Confessions of an Economic Hit Man

The woman had returned to helping her father-in-law and children. Beyond them, the sun dipped into the blue water. It was a scene of idyllic beauty, reminiscent of a Monet painting. I asked the man if they were U.S. citizens.

He looked at me incredulously. “Of course. The Canal Zone is U.S. territory.” The boy ran up to tell his father that dinner was ready.

“Will your son be the fourth generation?”

The man brought his hands together in a sign of prayer and raised them toward the sky.

“I pray to the good Lord every day that he may have that opportunity. Living in the Zone is a wonderful life.” Then he lowered his hands and stared directly at Fidel. “I just hope we can hold on to her for another fifty years. That despot Torrijos is making a lot of waves. A dangerous man.”

A sudden urge gripped me, and I said to him, in Spanish, “Adios. I hope you and your family have a good time here, and learn lots about Panama’s culture.”

He gave me a disgusted look. “I don’t speak their language,” he said. Then he turned abruptly and headed toward his family and the picnic.

Fidel stepped close to me, placed an arm around my shoulders, and squeezed tightly. “Thank you,” he said.

Back in the city, Fidel drove us through an area he described as a slum.

“Not our worst,” he said. “But you’ll get the flavor.”

Wooden shacks and ditches filled with standing water lined the street, the frail homes suggesting dilapidated boats scuttled in a cesspool. The smell of rot and sewage filled our car as children with distended bellies ran alongside. When we slowed, they congregated at my side, calling me uncle and begging for money. It reminded me of Jakarta.

Graffiti covered many of the walls. There were a few of the usual hearts with couples’ names scrawled inside, but most of the graffiti were slogans expressing hatred of the United States: “Go home, gringo,” “Stop shitting in our canal,” “Uncle Sam, slave master,” and “Tell Nixon that Panama is not Vietnam.” The one that chilled my heart the most, however, read, “Death for freedom is the way to Christ.” Scattered among these were posters of Omar Torrijos.

“Now the other side,” Fidel said. “I’ve got official papers and you’re a U.S. citizen, so we can go.” Beneath a magenta sky, he drove us into the Canal Zone. As prepared as I thought I was, it was not enough. I could hardly believe the opulence of the place—huge white buildings, manicured lawns, plush homes, golf courses, stores, and theaters.

“The facts,” he said. “Everything in here is U.S. property. All the businesses—the supermarkets, barbershops, beauty salons, restaurants, all of them—are exempt from Panamanian laws and taxes. There are seven 18-hole golf courses, U.S. post offices scattered conveniently around, U.S. courts of law and schools. It truly is a country within a country.”

“What an affront!”

Fidel peered at me as though making a quick assessment. “Yes,” he agreed. “That’s a pretty good word for it. Over there,” he pointed back toward the city, “income per capita is less than one thousand dollars a year, and unemployment rates are 30 percent. Of course, in the little shantytown we just visited, no one makes close to one thousand dollars, and hardly anyone has a job.”

“What’s being done?”

He turned and gave me a look that seemed to change from anger to sadness.

“What can we do?” He shook his head. “I don’t know, but I’ll say this: Torrijos is trying. I think it may be the death of him, but he sure as hell is giving it all he’s got. He’s a man who’ll go down fighting for his people.”

As we headed out of the Canal Zone, Fidel smiled. “You like to dance?” Without waiting for me to reply, he said, “Let’s get some dinner, and then I’ll show you yet another side of Panama.”

CHAPTER 12. Soldiers and Prostitutes

After a juicy steak and a cold beer, we left the restaurant and drove down a dark street. Fidel advised me never to walk in this area. “When you come here, take a cab right to the front door.” He pointed. “Just there, beyond the fence, is the Canal Zone.”

He drove on until we arrived at a vacant lot filled with cars. He found an empty spot and parked. An old man hobbled up to us. Fidel got out and patted him on the back. Then he ran his hand lovingly across the fender of his car.

“Take good care of her. She’s my lady.” He handed the man a bill.

We took a short footpath out of the parking lot and suddenly found ourselves on a street flooded with flashing neon lights. Two boys raced past, pointing sticks at each other and making the sounds of men shooting guns. One slammed into Fidel’s legs, his head reaching barely as high as Fidel’s thigh. The little boy stopped and stood back.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he gasped in Spanish.

Fidel placed both his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “No harm done, my man,” he said. “But tell me, what were you and your friend shooting at?”

The other boy came up to us. He placed his arm protectively around the first. “My brother,” he explained. “We’re sorry.”