CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
1993 – Home
The day I flew into Panama City, Bolo did not meet me at the airport. He sent one of his workers. I caught sight of him directly outside of the baggage claim area, carrying a sign with my name on it.
Sr. Hopeton Silva.
“Hello, Señor Silva, my name is Mano,” the worker said in Caribbean accented English. “Allow me to take your luggage.”
I handed over my suitcase and weekender bag and followed Mano out of the terminal.
We walked a short distance to a brand-new Mercedes sedan. I slid into the back seat. Mano started the motor and turned on the air conditioning. News radio was playing at a barely audible volume. A political analyst and an international economist were discussing the eventual U.S. surrender of thousands of acres of land back to the Panamanian government.
“Señor Montilla directed me to drive you to your hotel,” Mano said, as he eased into the hectic mid-afternoon traffic. “He says if you’re up to it he’d like to invite you for a late dinner at his home. I could come back and pick you up at 8:30.”
I glanced at my watch- it was two o’clock.
“Yes, let’s do it,” I agreed. “I’ll have more than enough time to unpack and get some rest. I’ll be ready for you at 8:30.”
“As long as traffic stays quiet, we should be arriving at your hotel in less than fifteen minutes,” Mano informed me. “Señor Montilla has registered you at the Plaza Paitilla Inn.”
A nice, short ride.
Instead of settling back and absorbing my new landscape, for some reason I had an uncontrollable urge to ask my driver about himself.
“So, Mano,” I began. “Is that short for Manuel?”
“Manfred,” he replied, briefly taking his eyes off the road to glance at me through the rearview mirror. “Manfred Lim.”
“De verdad? Eres jamaiquino?” I asked, unable to keep the pleasure of this discovery out of my voice. I knew it wasn’t an accident that this man was assigned as my driver.
“From pretty far back,” he told me. “But I’m from the Caribbean part of town and my family only spoke English at home, so…” he trailed off.
“Dos mundos,” I said, more to myself than to my chauffeur. “I was born and raised in Cuba. Jamaica is my second home.”
“Same-same,” Mano noted.
“Same-same, indeed,” I agreed.
I had no idea why I was telling Bolo’s man, of all people, personal details about myself. I think it was that I’d just that moment arrived in Panama, and the disorientation of finding myself in a foreign place, but one that felt so oddly familiar, left me with a strong desire to connect with anything that reminded me of home.
But then again, what was home really? That was the question I’d struggled with since my first day on earth.
When I checked in to the Plaza Paitilla Inn, the desk clerk informed me that Señor Montilla had left a credit card number on my account to make sure all incidentals were covered. I must admit, prior to my arrival, I hadn’t even given something like that a single thought. For someone who could be considered fairly well-traveled, I was just so inexperienced.
After the check-in process was completed, I gathered my luggage and a bellboy took me up to my room. It was on a high floor overlooking the bay, sunshine streaming through the windows. I took a quick shower then threw myself on the obscenely soft and comfortable bed, taking it all in. This was my first experience in what could be considered a luxury hotel. And in the passage of time, I recognized what it was that Bolo had done that day. He’d wanted to make my entry into a foreign city as seamless and enjoyable as possible- sending a driver for me, putting me up in a room that most “junior” partners could only dream of. And once settled, he wanted me to have access to anything I needed. But Bolo knew how I was back then and he didn't want me to be confused by the request for a credit card at the front desk, or embarrassed by my lack of preparation, so that was also squared away in advance. This was one of the few occasions I can remember that Rafael Montilla treated me as if I were his son, or maybe his nephew.
Sitting on my bed, looking out the window, I felt a sudden urge to get outside. Sleep was not in the cards, I knew that. One piece of advice Bolo had made sure to pass on to me before my arrival was that U.S. tender was the currency of choice. So, with a pocket full of American bills, I decided to take a stroll outside my hotel and catch the vibes. The neighborhood was comprised mainly of big, corporate looking hotels and a handful of upscale shops. There wasn’t much to do. Nowhere, really, to spend my money. I found a street vendor selling fresh pressed cane juice. I handed him a twenty and indulged in a plastic bag full of the drink, biting a corner off the bag and slurping its contents down right there on the spot. The vendor laughed in my face and handed me my change. I replied a bit harshly, in colloquial Spanish. He turned his back on me.
It felt strange to be a tourist.
By the time 8:30 rolled around, I was in the lobby, neatly dressed and with a bottle of Scotch in my hand, purchased with my own American dollars from a liquor store located not too far from the hotel. At 8:34, Mano pulled up in the same Mercedes sedan. This time, when he got out of the car to open my door, I asked if he’d mind if I sat in the front with him.
The route to Bolo’s compound, located in the general area of Clayton, took us along the coast and slightly inland, parallel to the canal. Even at night it was a beautiful ride- and I am rarely one to indulge myself in remarking over a spectacular view. But it was spectacular. It appeared that having me in the front seat set Mano at ease- his steady stream of tour guide patter felt natural and spontaneous.
I enjoyed the brief history lesson and landmark orientation, because truly- I had no idea where I’d landed or what was in store for me.
