room, displacing water. in the event of a hull breach, heavy rain or a rogue wave the boat ostensibly won't sink. The physics of this is something any reasonably intelligent grade schooler could handle. Compute the (volume of the seats * the density of water) - (weight of boat + engine + accessories). Any positive number indicates positive bouyancy. Somehow I feel in the ad hoc configuration of these boats this is never computed and many a boat has been dispatched with an erroneously confidant boat captain.
Having killed enough time we returned to the Maritime Authority and took a seat in a pizzeria. After we all ordered Walter received a phone call indicating that his attorney had shown up and disappeared for about 10 minutes to sign the document. He was as clueless as I as to why this couldn't have been handled by power of attorney. For this he flew halfway across the country, granted it's only 300 km or so, but it takes time and money. While he was gone I tried to engage his mother in small talk but we encountered fatal communication problems that made it more trouble than it was worth. We finished lunch and I bought a couple of coffees from the cafe next door. I really just wanted to use their WiFi. I had almost guess their wifi password, I just had the capitalization wrong.
Next we headed off to Centro Marino a place highly recommended by my landlord. I was told this was the most dangerous neighborhood in Panama. It looked like a good part of Detroit. The store looked like a typical boat supply store, disheveled and crammed with sundry, but lacking variety both in types and choices. At the back counter a man proudly offered his business card. Matias Alvarado Asesor de Ventes, a friggin' sales consultant. Excellent, I was told these guys could really help configure a boat. "Can I see where the boats are made?" We went into the back room. I have a feeling that the boat manufacturing shops in Japan were in far better shape immediately following the hurricane. Outboard motors in every stage of disassembly were stacked up to ten feet high. A sullen man sat on the gunwhale of a mold in which he was manufacturing a panga. Other molds were buried under piles of rubble. It is difficult to imagine how much debris must be shuffled every time a different mold is used. I inquired about an 18' panga. My consultant glanced at the sullen man who was inhaling massive quantities of petroleum distillates the man replied with a "No." No, what? I looked at Walter, Walter looked at me, we both looked at our consultant and I said, "Ok, well, I guess there's nothing here then." Now Senior Sullen gave a curt statement in Spanish and it appeared as though the third item on their standard offerings was again available. The prices for accessories and options was far less here than the previous location but questions of engine power and prop pitch were beyond the ken of this consultant. Having started in the job a mere seven years earlier I guess it's not his fault that he didn't know if the boat was provided with anti-fouling paint standard, or if running and anchor lights were provided. Actually he didn't know his ass from a hole in the ground.
I digress...
This guy didn't know shit either. Does it come with a gas tank? A battery? A battery holder? Cleats?
Next I wanted pictures of boats in different configurations. I was shown a picture of the wallpaper on a clerks computer screen. That's a boat, not anything to do with what I'm looking for but it's a boat. Then the girl flicked through photo album after another at extreme speed, never heading my requests to stop. She started deleting pictures I wanted to see. A hot woman in a bikini on a beach. "Mi gusta, que su vende?" Nope, not an accessory. Once again, you can say stuff like that in Latino land and no one takes offence, hell they'd wonder about your masculinity if you didn't.
So she emailed me a few random pictures
Can I have a captain's chair instead of a bench? Oh, you don't carry chairs? How about a different brand than Mercury? WOW he knew the answer to that one, I could buy another brand elsewhere and they would install it. How much would that cost? Well, the cup of knowledge was empty. We left, I had to go meet with my attorney about my property acquisition anyway.
I was sitting poolside at Villa Michelle, killing time and Walter called to tell me that he was out front. I've known the guy for two years and I didn't know he had a personal car that he kept in Panama City. Walter's mother was riding shotgun and I took the back seat. The first order of business was for him to go to the National Maritime Authority and meet with his attorney. We arrived at the designated time but his attorney hadn't shown yet so we started the boat search. First we headed off to Diablo, a part of town near the canal formerly serving as housing for the U.S. Army. On the way we passed near Albrook Airport, now an international airport, formerly a U.S. Air Base. After escaping stop an go traffic we entered a road which bisected a huge urban park of raw jungle giving way to well kept, three story houses, with one residence per floor situated on fair sized lots. Office buildings in the neighborhood that at one time housed military administrative personnel were being used for a variety of purposes including university school rooms.
Walter was surprised that there were so few boats for sale near the residences. Presently we entered a large lot beside the canal and saw a lot of junk and a few boats of which one could be proud. At one location a man manufactured pangas, a type of boat extremely common in the entirety of Central America. He was in a 40' x 40' enclosure laying fiberglass in a mold, in the process of manufacturing a 23' panga, a boat frequently used to transport 21 to 30 people between the islands on bench seats. A canopy was $800, he read my raised eyebrows and said, "the canvas is $16 a yard" I looked at the boat and said to Walter, "6 yards, that's 96 bucks, 14 poles, there's another $140 dollars, I guess it costs a hell of a lot to sew." The man kindly explained that 16' to 23' boats are all made using the same mold. A false transom is slid in the mold at the appropriate spot to vary the length of the boat. Foam filled bench seats could be added at a cost of $400. The benefit of these seats is that they take up room, displacing water. in the event of a hull breach, heavy rain or a rogue wave the boat ostensibly won't sink. The physics of this is something any reasonably intelligent grade schooler could handle. Compute the (volume of the seats * the density of water) - (weight of boat + engine + accessories). Any positive number indicates positive bouyancy. Somehow I feel in the ad hoc configuration of these boats this is never computed and many a boat has been dispatched with an erroneously confidant boat captain.
Having killed enough time we returned to the Maritime Authority and took a seat in a pizzeria. After we all ordered Walter received a phone call indicating that his attorney had shown up and disappeared for about 10 minutes to sign the document. He was as clueless as I as to why this couldn't have been handled by power of attorney. For this he flew halfway across the country, granted it's only 300 km or so, but it takes time and money. While he was gone I tried to engage his mother in small talk but we encountered fatal communication problems that made it more trouble than it was worth. We finished lunch and I bought a couple of coffees from the cafe next door. I really just wanted to use their WiFi. I had almost guess their wifi password, I just had the capitalization wrong.
Next we headed off to Centro Marino a place highly recommended by my landlord. I was told this was the most dangerous neighborhood in Panama. It looked like a good part of Detroit. The store looked like a typical boat supply store, disheveled and crammed with sundry, but lacking variety both in types and choices. At the back counter a man proudly offered his business card. Matias Alvarado Asesor de Ventes, a friggin' sales consultant. Excellent, I was told these guys could really help configure a boat. "Can I see where the boats are made?" We went into the back room. I have a feeling that the boat manufacturing shops in Japan were in far better shape immediately following the hurricane. Outboard motors in every stage of disassembly were stacked up to ten feet high. A sullen man sat on the gunwhale of a mold in which he was manufacturing a panga. Other molds were buried under piles of rubble. It is difficult to imagine how much debris must be shuffled every time a different mold is used. I inquired about an 18' panga. My consultant glanced at the sullen man who was inhaling massive quantities of petroleum distillates the man replied with a "No." No, what? I looked at Walter, Walter looked at me, we both looked at our consultant and I said, "Ok, well, I guess there's nothing here then." Now Senior Sullen gave a curt statement in Spanish and it appeared as though the third item on their standard offerings was again available. The prices for accessories and options was far less here than the previous location but questions of engine power and prop pitch were beyond the ken of this consultant. Having started in the job a mere seven years earlier I guess it's not his fault that he didn't know if the boat was provided with anti-fouling paint standard, or if running and anchor lights were provided. Actually he didn't know his ass from a hole in the ground.
I digress...
LITTLE GIRL ON A PLANE
An atheist was seated next to a little girl on an airplane and he turned to her and said, "Do you want to talk? Flights go quicker if you strike up a conversation with your fellow passenger."
The little girl, who had just started to read her book, replied to the total stranger, "What would you want to talk about?"
"Oh, I don't know," said the atheist, "How about why there is no God, or no Heaven or Hell, or no life after death?" as he smiled smugly.
"OK," she said. "Those could be interesting topics but let me ask you a question first. A horse, a cow and a deer all eat the same stuff - grass. Yet a deer excretes little pellets, while a cow turns out a flat patty, but a horse produces clumps. Why do you suppose that is?"
The atheist, visibly surprised by the little girl's intelligence, thinks about it and says, "Hmmm, I have no idea."
To which the little girl replies, "Do you really feel qualified to discuss why there is no God, or no Heaven or Hell, or no life after death, when you don't know shit?"
And then she went back to reading her book
This guy didn't know shit either. Does it come with a gas tank? A battery? A battery holder? Cleats?
Next I wanted pictures of boats in different configurations. I was shown a picture of the wallpaper on a clerks computer screen. That's a boat, not anything to do with what I'm looking for but it's a boat. Then the girl flicked through photo album after another at extreme speed, never heading my requests to stop. She started deleting pictures I wanted to see. A hot woman in a bikini on a beach. "Mi gusta, que su vende?" Nope, not an accessory. Once again, you can say stuff like that in Latino land and no one takes offence, hell they'd wonder about your masculinity if you didn't.
So she emailed me a few random pictures
Can I have a captain's chair instead of a bench? Oh, you don't carry chairs? How about a different brand than Mercury? WOW he knew the answer to that one, I could buy another brand elsewhere and they would install it. How much would that cost? Well, the cup of knowledge was empty. We left, I had to go meet with my attorney about my property acquisition anyway.
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