CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
2001 – Cacique Shit
Mundo had a two-bedroom apartment in a twentieth century building in the El Cangrejo neighborhood, about half an hour’s drive from Tío Bolo’s compound in the old U.S. military enclave, Clayton. It wasn’t particularly fancy, but it had a decent sized concrete balcony and was surrounded by a wide variety of bars, restaurants and cafes filled with an assortment of foreigners, students and groups of girls out to have a little fun. The overall vibe leaned heavily towards pre-gentrification Miami Beach, which was perfect for Mundo’s inherent “pastel blazers and Wayfarer sunglasses” aesthetic.
We’d driven out to Bolo’s twice since my arrival- once for a long and leisurely Sunday dinner, and a few days later, Doe asked me to accompany him to a meeting with Bolo to review plans for the final phase of construction of their key development property, a gated community located in Howard, on the site of the old U.S. Air Force base just west of the canal.
It was always pleasant to spend time with Bolo and his extended family, especially after all the hardcore NYC running and gunning I’d been doing for him over the past several years, but it was easy to see that Mundo had not been exaggerating- Bolo was getting old and tired. It seemed like Mundo was at his own personal crossroads- either find a way to get Bolo to step aside and let him take over, or settle into the comfy yet stagnant life of an heir with nothing to truly inherit.
I hated to say it, but judging by Mundo’s doughy physical state and reluctance to truly master his current role within Bolo’s organization, it was highly likely he was going to give in and stick with the pampered prince routine. Golden handcuffs. A gilded cage.
After I sat in on their status meeting, Bolo invited me to shadow Mundo for a few days. “Get a feel for the work he’s doing, the scope of our projects,” he explained. I thanked him for the offer and said I’d be more than happy to.
Mundo’s workday routine was designed for maximum results produced with minimum amount of energy expended. He’d wake up around 9am, leave the apartment around 10 and hit the first construction site before 11. Once there, he’d bro it up with engineers and architects, talk down to project managers and site supervisors, treat the day laborers like absolute shit, wrap it up and be ready to head home by 4:30pm at the latest.
It was eye-opening to me. We were both from America, where at the very least people pretended to pay lip service to democratic ideals and the dream of meritocracy. But the way Doe interacted with people in Panama City made me so uncomfortable.
Those few days on the job confirmed that Mundo’s version of the good life was not for me.
