Christmas in Panama
Christmas was strange. I spent it at my girlfriend’s family home in the interior of Panama. What an experience. These people are nearly dirt poor. They have a roof over their heads—sort of. Parts of the house don’t actually have a roof. They live in utter squalor. Imagine a Latin American version of Ma and Pa Kettle, with one beautiful Daisy Mae daughter—my girlfriend.
I’ve always been amazed at how basic and simple her thinking is, but now I understand why. When I arrived, they were cooking a huge pot of rice and chicken—freshly caught and killed at home—over an open wood fire outside. They have no hot water, and while they technically have a bathroom, my girlfriend advised me not to use it. She was right. Instead, she suggested I pee off the back porch. I welcomed that suggestion.
The yard was littered with debris, paper, and trash. The back door and the bathroom door were raw, unpainted plywood, about ¼” thick. The house itself was roughly constructed from unpainted cinder block. The living room was about 9’ x 9’, furnished with old, junkyard-quality sofas. Lighting? Bare bulbs hanging from wires. Chickens wandered in and out at will. The ceiling—or where there was one—was galvanized metal.
I am no longer depressed about my $300-a-month apartment. Compared to this, my place is Buckingham Palace. This level of poverty is common throughout Panama. Her father worked for the government his entire life, making just $400 a month. He’s my age but looks much older at 75. Incredibly, they seem relatively happy.
Then came the worst part: we had to spend the night. A horrible experience.
Her sister gave up her bedroom for us. The bed was like a taco. The pillows were chopped-up foam rubber stuffed into pillowcases. Part of the ceiling was missing, so you could see the sky. Before we could sleep, we had to clear about a week’s worth of dirty laundry off the bed.
Did I say sleep? Forget it.
The neighbors, completely drunk, blasted loud, pounding Latin music until 6 a.m. (Not exactly Christmas carols.) Fireworks exploded outside the window all night long. How can they afford fireworks when they’re so poor? Simple—they save all year to buy them. Add to this the relentless crowing of at least three roosters stationed just twenty feet from the house.
Meanwhile, my dog went insane from all the noise and barked nonstop. He didn’t sleep. We didn’t sleep.
Then came the morning—though calling it "morning" is ironic, since we never actually slept. Finding a taxi to escape this hellhole took 10 phone calls. My girlfriend didn’t think it was a hellhole, of course—she grew up here.
When a taxi finally arrived at 6 a.m., it was full of three Panamanian men and reeked of marijuana smoke. We were concerned they might rob us. But since I only had two dollars to my name, the real worry was that they’d take our phones and dump us in an even more remote part of Panama—if such a place existed.
Thankfully, they didn’t. We made it home safely, and I immediately crashed in my own bed for the rest of the day.
Last Christmas, I dined with my mega-wealthy friend Gary and his family in his multimillion-dollar, three-story ocean-view penthouse. Maids, real furniture, and food cooked in a real kitchen—with real, store-bought chicken.
What a contrast.
Never a dull moment in Panama.
I’ve always been amazed at how basic and simple her thinking is, but now I understand why. When I arrived, they were cooking a huge pot of rice and chicken—freshly caught and killed at home—over an open wood fire outside. They have no hot water, and while they technically have a bathroom, my girlfriend advised me not to use it. She was right. Instead, she suggested I pee off the back porch. I welcomed that suggestion.
The yard was littered with debris, paper, and trash. The back door and the bathroom door were raw, unpainted plywood, about ¼” thick. The house itself was roughly constructed from unpainted cinder block. The living room was about 9’ x 9’, furnished with old, junkyard-quality sofas. Lighting? Bare bulbs hanging from wires. Chickens wandered in and out at will. The ceiling—or where there was one—was galvanized metal.
I am no longer depressed about my $300-a-month apartment. Compared to this, my place is Buckingham Palace. This level of poverty is common throughout Panama. Her father worked for the government his entire life, making just $400 a month. He’s my age but looks much older at 75. Incredibly, they seem relatively happy.
Then came the worst part: we had to spend the night. A horrible experience.
Her sister gave up her bedroom for us. The bed was like a taco. The pillows were chopped-up foam rubber stuffed into pillowcases. Part of the ceiling was missing, so you could see the sky. Before we could sleep, we had to clear about a week’s worth of dirty laundry off the bed.
Did I say sleep? Forget it.
The neighbors, completely drunk, blasted loud, pounding Latin music until 6 a.m. (Not exactly Christmas carols.) Fireworks exploded outside the window all night long. How can they afford fireworks when they’re so poor? Simple—they save all year to buy them. Add to this the relentless crowing of at least three roosters stationed just twenty feet from the house.
Meanwhile, my dog went insane from all the noise and barked nonstop. He didn’t sleep. We didn’t sleep.
Then came the morning—though calling it "morning" is ironic, since we never actually slept. Finding a taxi to escape this hellhole took 10 phone calls. My girlfriend didn’t think it was a hellhole, of course—she grew up here.
When a taxi finally arrived at 6 a.m., it was full of three Panamanian men and reeked of marijuana smoke. We were concerned they might rob us. But since I only had two dollars to my name, the real worry was that they’d take our phones and dump us in an even more remote part of Panama—if such a place existed.
Thankfully, they didn’t. We made it home safely, and I immediately crashed in my own bed for the rest of the day.
Last Christmas, I dined with my mega-wealthy friend Gary and his family in his multimillion-dollar, three-story ocean-view penthouse. Maids, real furniture, and food cooked in a real kitchen—with real, store-bought chicken.
What a contrast.
Never a dull moment in Panama.
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