As we got up to leave, Mano asked me if I minded walking.
“We can take the truck if you want,” he said. “I know how it is with some people when they get to America. They forget how to use their feet.”
“Tek it easy, mi friend,” I cautioned. “You don’t want to get me too riled up before we even touch a set of dominoes. Because when I’m in a mood, mi cyaan lose!”
Mano laughed and said, “We’ll see. Let’s go!”
We hit the road.
Walking through the streets of Rio Abajo was a freeing experience for me. It showed me what my part of Kingston could have been like if a decent amount of resources had been allocated to the people. Some infrastructure. Some care.
And apparently, I was in the presence of a local celebrity. Every few feet, someone would call out “Mano, where you headed?” Passing cars would toot their horns.
“You bigtime around here, nah?” I joked.
“Tell me it’s not the same for you back where you come from.”
“I barely had time to hit my stride in my community before I was put on ice,” I explained. “I’ve been shuttled around from place to place since I was fourteen.”
I glanced over at Mano. The expression on his face told me he was absorbing what I was saying on an ancestral level. He knew I was unburdening myself.
“This visit here, to Panama,” I continued, “is the first time in my life I’ve been called for because my skills are needed and not because I’m a problem that needs to be sorted out or hidden away.”
This was heavy conversation for two people walking the street, heading to a bar to drink some beers and play some dominoes.
Mano reached out and tapped me on the arm.
“Carajo, he said lightly, “ya estás aquí.”
His tone conveyed an unspoken assurance that he was willing to carry what I was trusting him with.
Our journey continued for another fifteen minutes or so, at which point Mano directed us to make a turn that led us to a main road. We hit a strip of small establishments- plumbing supply stores, seamstress shops, a few take-out spots serving Caribbean food, and kept walking until we came upon a British style pub. It was nothing fancy- no tricked-out signage done in “Ye Olde English” lettering, no polished brass and leather interior design, but it was obvious this place had been around for many years.
I have to admit I was surprised. I’d assumed we’d be going to an informal spot located deeper into a regular neighborhood. A plywood rum bar constructed under a large shade tree. Cold beer and mixers stocked in a mini fridge that had been plugged into an illegal power supply. Instead, I was being shown a solidly constructed, brick and mortar establishment. One with a long-standing reputation and a faithful clientele.
To be clear, it wasn’t shocking to me that such a place existed near to Mano’s neighborhood, or even that Mano would be a patron. It was more that I’d expected him to embed me further into a “friends and family” level interaction and not walk me into something so staid, or as staid as a Rio Abajo pub could be considered.
“My friends will meet here shortly,” Mano said as we entered. “You grab a table and I’ll get us some drinks.”
The pub was a dimly lit square space with a long, wooden bar up front and a series of two and four-tops filling a small dining area. A few red pleather banquettes lined the back wall. One was empty. I grabbed it. This would be a good spot to get some dominoes going. I took a seat and absorbed the moment. Fania All-Stars cranked out from hidden speakers. Conversation was animated, and extremely loud.
I looked over to the bar and saw Mano laughing at some tale a guy to the right of him had been spinning- they obviously knew each other well. This might’ve even been a story Mano had heard a thousand times before. I leaned my head against the hard back of the booth, closed my eyes and relaxed. When I opened them, Mano had returned. An ice-cold bottle of Guinness was sitting in front of me. I raised it to Mano and drank it down in three quick gulps. I wanted another one. And then, another.
“Guinness in America is shit,” I explained. Mano laughed, and slowly took a sip of his own drink.
“Let me get the next round,” I offered, and headed to the bar. By the time I’d returned with two more bottles and two shots of Appleton, Mano’s friends had arrived. One of the guys was Black Chinese, like Mano. They had to be related. The other one was tall, with sandy dreads just past his shoulders.
“Oye muchachos, this is Hopeton,” Mano said, by way of introduction. “He’s in from Brooklyn, working with Bolo on some things.”
As both of the guys nodded and reached out to shake my hand, Mano introduced them. “This is my cousin, Jefferson. We call him Stinky.”
“Call me Sonny,” Mano’s cousin Jefferson said with a shake of his head. “I haven’t been Stinky since I was five years old, Mano!”
“And this is Ricardo,” Mano continued. “He’s a stonemason on most of my big projects.”
“Hey man,” Ricardo smiled, “good to meet you.”
Once everyone had something to sip on, Ricardo pulled a dominoes set out of his satchel and we got down to business. This was a low stakes affair, five dollars per game. Mano and I partnered up against Sonny and Ricardo. Accustomed to being the best player in any situation, I was surprised to find we were all evenly matched. We played through the afternoon, as the crowd switched from old timers enjoying an afternoon libation to a younger crowd looking to catch a buzz and engage in some lighthearted flirting. The music switched from Salsa to Reggaeton. Mano and I were on the tail end of a short-lived losing streak. I checked my pockets and discovered all I had left were three ten-dollar bills and two twenties.
“Mierda!,” I said, to no one in particular. “This fucking American money is driving me crazy. Why don’t you have your own bills?”
Sonny laughed and said something about being Capitalist America’s lapdog.
“Well, I can’t keep walking around handing out twenty dollar bills every time I want to buy a pack of gum!” I exclaimed and then proceeded to tell the story of the cane juice vendor who’d clowned me the first day I’d arrived.
As expected, everyone had a good laugh. Sonny told me it was the sequence of my handing the vendor a twenty-dollar bill, ripping off the corner of the baggie and then gulping it down like a local that caused him to make fun of me.
“I know!” I yelled, the Guinness and Appleton making my blood hot. “That’s why I need balboa. Now!”
Mano lightly patted his palms against the table and said, “No te preocupes, bro. Ahora mismo te consigo balboas.”
Glancing down at his watch, Ricardo said, “If you want it, we got you. It’s not even seven yet, so you’re in luck.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, confused.
“The street changers are still out,” he replied.
“They’re usually around until around nine,” Sonny joined in. “They wait until taximen on the night shift are ready to roll. Those guys are the ones who need to break large bills for change.”
I was extremely confused by this, a fact that was instantly clocked by my bredren.
“Oh, yeaaaaah, you have no idea what we’re talking about, do you?” Mano laughed.
I shook my head.
“Well, that makes sense,” he told me. “Anywhere you’ve ever lived, people only deal in their country’s money. Could you imagine trying to use, like, a Canadian dollar in Brooklyn?”
I shook my head again.
“We have people here who are like street banks,” Mano continued. “If you know you’re gonna need a bunch of change and only have large bills, you can go to a street changer. Or, if for some reason, you have too much balboa you can exchange them for dollars.”
I was fascinated.
And then my mind quickly spun out to other reasons people would need to convert large sums of money into a different form of currency, without creating a paper trail.
I’d just been introduced to the existence of two legitimate systems whose mere co-existence created a grey area crying out to be filled.
