Sunday Hike

Hiked up the Pipe Line trail with RTGFKAR, friend M.E., and Gustavo The Wonder Dog yesterday morn. To get there you have to drive up a snaky mountain road requiring frequent gear changes and then traverse a short stretch of bumpy four-wheeling, rutted, lame excuse for a road that leads to a parking area at the base of the trail. No problem, really, for Nikita our sporty little KIA, but I do admit to a wince when we scraped bottom on a particularly rocky stretch of pseudo-road. (I also worry that KIA is usually thought to be an acronym for killed-in-action, but then, as I've noted before, I am a worrier. Not about inconsequential things, mind you, like world peace and all that, but rather the things of greater import like why did my wife look at me like that just now and can Brandon Stokley help the Broncos?

A two foot tall Indian boy asking for "plata", which literally means silver, but in this case refers to coins, appeared from the weeds as we parked. Gus took a run at him and the boy disappeared back into the bushes screaming like a banshee. Gus looked at me with either a "what's the matter with him, doesn't he want to play?" look or it might have been "alrighty, I ran that rascal off". It's hard to tell. He then shot up the trail with a look that I do know and it says "follow me."

After that there was a lot of oohing and ahing and discussions of this plant and that flower by M.E. and RTGFKAR as we walked slowly up the gradually ascending trail. We were in dense, green, mountain jungle, but the path was well worn and easy to follow. By we, I mean the people. Our canine trekker was in doggie heaven. He was in and out every trail side opening and splashing happily in every stream. When we would stop to admire a close up vermiliad or a distant vista, Gus would run back to us and impatiently display another of his recognizable looks, this one saying "come on come on come on, what's holding you up?" Something about making my dog happy makes me happy, so we were both feeling giddy and goofy enough to make the Dali Lama proud. RTGFKAR and M.E. seemed to be enjoying the hike as well, snapping photos of this and that and making plans to cut shoots from assorted plants on the return trip. Their agenda seemed to be something about taking in the wonders of close up nature while I was there for the exercise and just being fully present in the woods.
Nice.

One of the things that makes this trail a particularly pleasant place to walk is that it is mostly shrouded by tall trees that provide shade and thus cooler temps for hikers. Yesterday there was a gentle breeze as a cooling bonus and as they say in the beer commercials, it doesn't get any better than this. Of course in the beer commercials they have beer. We only had water.

So...we hiked up to an agreed turn around spot and then hiked back. It was all very beautiful and if you don't believe me insert here marvelous description from a really good writer. Poetry would be good too. For me the best visual was of my dog Gus who, at trails end, looked like he was covered in green moss. He had millions of tiny lime colored seedlike stickers dotting his own dogself like some kind of bizarre fungus. It was going to take me a long time to brush those out. Fortunately, he and I like that part too.

That Old Black Magic

I have to be very careful. If I type too hard this computer shuts off and does a restart, losing, of course, everything written. We got this one, the Serracin's Samsung, cured of its pink screen to replace our deeply dead Dell, but it has some sort of short that causes it to blip off if treated to anything other than the gentlest touch. (Must be female. That would explain the pink screen problem in the first place.)

There is a Haitian influence here in Panama, especially on the Caribbean side, and it is this influence that played a part in our decision to not allow the Dell to remain dead. Against the advice of our computer guy, we had a friend replace the hard drive of the old Inspiron and now it only works if you recite the proper voodoo incantations and even then you can't say it's really working. It just sort of mimics a computer. Kind of like watching a zombie run the 100 yard dash. Records won't be broken. We are not sure what to do now, leave it alone and let it wander the night or get some high priestess to remove the curse and send it to a proper rest. I think we'll go with the latter and while we're at it, see it we can't get the bone rattling, snake handling, rooster sacrificing mama to find the person who is sticking pins in the dolls of our computers. We'll be happy to pay her in toads of lizards, we've got a yard full, because these are, Ive read, frequent ingredients in many a voodoo potient.

Meanwhile, when not dealing with the mumbo jumbo of high tech, and in our case the tech is clearly high on something, life goes on and is filled with the excitement and wonder of nature, like for instance, it's not raining today, and also the Joy Of this and that, Cooking, Sex and Living are winners while The Joy Of Texas Hold-em Strip Poker is surely on the way to the best of Republican families and here in Panama we have The Joy Of A New Bed. I mention this because we have not been lucky with beds. They are usually too hard or too soft or too inclined to promote dreams of drowning or ships of state sinking, the water beds anyway and we approached this one with trepidation, slippers and pajamas. Not to worry it turns out as this brand name unknown semi orthopedic queen size of the night seems to be just what the doctor would order if doctor's ordered beds. We have had three good nights of solid zzzz's in a row and as soon as we get the rest of the alphabet we'll be all set. There is, though, of late, a mid-nightly sleep interruptus by Gus insanely barking and scratching at the door to get at the toads who torment him from our patio. But that's not the bed's fault. That's just the high priestess reminding us she needs a payment. RTGFKAR's computer may hang in the balance.

At Blog's End?

Our computer died suddenly, unexpectedly, mysteriously and without leaving a note. Foul play is suspected, but there is really no evidence to support that conclusion. Nevertheless, whether fair or foul, all is lost. Pretty much everything I have ever written, apart from these 200 some odd blogs, is now clutched in the rigor mortis grasp of a dead hard drive, unable to be set free. Five Hundred pages at a minimum I estimate, including short stories and tentative novel beginnings. Poems and prose, wit and wisdom, all lost, gone forever to the dark and cold of distant cyber cemeteries. Gone, I tell you, gone.

Well alrighty then! I better get started writing new stuff! I've read all that old junk plenty of times anyway. I know how all the stories come out and besides, somewhere there are paper copies of everything - you've probably got one or two - so if I need a copy for one reason or twelve, I'll call you. Meanwhile, I'll borrow RTGFKAR's Sony Vaio from time to time and start anew the process of dumping the contents of a monkeymind onto a literary format. Or aftmat. This will, however, necessitate more time at the fiction front and less in the blogosphere where every word is Gospel yuk yuk. Look for me, oh...about once a week.

Ciao for now.

Hot or Cold

RTGFKAR gets up in the morning, throws on some shorts and a tee shirt and then retires to the patio to sip his morning coffee and listen to the birds or the rain, whichever.

I get up in the morning and tug on sweat pants and woolen hoodie over my pj's. Mornings are cold, sixty something Fahrenheit, and I would turn blue, my teeth would chatter and I'd soon be a human Popsicle if I joined RTGFKAR in shorts and tee. Instead, I meander to the office, and, hood up, begin to delve into the deepest regions of my psyche and unravel the eternal mysteries of the human mind in order to pass my findings along to you, the faithful blog reader. Either that or I read sports. Okay, mostly I read sports. But THEN, after learning who won what, I crank up Monkeymind and put down the results of my priceless intellectual research whose origins are idle thoughts and careless observations like today's revelation that RTGFGAR digs it cool while I prefer warmer. I mean, that's deep.

Especially when you consider that we recently met a couple who have migrated here from Alaska. They also prefer cooler weather which begged the question that went unanswered, what the hello are you doing here? I suspect witness protection, but, you know, nobody owns up to that one. Still, Alaskan origins, loving the cold, makes sense. RTGFKAR and I, on the other hand, wandered here from the same mostly New Jersey-Colorado lives, proving, aha!, that it is not necessarily place of origin that determines temperature preferences. What then is it?

One theory advanced by scientists, anthropologists, model airplane makers and other unreliable sources is that it's all about body types. Well poppycock, balderdash, and poohpah I say. We've all known heavy people who like it warm and skinny people who like it cold and visa versa mastercard. It can't be body types. It can, however, be deeply embedded in our DNA (Dangerously Normal Attitudes.) I, though, for one, don't believe in that explanation either because I know, yes that's right, I know THE TRUTH.

AND THE TRUTH IS....

It's just RTGFKAR. He's really weird.

The Year of...

The year of growing older. Don't know what that means, but I woke up with the phrase hovering about my consciousness. Couldn't put it aside or leave it alone, so took a long walk with Gus to see if I couldn't devise a follow up thought or at least a run up to the phrase. Got nothing. I mean, all years are years of growing older, aren't they? Why should this one be singled out?

I blame Bush.

Or it could be the gallbladder. Gallbladders, prostates, colons, these are old people words. Ever hear a thirty something toss them about in conversation? Nah, to them the only body part that matters is the heart. Well, that and those persistent sexual parts, they get a lot of attention as well. So does this mean that now that I am thirty something twice over I have to be old? Because, I'm telling you right now, that's not going to happen. Sure my entire face from 1976 can now be located in the folds of my neck and when I talk about my 100 yard dash I'm talking about a really long puctuation mark, but that doesn't mean I'm getting old. Old is when you do old stuff like stoop and knit and have a nice cup of tea and talk about the weather and days gone by. Old is when you no longer care about next season's team. Old is...not for me.

Although I do like a good nap. And sometimes I wish I could hit the ball a little further and run a lap or two around the track, but not very often and not for very long. There are just too many other good things to do instead. So...

The year of growing older. I still don't know what it means.

Bound for Books

We all know that it's a gaggle of geese, a murder of crows and an iPod of whales, but is it a bunch of books or a batch of books? If I asked my friend L, he'd say it was a mess of or a slew of, but I'm going with boxes of, because that's how they arrived here, in boxes.

It wasn't easy though.

"Hey Charly," a friend shouted to Woowoo in the supermercado, "did you know there's a package for you at the post office?" We stared back blankly. Having no postal box there, the comment seemed unlikely. "It's true," the friend added, they have a sign up that says package for Charly Walton." While Woowoo Chuck and RTGFKAR continued shopping, I trotted over to the P.O. to check out what surely had to be a misunderstanding.

And wouldn't you know, there on the glass above the service counter was a note that said, you guessed it, package for Charly Walton. I took it down and approached the clerk at the window. "This," I said in my best Spanish which is now approaching second grade level,"is for me." The clerk eyed me dubiously or, as Frank Sinatra would say, doobie doobie do biously, but reached under the counter nevertheless and found a postal form for me to sign. Now what, I thought. I can't write Charly Walton on the line because the clerk is likely to ask me for I.D. If I write my own name, she will clearly see the difference. I opted for my own though, first middle and last, just like it shows on my residency card and hoped for the best. I thought maybe I could convince her that Charly was my nickname. Not to worry, the signature was not given a glance. The clerk handed me my copy of the form and just stood there smiling the smile of someone who has just received a "hip hip, good show, well done." I waited a minute, smiling back and then seeing that nothing was forthcoming, I looked her straight in the eye and said, "uh, the package?" That "uh" by the way, is pronounced the same in Spanish. There is no package I was told. It's in David. Alrighty then, I said more or less, when will it arrive here? It won't, said smiling Maria, also more or less, you have to go get it. Just take your form to the main post office and pick it up. Hmmmm, I thought. That must be this form in my hand; the one with the wrong signature.

A couple of days later Woowoo Charly, RTGFKAR, friend B and I set forth in search of. I had a vague memory of where the P.O. was located having been there once before a couple of years ago. It was, I recalled, just a few blocks from the town's center. I couldn't have been more right. I drove straight to it. That is, if by straight to it I mean around several detours and into a massive traffic jam. Panama was protesting NAFTA, the U.S. free, ha ha, trade agreement and thousands of people had taken to the streets in a parade to display their latest displeasure with the good old USA. And not just any streets, mind you, but the specific streets I wanted to drive on. I remembered a scene from "Soylent Green" where a huge bucket loader drove through crowds scooping up people by the dozens. Where are those bucket loaders when you need them? We did finally make it to the post office though, but not before several games of chicken with Panama taxis left my passengers whimpering and checking the deductible on their insurance policies. The post office was closed. Or, rather, enclosed. It was undergoing renovation and was barricaded in by a tall temporary construction fence. Other than seeing no entrance and finding no parking there was...no problem. I drove around the block and found a space to pull over that was maybe or not, legal. I gave RTGFKAR the keys and instructions to move the car if a problema should arise. I then set off on foot to find our bunch, batch, box of books.

The first door I came to that was close to where the P.O.'s front door used to be was what I took to be an unemployment office. Something like that anyway. Lines of people at windows that could have been postal had there been any mail about. I was given directions by a sweet older woman whose Spanish was Greek to me but whose finger pointed further up the street. There, down a driveway hidden by illegally parked vehicles, I found the P.O.'s temporary entrance. I walked up to the clerk and said, "Doctor Livingston I presume" and handed him my form. He had a nice one word answer as a response. "Aduana." I like one word answers. You either know them or you don't and if you don't you can look them up. This one I knew. It means Customs. Visualizing an office miles away I fired back my own one word query, "donde?", where? The clerk smiled which is apparently post office policy in Panama and beats the heck out of "going postal" and pointed to an office just three doors away. I would have skipped merrily there, but I knew I would still have to deal with the bogus signature on my form.

The guy at Customs was very nice. Though not smiling he did put down his broom and attend to me right away. He looked at my form and gave me new ones to sign. There were two boxes waiting for Charly Walton and I signed for both with my actual signature which, no matter how much I scribbled, I couldn't make look like Charly Walton. But, again, no matter. And, again, no books. The guy explained to me that he was not the customs agent, he was just the guy, who, well, swept. The customs agent was in a meeting and would not be back until after one and could I wait. Well sure, I thought. What the heck, it's already ten thirty. I about faced and marched off.

Back at the car I found no one but some thing. That thing being a ticket on the windshield. I looked about and saw Charly down the street and gave her a holler. RTGFKAR and B showed up shortly after. It was too hot they all explained, to stay in the car. I mumbled something about the air conditioner that they couldn't hear and drove off in search of a parade to run over.

Errands and lunch followed before returning to the Post Office. The customs agent was in and she, unsmiling, couldn't find our boxes of books. Eventually, I was enlisted to help look and it was my eagle eyes behind my 200 percent magnification eagle reading glasses that found the books amidst the piles of packages stacked about the room. I was then given a knife and told to open the boxes. Inside were, of course, brand new books sent by daughter K from Random House which to customs looked like they were for resale. In other words a dodge around paying import duties. No no no I protested, we just read a lot. I suppose because I have an honest face and because I was truly flustered and there really weren't all that many books, I was believed and allowed to go. But first, I had to pay the storage charge...back at the post office. It wasn't much, really, but there was a line... a long line. Twenty minutes later, receipt in hand I returned to the customs office and claimed my prize.

No one asked about the signatures.

Batches, bunches and boxes of books finally in tow, I pointed the car to the highway and started for home. Aren't you forgetting something Woowoo Charly inquired. What could that be, I responded sure that I had covered all bases. The ticket, she said, you have to pay the ticket.

Oh yeah, the ticket. Now where is that municipal building? I see it. It's right there.

On the other side of the parade.

The U.S. and, ha ha, Health Care

We watched "Sicko" last night, Michael Moore's documentary on the U.S.' corrupt and inadequate health care system. I feel very sorry for people watching this movie in the U.S because the film will make them sick (and disgusted)and drive them to the same health care system the movie is denigrating. There, if all goes as normal, those with insurance will be rejected and those without will either pay through the nose or be escorted from the premises as unwell as they arrived. The system is based on "less care means more profit." My feeling is that a country that doesn't look after the health of its own people is itself a sick country. Hmmmm, where I wonder, do you send a country to get treatment? The only place I can think of is the voting booth.

Fortunately for me I was in Panama when I was afflicted with my gallbladder's desire for an out of body experience. Although the six day hospital stay has left me in debt, I am not dead and I'm not bankrupt, one or the other of which I would have been in the States, because I was caught with no insurance. (Oddly, the U.S. will not pay Medicare for its citizens in Panama. I say oddly because people here go back to the U.S. for treatments that cost the Medicare system far more, many times more, than if it had paid for the same procedures here in Panama.)(The founding fathers were bright guys, but they didn't make logic a prerequisite of government.)

I must admit, while watching the movie, to feeling a little envious of the people in Canada, France and Great Britain who have paid zippo, nada, nothing for their health care throughout their lives. I would have had thousands more dollars to diddle with if that had been the case in the U.S. during my lifetime. Sure the people in those countries pay high taxes, but then... SO DO WE! For their tax dollars they get to live longer and healthier, but c'mon, we have better Hummers and Bradley Fighting Vehicles. And also our politicians are richer.

Nevertheless, as Americans, we must remain proud. Although, when it comes to health care we can't run through the crowd holding up a finger and shouting "We're number one, we're number one!", we can still puff out our chests and proclaim, "We're number 37, we're number 37. At least it's not last.

Watching Television

RTGFKAR watches the food and cooking channels. Last night we had chilidogs for dinner. I'm not sure those two things are related, but I have my suspicions. Personally, I don't understand why anyone would want to watch someone else prepare food. I don't go snooping around the back of restaurants to see what the chef is doing to my cordon bleu. It might be something better left unseen. Why would I, then, tune in to watch Katie the Cockeyed Cook doing something unsightly in a soup tureen? Doesn't make sense.

Ah well, to each his own. Some might ask why I'd spend four hours on a Saturday or Sunday watching Lorena Ochoa and 35 Korean woman hit a white ball around a green field in search of a small hole and to them I'd say, have you seen these women? They have really nice...swings. Besides, the action all takes place outdoors and there's nothing more fun than sitting in a comfortable chair and watching the great outdoors.

And last night, because we couldn't get the car wreck and bloody household accidents channel, we watched "When Animals Attack" and another show whose name I can't recall, but it was something like, "When Good Pets Go Bad" or "When Fido Ate Grandma." From these shows we learned to never have elephants, lions, bears or boas as household pets. RTGFKAR called our builder right after the show and cancelled our pachyderm enclosure. We also learned that some Rottweilers and Pit Bulls will bite, but, not to worry, that's only the ones who have teeth. A part of the show I found particularly interesting was the reenactments. Because few animal attacks are actually filmed, the show's producers hire people off the street to reenact the mauling, biting, mashing, spearing and occassional fine dining by vicious animals like sharks, elk and cocker spaniels on crack. I don't know what these people are paid, but I'm sure it's not enough. On the other hand, I'm not doing much lately and could use a few extra bucks. I wonder what they pay for real action videos. Hmmmm.

"Okay Gus, let's see what you got."

Maybe I SHOULD watch the food channel.