PESADILLA

                         PESADILLA

                               By Doc Walton

Funny word that, pesadilla.  (Pronounced pay-sah-dee-ah)  Sounds like a Mexican entree.  It's Spanish, of course, and means nightmare in English.  Nightmare is a funny word too, considering that "mare" denotes a female horse.  What the two words signify, though, a Disturbing Dream, is not funny at all.  No, not funny at all.

Unless you are me. 

The disturbing dream – would that it were only a dream - I shared with four other people began on a Tuesday morning in late May.  Tuesdays are not supposed to be of any particular significance.  They are not a week starter, a week end, or a hump day, and if it were not for Tuesday with Morrie and, for an older generation, If it's Tuesday This Must Be Belgium, they would have no particular status in most people's minds.  This calendar day irrelevance, however, was about to change for us, the three people who would journey with me and the one who would meet us at journey's end.

Arthur Von Preising - seriously, doesn’t that name just cry out for the title Baron in front of it? - and his wife Deborah Eisberg are in the process of building a house in the small town of San Carlos, Panama.  They currently reside in the midsized town of Boquete, Panama, about a five hour drive from San Carlos.  Arthur makes the trip to San Carlos every week to oversee their house construction and Deborah joins him on occasion.  On this Tuesday they were both on board for the trek and were to be accompanied, or rather followed, by yours truly, and I say truly because why would I lie about a thing like that, and his constant companion, his wife Charly, and I say constant because, well, there she always is.  We were all to stay in San Carlos until Friday when we would return to Boquete for the weekend, which I have pointed out, does not include a Tuesday.  Arturo, as he is known to his construction crew, and Deb as she is known to us, would check on the goings-on at their house site and reunite with us when not engaged in doing so.  Our intent, mine and CCC, Constant Companion Charly, was to take in all the fun San Carlos had to offer which is essentially all the good stuff you find in any ocean front community along with the splendid company and conversation of our companions, Deb and the Baron.  We had also planned a quick pop into Panama City, a further two hours away, to renew our passports on Wednesday.  This was, in fact, the principal reason for our being there, although the fun part was not to be discounted, at least not by me, a man who, if necessary, can find fun when all others expire from boredom; you know, like attendance at a lecture on rock gardening or watching someone else think.  It was, all in all, a good plan, one on which we had mutually agreed. 

We had even prepared, to some degree, for the unexpected.  To wit: Arthur and I had decided to carry only a small amount of money in our wallets so that if called upon to pay a bribe for a traffic ticket, a not unusual circumstance here in Panama, we could show the bribe taker that we had very little cash on us.  Our actual monetary stash would be kept somewhere else; in my case half with Charly and half on a money clip shoved deep in my front pocket.  What we had not planned for was the unexpected unexpected, but then, who does?

Before we get to that un-x un-x, let me test YOUR boredom tolerance with a brief account of the drive to San Carlos and the events that occurred before approximately 9:30 PM that same night. 

Arthur and Deb in their white Toyota Pick Up Truck with a couple of boards hanging out over the tailgate were not hard to follow.  Arthur, having been ticketed on a couple of occasions for speeding – trust me speeding is tempting to do on long stretches of open Panamanian highway where no other vehicles are visible…not even that motorcycle cop behind the bush – had determined that doing the speed limit would get us to San Carlos quick enough and without having to make forced conversation in Spanish with uniformed Panamanians. (In English: So, Officer, where do I go to pay this ticket or do I just pay you?)  It would also be easier for Charly and me to keep up in our small Kia.  I found this a blessing as I am a guy who feels that no vehicle should go faster than a golf cart.  I mean, really, what’s the rush?

Another blessing was my CCC who read aloud two entire New Yorker articles as I drove.  The first concerned Colorado Governor, John Hickenlooper, whose last name sounds like a ride at an amusement park.  (“Sorry Bobby, they won’t let you on the Hickenlooper, you’re not tall enough.”)  If you have ever perused a New Yorker bio piece you know they often take longer to read than the lifespan of the person being bio-ed.  This one didn’t quite meet that standard but did take up a substantial block of traveling time as did the other article, a piece by a writer writing about writing.  I always find articles like that interesting as they are usually by people who actually know how to do it.  The reason CCC’s reading aloud lands in the blessing category is that the Kia’s radio had fallen silent a couple of years ago and we had never felt any urgency to have it repaired or replaced.  In truth we seldom travelled anywhere far enough to make the radio a necessity.

Up ahead Arthur and Deb were listening to a book on tape, by which I mean Compact Disc.  That too is a good time passer.  (I’ve often wondered –well, once anyway – how big the player would have to be if the discs weren’t compacted.)

At about the three hour mark we stopped to relieve ourselves of our morning coffee and replace it with a new beverage although not in equal measure.  I’m thinking roughly a quart out, twelve ounces in.  (In case you were wondering, in which case you would be the weirdo and not me for bringing it up in the first place.)  I pointed out that I had only needed to pee during the drive when I thought about it and I had only thought about it for the last two hours.

We arrived at Rancho Los Toros which, I think, should read Rancho De Los Toros, but then maybe their sign just wasn’t wide enough to include that “of,” sometime in the late afternoon.  This Bull Ranch or Ranch of the Bulls is not a ranch and has nary a bull, but was our destination location as it is in fact a small restaurant, cabanas, and hostel place that is conveniently adjacent to the property where Arthur and Deb are building their new house, albeit at a goodly distance one from the other.

We parked our bags and sundry in the two rooms assigned to us by the manager, a guy named Ross, and then after a huddle to discuss what play to call, we opted for the one that would find us having pre-dinner margaritas at an ocean side restaurant whose name I can’t recall but whose ambience was in the Just Right category.  The restaurant has a high domed ceiling and because either the architect forgot to add a beachside wall or the owners didn’t have enough money to build one, we had wonderful visual access to the grey surf and flocks of seagulls flying in perfect formation. (I know what you are thinking, grey surf flying in perfect formation must have really been a sight!  Well it was!)  It was also exactly the atmosphere we were looking for to kill time in while awaitng the dinner hour and our appetites to arrive…possibly flying in, in perfect formation.  Lest you think this run on discourse describes the ideal moment, I would LIKE to add that the margaritas lacked sufficient oomph, but I won’t, because that may be just my opinion and I doubt that it was shared by the others.  (I have often wondered, and I mean often not just once, while sipping weak margaritas in this country of my choice, if there is a shortage of tequila in Panama.)

The restaurant section of Rancho Los Toros is only open Thursday through Sunday and this being – should I say it again – Tuesday, we were compelled to find our dinner fare somewhere else.  Arthur and Deb - we were now riding with them, my car parked back at the Ranch - suggested a quick jaunt to Coronado where by actual count there are umpteen restaurants to choose from.  Alas – don’t you just love the word alas?  It connotes such sorrow – we found none whose menu or price range suited us, so we headed sorrowfully back to San Carlos and plopped down eventually at a pizza place where the pizza wasn’t half bad.  I’m not sure what percentage of bad the pizza actually was, but it must have been quite small as we all four happily wolfed it down.

We then returned to the Rancho to have a nightcap and call it a day.  (Although why anyone would call a nightcap a day, I have no idea.)

The proprietor there, a larger than average sized fellow with a larger than averaged sized personality named Joe Wilmoth – actually his whole self was named that, not just his personality - likes to talk, laugh, and banter with his guests.  He was, as we arrived, having his dinner with manager Ross at the only table in the restaurant that didn’t have chairs stacked on it.  This table was the closest one to a bar situated at one end of the rectangular restaurant.  The bar is the furthest point from the restaurant’s other end where our pesadilla would begin.  That end is completely open – architects in Panama apparently routinely forget walls – to nature, and leads onto a walkway that passes a small structure housing a couple of restrooms and then beyond that to a swimming pool.  Around the pool are the cabanas or cabins or motel rooms - you name them, I’m at a loss - where we had stowed our stuff earlier that day. 

We were invited to join Joe and Ross at their table, and quickly fell into the talking, laughing and bantering that Joe so heartily encourages.  A good time was being had by all.

An interjection in this narrative is now called for. (Unlike my usual interjections which show up on a regular basis without anyone at all summoning them.) It is said that laughter is the best medicine, but - and here comes one of those unsolicited interruptions – I suspect laughter can also be a difficult pill to swallow… in some circumstances.  If, for you, this is one of those circumstances, I ask your forgiveness.  Truthfully, I can’t help it.  And, although I will make light of what is to follow, the events, while in progress, were about as light as a hippo sitting on your chest in an attempt to make you forget your migraine.  Any humor I now find in this pesadilla is humor found only in hindsight and it is, of course, in hindsight that I write this.

Ross had finished his dinner and bounced to his quarters perhaps ten minutes before the rest of us decided to do likewise.  (Somewhere in the gallery a voice cries out, “Talk about impeccable timing!”)  The remaining five of us, lacking that timing, rose to our feet in unison that brief interval later and headed for the wall-less end of the restaurant.  It was there that the dim light of the restaurant’s interior met the blackness of a night so dark it appeared almost as a curtain separating inside from outside.  I walked toward that curtain down one aisle between tables while the others walked single file down the next over, Deb in the lead there.

SURREAL.  Surreal.  That’s the word that most frequently comes to mind when describing the next minute or so, with, in my mind, “Fucking unbelievable” following fast on its heels.

From the darkness before us, emerging almost as if the darkness had formed them, came five men dressed in black, wearing hoods and full face covering masks.  Totally - let me say it again even at the risk of sounding like a teenager, TOTALLY SURREAL!  In the perhaps three steps it took the first of these costumed freaks to reach me, I managed to ask aloud with, I’m sure, a smile on my face – belief in what I was actually seeing not a possibility at that point - “Is this a joke?”  What I thought might BE possible in that fleeting moment, was that Joe had arranged some sort of entertainment for us.  (Deb was later to say she had had a similar thought, because, really, what else could it be?)

My question was answered not with a verbal reply but with a blow that landed high on my right cheekbone.  I managed to access my flair for the obvious and blurt out something along the lines of, “This is real!”  Not exactly clever, I’ll admit, but I’m guessing that even if I had had a world class moment of wit, it would have been wasted on my companions who were dealing with their own attackers and unlikely to appreciate even my best bon mot.  I threw up my hands to ward off any subsequent blows and maybe get in a few of my own and thought, what would Jesus do?  Okay, no I didn’t think that.  What I really thought was, WTF?  Further blows, however, were not forthcoming which I can say in retrospect was somewhat disappointing.  Better a fight than what actually took place.  If I had asked the Jesus question, I’m sure my next few actions exactly described the answer.  When the blackness that took physical form in front of me brought up his gun and stuck it in my face while telling me to get ”Down” – English word number one of three they knew - I summoned all my courage, threw caution to the wind AND DID EXACTLY WHAT HE SAID!  (It should be noted here that a gun can make the one holding it a better than Tony Robbins class motivational speaker.  And I should add and will, there were not just guns.  The Darkness that confronted my sweet Charly held a long, curved bladed, serrated edged knife that looked like it might be useful in gutting a rhino.)   Okay, in reality, as opposed to the rapidly diminishing surreality, I had no courage and no caution to be tossed about.  I remember exactly zero thoughts during those few moments; in truth, I may not have had any.  I was acting, I’m sure, on pure survival instincts and those instincts were telling me something from B movie dialog, as in, “Don’t make any funny moves.”  Out of my sight, at my back, similar scenarios were being played out by the others.  The next thought I recall is how clever I was to have most of my money on a clip in my front jeans pocket.  The bat rastard who was pushing a gun into my side with one hand was removing my wallet from my back pocket with his other.  I can only suppose that the small sum there did not convince him that was all I had, for he then reached under me and removed, first, my phone which was attached to my belt and then, feeling the small lump in my front pocket – I surmised his silent Ah Ha! – he put his hand into that pocket and yanked out my money clip.  To confirm the Ah Ha! he waved it in my face while saying something in Spanish I did not understand.  “What Gringo, you think we are stupid?,” a good possibility.

Phase two, in my mind anyway, was when one after the other we were herded into the kitchen area of the restaurant and repositioned on the floor.  This area is adjacent to the dining room and is separated from it by a, more or less four foot high wall that also serves as a counter top.  The floor space there was, also mas o menos, ten feet wide by twenty long.  Being closest to the open doorway, I was the first one herded in and placed again on my stomach.  Arthur was next, I think, the order is unclear to me, and out of heroic belligerence or just a stubborn unwillingness to comply, was slow getting down to the floor.  Or, perhaps, it just seemed so to Arthur’s own personal attacker who then smacked Arthur on the side of his head with a gun butt to encourage a more speedy descent.  Blood dripping from Arthur’s head landed on the floor next to my face a second before he did.  I rose up a little to see how he was and protest that violence wasn’t necessary but was shoved quickly back down to the floor.  At some point I did say in Spanish that we were all old and not dangerous but got only a “Quiet," their second English word, in return.

When we were all in the kitchen, the three men abreast of each other on the floor and the two women above our heads, Charly the furthest removed, we were bound hand and foot with what we later learned was computer cable that Joe had stored behind the bar.  The ladrones, the robbers, then turned out all the lights and we were abandoned to the darkness and our thoughts.   My rapidly firing stream of which included, and there were many as it seemed an eternity spent on the floor, is this going to be some sort of gangland style massacre, no that can’t be, why would they do that, push that thought from your head, we have already been robbed, why all the rest of this, are they going to rape the women and, most disappointingly, after a minute or so, they’re back!  One or two of them were stepping around us on the floor.  I said aloud, “Por favor no molesta las mujeres” a couple of times.  This translates as please don’t bother the women.  It was as close as I could come to asking them not to rape.  I don’t know the Spanish word for that awful crime.  My meaning was understood, though, as one of the ghosts tapped me on the back and said, “Esta bien,” essentially meaning it’s okay that’s not going to happen.  My anxiety level which was spiking at the thought of my sweet, wonderful CCC being so abused dropped by at least half.  I emitted the classic/cliché sigh-of-relief and understood, possibly for the first time, what it really meant to do so.  I re-spiked when some of the gang attempted to put a plastic bag over Deb's head.  Deb cried out, "I can't breathe, I can't breathe," and they stopped.  We have no idea what their original intent was or why they stopped.  We were all just very, very thankful they did; Deb, of course, most of all. 

Why then were they still here?  They had already taken what we had to give.  What was the point of all this on the floor in the darkness drama? 

Alas again, It didn’t take long to find out.  Joe was pulled to his feet and dragged out of the kitchen.  This is when the robbers third English word was heard loudly several times.  It was, "Money" and it was followed by the sound of blows and muffled Spanish.  Joe was saying, “No problemo” which came out as no-prah-blame-o, over and over to indicate he would do whatever they wanted.  I had the curious thought at that moment, because I have a curious mind, or perhaps a very disturbed one, that this was terrible Spanish.   The phrase is, “no problema” or better still, “no hay problema,” No-eye-pro-bleh-ma.  As it turned out my somewhat more advanced Spanish would have served Joe better had it been his as he was knocked about and castigated for not speaking the language well enough.

There followed then long moments, or should I say looooong moments - time does not fly when you are tied face down on a cold tile floor - of quiet, interrupted only by the soft footfalls of our guards as they stepped over and around us at random intervals; intervals between which we were able to whisper words of comfort and encouragement to each other.  The intense silence - our ears were straining to hear anything – was broken by a disturbing scream, that of a cat in distress, coming from the far end of the complex.  We thought, almost of one mind, "For-crying-out-loud don’t hurt the poor cat," which I suppose said something good about our humanity, I mean, considering our more pressing concerns.  There was, fortunately, only the one agonized howl.

Eventually, defined as a seeming two or three hours in this circumstance, but in reality about fifteen or twenty minutes, Joe was returned to us on the kitchen floor.  Camera flashes briefly lit the darkness.  The ladrones took pictures of Joe and Arthur's wounds and, oddly, of Arthur's one tattooed arm.  Souvenirs, I suppose.  Testament to their macho-ness, perhaps.  There was then another long moment of eerie quiet.  (The thieves ability to be noiseless would have made for an excellent, if a bit bizarre, sneaker commercial.  Sneaker being the operative word in that ad!)  (They all wore black sided, white soled sneaks with no visible logos we could later identify) The silence came finally to an end with the sound of a car approaching and then hastily driving off.  We surmised correctly that our tormentors were gone, but I suggested we wait another five minutes to be certain of their departure.  We did that for a good three of the five minutes and then set about getting free, a thing made easier by my having untied my hands almost immediately after being bound.  I had remembered from some long ago book or movie - might have been about Houdini - that when being tied you should try to not cross your wrists, but rather, tighten your fists and hold them side by side.  I managed to do this and found I had lots of wriggle room just as the book/movie said I would.

Alrighty then.  The rest of this account is what we learned in Lit Class as denouement.  Denouement is a French word that means in English the juicy parts are all over but here is what happened next in case you wanted to know.  (It probably means that in French too.)

I untied Arthur who was three quarters untied already and we untied everyone else.  Once freed, Joe turned on all the lights, blasted his fire alarm and pressed a button that sent a silent signal to the police.  We remaining four shared some hugs and words of consolation before wandering about wondering, what next? 

On the floor where I had first been accosted I found my wallet.  Everything in it was intact apart from the money.  I huffed out a long second sigh-of-relief.  A brief moment after that Deb found her purse on a table near where she had been initially confronted.  In it were not only all her purse stashed belongings, but my phone and money clip, money attached!  Thank you Jesus.  (This last being said on the off chance that the robber who had forgotten the purse was named Jesus, a not uncommon name in Latin America.)  Apparently, in the darkness, our otherwise efficient thieving thugs, after putting the small bits of their ill gotten gains into the women’s purses, had then, while leaving, simply forgotten one.  (Robbery Rule #1, I would hazard to guess, is: Don’t forget the loot.)  At the discovery of my money and phone I decided to use up my quota and let loose my third sigh-of-relief which, although loud and long, might have been a bit premature as in the Curiousier and Curiousier Department we found more good fortune.  Our rooms and the stuff therein had not been tampered with and our vehicles were still parked in place even though our keys had been readily available to the Ninja Wannabes.  (Reviewing Robbery rule #1, don't forget the loot!)  

 But alas - there it is again, that word - among the good news there is always the bad.  Charly's purse was gone.

The police finally arrived in force, some twelve or fifteen of them, about 45 or 50 minutes later and began to efficiently stand around in a cluster looking like policemen standing around in a cluster.  I remember one or two of them taking down our names but apart from their clever clustering, not doing much more.  (In fairness, I'm not sure what they could have done.  The perps were likely far far away having a good laugh over beers and rum)  (Wait! Forget that last parentetical tag on.   Picturing these monsters laughing was not even a remote possibility.  Mirth did not seem part of their make-up.  On the other hand, their being far far away in fifty minutes was not really a stretch.) 

Our next decision, championed and won by Deb, was to drive to Panama City and spend the night at the house of old friends of hers.  She called them and explained what happened and their response was. "Come!  Come right now!"  Heroic Arthur volunteered to drive the two hours or so to get there after I wimped out and said I couldn't.  My failing, old guy, poor glasses night vision might well have put us in more danger.

And here, having said that last, I recall further details from the Curiouser and Curiouser Department.  Although Deb's glasses had been thrown aside, but were luckily undamaged by the flight and fall, we three other Four Eyes had different experiences vis a vis the specs.  When Charly had been shoved to the floor, she managed to take off her glasses and push them under a nearby table.  We found them, post robbery, ON the table.  Hmmm, how thoughtful.  Arthur, moments after being knocked on the head with a gun butt, had his glasses carefully and gently removed from his face.  Huh?  How does that make sense?  My glasses were pulled off by the strap I use to hold them in place on the upper, flat part of my oft broken nose.  They too, were handled carefully and placed near me.  (I have to wonder why the bother with Arthur and my sight enhancers when a short moment later they turned out all the lights and plunged us into "can't see your hand in front of your face," serious darkness!)  

And then there was the final and perhaps oddest of the Curiouser and Curiouser moments.  Just before they departed, the last I'm-Here To-Check-On-You-One-More- Time, shadow, stepped over us to reach Charly at the far end of the room.  He bent over, tapped her on the shoulder, rubbed it gently for a second or so and then left.  Now you tell me... what was that all about? 

We checked in at Andris and Martha Purmalis' casa sometime after three in the morning.  If you look in the Guiness Book of Records under Nicest People in the World I'm sure you will find their names.  Needless to say, but I'll say it anyway, we were spent.  After hugs, talk and yawns we dragged ourselves to bed, I'm thinking, well after four.  I'd be more specific about the time, but my watch was now on someone else's wrist.

Our Pesadilla was at an end...mostly.  It was an end, I suppose, if you don't count PTSD which is an acronym for Personal Torment Symptoms Downloaded, or something along those lines.  When those pass bye the bye, and I’m sure they will, I’ll write a sequel to Pesadilla which I have tentatively titled, Suenas Dulces, Sweet Dreams.  I'm looking forward to that one. 

Doc Walton  July  2013