CHRIS WALKER VS. WHERE THE STREETS HAVE NO NAME

You never appreciate the fine line between ‘charming and rustic’ and “Fuck, this is some third world shit,” until you’re actually standing there, saying to yourself, “Fuck, this is some third world shit.” I learned to appreciate the line last Monday after Nacho, my Mexican Distributor, and I arrived in Panama City, Panama.

Looking out the window as we landed, Panama appeared gorgeous. Surrounded by ocean, there were lush, green forests, dark blue rivers running through them – it was paradise. Then we got off the plane, through the airport, and into the city. Not exactly paradise. Imagine a place that got the life bombed out of it 50 years ago and they just now kinda, sorta, got around to half-assing the rebuilding process. That’s Panama.

To clarify, places like Moltrasio or Bellagio, Italy are charming and rustic. Parts of Guadalajara, Mexico are charming and rustic. They have culture, rich history, and (most importantly) incredible, and often times simple, food. Panama is not charming. Nor is it rustic. It’s poverty’s tiara-wearing, slut of a prom queen; the role model all other crime infested, disease ridden dens of filth and debauchery aspire to emulate. Or, it’s a perfect example of what happens after America occupies you for a hundred years and then leaves. Take note, Iraq. Not that you were much of an ideal vacation stop beforehand.

Before you start thinking “Walker’s just being a spoiled snob,” understand my travels have taken me to some rural places. I’ve peeled apart shrimp under cover of a pink tarp in middle-of-nowhere, Singapore; I’ve eaten off banana leaves with locals in Thailand; I’ve stomached down fish eyeballs, animal intestine, and boiled chicken feet in mainland China; I’ve even mowed down traditional tacos in the parts of Cancun where people actually live. And I’ve loved every minute of it. If there was cold beer and interesting people to trade stories with I’d hang out in a coal mine for a while. I really don’t care.

“Rebel chef” Anthony Bourdain said it perfectly, the Big Boss has a variation of it, and I’ll say it now: the best, and perhaps only, way to fully understand a culture is to eat what the locals eat and drink what the locals drink. That is why Panama lacks appeal, there is no culture. Their national food is Bennigan’s and Dunkin’ Doughnuts. Seriously, they’re building another Bennigan’s and ten more Dunkin’ Doughnuts as you read this. During my week-long trip to Panama I ate at a Hard Rock Café, a T.G.I.Fridays, a Tony Roma’s, had drinks at Hooters, and the list of deplorable American fare continues. Nothing authentic, nothing to challenge my palette; it was so miserably American by the end of the trip Nacho, my Mexican Distributor, and I ate potato chips with lime and Tabasco and drank Brandy and Coke in their hotel room for dinner. I’m not even kidding.

One of the trip’s finest moments was when my Mexican Distributor and I went to visit potential customers. A hotel cab driver (not from our hotel as our hotel didn’t have a taxi service) was willing to wait for us while we were in meetings. As we traveled from customer to customer the landscape changed from sketchy, to bad, to if this cab breaks down we’re all going to die. After we’d left the worst area (the pictures below do not do justice) the cab driver told us if we weren’t so close to where we were in the first place he would’ve never taken us there. The hotel won’t allow him to take guests as far out as we were. It’s probably one of the most dangerous parts of Panama. Great to know.

Not pictured above are the guys shooting dice and dealing drugs I was afraid to photograph as they glared at us, passing through their neighborhood. I’m telling you, after traveling to Panama I’m willing to visit customers anywhere; how much worse could it be?

Speaking of taxis, Panama has about five street signs, seven stop lights, and virtually no stop signs. Traffic is a certified free-for-all. If you’re a middle-aged, overweight, stay-at-home, mother-of-
miserable-future-America who merges onto a 65 mile per hour highway going 45 MPH and gets upset when you ‘feel’ someone has either cut you off or tailgated you – shut the fuck up. Get out of the McDonald’s drive-thru and visit a third world country; you have absolutely no clue. And for the record, I’m willing to bet not one single Panamanian knows how to use a turn single. They all know how to use the car horn, however.

If you’ve read this far you might be sitting there thinking, “Gosh Chris, don’t you have anything positive to say about Panama; isn’t there anything fun to do?” To which I would respond, yes, I do have something positive to say: Panama is a fantastic place to leave. Wherever you are going from there will seem like Disney Land. And if it is Disney Land, well, you might as well be going to heaven. As for fun things to do in Panama, there are two: 01.) drink excessively; 02.) pay for a happy ending massage from a girl who will presumably leave you with the full-blown AIDS. Oh yeah, you can also visit one of Panama’s national landmarks (see: a shopping mall or Bennigan’s) or gamble but you can also do that in Las Vegas – or an Indian colony – and in Vegas you can actually touch surfaces without feeling like your skin is going to rot off. Kind of.

“But what about the Panama Canal?” you say. “It’s one of the Seven Wonders of the World!” Here’s what the Panama Canal looks like:

Epic, granted, but once you realize you actually have to go to Panama to see this thing – loses all appeal. Actually seeing the things you learned about in seventh grade history class is not all that awesome. Kind of like when the chick you lusted after in high school turns into a sloppy, chunky, mega whore and you go, “Wow, in retrospect, glad I dodged that bullet.” Do yourself a favor and check it off your list NOW.

Speaking of whores, I will say this: if you love paying for sex Panama is the city for you. It’s everywhere and all the locals do it – which also makes it so disgusting. It’s like, “Hey guys, I feel like getting the AIDS tonight! Again!” One of the customers we visited even goes so far as to carry condoms in the ashtray of his car. And although I’m sure sitting down to drink and swap tales with him would be amazing I couldn’t help from thinking “Fuck me, I shook this guy’s hand?” I seriously don’t know how they let anyone back in the country after going to Panama. Where are you on that one, Homeland Security?

Maybe this sounds like a bunch of bitching. I call it observation. I think the pictures alone would make you think, “Wow, totally looks like a place I don’t want to go to.” If I wasn’t with great friends who are hilarious and love to drink I probably would’ve thrown myself out my hotel window (which I often thought about). Drinking is the only fun thing to do in Panama that doesn’t involve living with the full-blown AIDS afterwards. Luckily for us, we are all exceptional drinkers. Check out what we did in just two nights:

And that doesn’t even count all the beer, Sangria, wine, and other shit we drank at lunch…and breakfast…and well, anywhere we happened to be. My tolerance is so high right now I can drink an entire bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label and still be straight as an arrow. Sounds like I’m ready for St. Patrick’s Day.

Cheers.

Posted: March 14th, 2007 | Author: Chris Walker | Filed under: Beer, Food, Hard Alcohol, Panama | No Comments »