The next afternoon, Mano showed up at the hotel in a slightly battered yet still functional Ford Bronco. He leaned towards the passenger side, said “Súbete,” then popped the door open for me.
I hopped in and we headed out towards Rio Abajo- the Caribbean part of town.
Rio Abajo was one of the first this is just like Jamaica moments I ever experienced in my life.
When I first landed in Brooklyn, every so often smoke pouring out of a sidewalk jerk barrel or a gunman anthem booming out of a passing car would have me softly and briefly spinning back to my formative years in Kingston.
And decades later, when Pierre introduced me to Haiti, that deep, primal pang of recognition, even in the wake of total devastation, would become somewhat of a running gag amongst our inner circle crew.
But that day, my first trip to Panama City, as Manfred and I approached his neighborhood, it was a strong, sharp and extremely jarring feeling.
“You hungry?” Mano asked, as he turned off the main road onto a residential street.
“Always,” I replied. Not strictly true, but I was always ready for the type of food Mano was steering us towards- something homemade and prepared with expertise and care.
“Bueno, porque te voy a llevar donde mi mamá. It’s Saturday, so that means she’ll have some chivo guisado ready by now.”
“Stew goat is my favorite,” I replied, speaking the truth.
My stomach rumbled, reflexively. Mano laughed.
I shrugged and said, “Hotel food doesn’t sit well with me.”
Three minutes later, we pulled up to a neat little stucco bungalow, painted pink with a white concrete railing enclosing a pristine verandah. An older woman was sitting in a wooden chair, shelling peas.
“Mama, this is Hopeton Silva,” Manfred introduced me.
“Hello Hopeton,” Manfred’s mother said, as she stood up to greet me. “Please call me Leonora.”
“Hello Miss Leonora, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” I replied as I briefly clasped her hand.
“Come into the house,” Miss Leonora told us, as she grabbed her bowl of peas and opened the front door. “I have food for you. Delcy is finishing up the rice right now.”
“Delcy’s my older sister,” Mano explained. “You’re in luck- she’s the best cook in the family.”
Mano’s mother turned and shook her head at her son.
“Sorry, Mama but you know it’s true,” Mano said with a smile. This was obviously a long-running routine in this family.
Mano’s mother’s house was a near mirror image of the home I grew up in, in Vineyard Town. The small front room was dominated by an overstuffed couch. End tables were covered with framed photos of several generations of family members. A narrow dining room in the middle of the layout led to a surprisingly spacious kitchen at the back of the bungalow. Each room was filled with houseplants. A radio was playing Spanish language gospel music. I could hear Mano’s sister, Delcy, singing along as she got lunch together.
The meal was superb. Stew goat, white rice, steamed ground provisions, sliced avocados and a small bowl of homemade picante casero. Delcy placed a pitcher of tamarindo on the table then urged us to dig in. I was so happy. I ate like it was my first meal in a week.
“Mano, I’m going to drive Mama over to the pharmacy to fill her prescription,” Delcy said. “Hopeton, it was so nice to meet you. I hope you enjoy your stay in Panama City.”
When we were alone, I decided to ask Mano some questions about himself. Again- I wasn’t quite sure where the urge to share information was coming from, but I decided to take a break from my usual standard operating procedure and try to enjoy this very pleasant, relatively low stakes social interaction.
“This house is lovely- it reminds me of my family’s home back in Kingston,” I said. “Are there a lot of you?”
“You mean, brothers and sisters?” Manfred asked. “I have a whole heap of siblings- I’m the youngest of seven!”
“Are they all still in Panama City?” I asked.
“For the most part,” he replied. “Delcy is the one right before me- she lives right around the corner with her family. She has two kids- my nephews. The three middle brothers all live within an hour from here- they’re all married, with kids. Two of them work in construction. One is on the police force. My oldest sister lives in Miami- she married an American. And the sister below her lives in Honduras. She’s a missionary. We don’t see her very often…” he trailed off.
“And do you live here with your mother?” I asked.
“Yes, whenever I’m not working. I do construction, but mainly out in the countryside, so when I’m away it’s for a few months at a time,” Mano explained.
“Oh,” I said, unable to keep the curiosity out of my voice. “So, you don’t work for Bolo full-time?”
“No, not at all,” Manfred gently corrected my naïve assumption. “I work construction. Long-term contracts away from the city, mostly. I’m a Site Supervisor.”
“So, you’re gone for months at a time?” I asked. “That must be interesting, being able to get away from the city but knowing you’ll be back again, at some point.”
“Exactly,” Mano agreed. “And when I’m here in between contracts I stay with my mother- she still considers me her baby, and I don’t like to think of her being alone here at night. It’s better for her to have a man in the house. My father passed away a while ago, and it’s been hard.”
I smiled at that, a bit wistfully. My mother had loved me, but I don’t know if she’d ever considered me her “baby.” Not in the way Mano meant.
“And Bolo? Where does he fit in?” I knew my question was on the pushy side.
“Oh, Bolo,” Mano laughed. “He’s been around my family from practically the first day he arrived in Panama City, on the back of a donkey.”
Now it was my turn to laugh. A young Rafael Montilla, before the money and the power, with zero flash and tons of ambition. I would’ve loved to have seen that.
“My father helped him out with one of his first business ventures,” Mano continued. “But my father told me whatever it was they were doing wasn’t really for him and he left it alone. This was years and years ago, of course. And my father remained friends with Bolo until the day he died. So, when I’m here in town I’ll check in with Bolo to see if there’s anything I can do to help him out while I’m around…”
“And this time home, you got me,” I finished for him.
“The minute Bolo booked your ticket, he called to tell me a Jamaican was coming down and that I absolutely had to show the man around,” he replied. “I think he wants you to get to know Panama City on your own terms. It’s always a good day when Rafael Montilla allows you some breathing room.”
We both started laughing. It was hard to stop.
“Anyway,” Mano continued, once he was able to talk again, “this stopped being a work assignment a while ago. You ready to hit the street and get some dominoes in?”
I glanced at my watch. It was three p.m. This felt like a peaceful day that would stretch into a very pleasant night.
“I’m ready for anything, as long as it comes with a beer or two.”
