News from Boquete

I have involuntarily embarked on a new undertaking: teaching English. A couple of weeks ago Graciela, the girlfriend of Dexter (who, you may remember from my earliest e-mails is the Carmel, California surfer/carpenter who lives in the casita behind the house we rented while waiting for our house to be built), telephoned and asked whether I would be willing to conduct classes in English for her and a girlfriend or two. I wasn't keen on the idea, particularly inasmuch as teaching English as a second language is a whole discipline in and of itself and with which I have not a whit of familiarity, but, not knowing how to say "no" without appearing uncaring, reluctantly agreed to give it a try. She and Kelly, the wife of another gringo whom we know, Peter, came for the first lesson today. (Another girlfriend joined us on Friday for an organizational meeting, but she knows much less English than Graciela and Kelly and apparently has dropped out as she was a no-show today.) They were eager to make it a several-times-a-week undertaking, but I explained that preparation for classes would take several hours and that I therefore could commit to only one day a week. They agreed to Tuesdays from 1:30 to 3:00 but stayed today until 3:30 and left then only because Dexter telephoned Graciela to report that his van had broken down somewhere about two hours distant.

I spent about six hours preparing: writing out "lessons" and running downtown to have them copied. Anxiety-ridden, I dreaded their arrival. But everything went exceedingly well. Because they have a very personal interest in learning how to better communicate with their partners, they are eager learners and have lots of questions. Both are very personable, so we had fun as well as accomplishing a great deal. It goes without saying that I'm improving my Spanish as well.

The big news on the home front is that Derek and I are going to China in December, Hong Kong and Beijing to be exact. Last summer Derek and Jill attended a conference in the northeast where a number of trips were offered for auction by a travel agent benefactor of the organization. As somewhat of a lark, they bid $5000 on a one-week China trip, and won. In the meantime, Derek and Jill have parted ways, amicably, and Derek was left with a trip and no companion. I'm flattered that he asked me to stand in (although there may have been ulterior motives related to extra money which likely will be required). So I've been deeply involved in making airline reservations to the States and back, to Panama City and back, for hotels in New Orleans and Panama City, and for obtaining a Chinese visa (problematic because there's no Chinese embassy in Panama). I'm slowly getting it all worked out with the help of Anavilma, a very warm (she kissed me both upon my entering and leaving her office) and resourceful travel agent here in Boquete. I leave on December 10th for a couple of days in Lafayette with Derek and the dogs, we leave for China on the 14th from New Orleans, we return to New Orleans on the 22nd, and I'll be back in Boquete on Christmas Eve. My main concern is that I have NO clothes that fit and insufficient funds and inclination to purchase a new wardrobe.

Work has yet to begin on the waterfall and fish pond. Steve is up to his you-know-what in alligators (and fer de lances and other nuisances) at their place in Chorcha. George, the electrician, who has been working with him there, dropped by this morning to report that the road is virtually impassable because of rain, that the only electricity they have is a generator because it will cost a prohibitive $60,000 to run wires, that they managed to get a pump for running water installed barely a week ago, that they're all living and sleeping in one room, etc., etc. Workers are abandoning them right and left because of the oppressive conditions. That being the case, I certainly haven't been aggravating him with any of my quotidian demands.

I took a couple of hours off and went to Paradise Gardens Sunday a week ago. In addition to the two ocelot kittens, Paul and Jenny have now acquired, from some local indigenous persons, i.e., Ngobe Bugle indians, a baby sloth which is absolutely, without a doubt the cutest animal I have ever seen. (I didn't think anything could be cuter than a baby kinkajou.) I neglected to take my camera this time, and lost some great pictures of the ocelot kittens and other animals when my computer crashed, but I'm determined to return later this week for whatever photo opportunities might avail themselves. I'll send them on.

Further adventures: getting a haircut in Boquete

I was bragging only last week about not having been sick since arriving in Panama a year and a half ago. That brought on, upon awakening Saturday morning, the mother of all colds. My chest is congested, my head is congested, the area between my nose and upper lip is raw, the house sounds like a tuberculosis ward; you get the picture. So this morning, instead of greeting the day with my usual good humor and high expectations, I have been ruminating, in my debilitated state, on things that have gone wrong. I've mentioned many of them, I know, the petty frustrations in particular, but I haven't related a particular ongoing one: getting a haircut.

When we arrived, it was windy season, and my long, offswept bangs were more offswept than desirable. I turned first to my good friends Charly and Jane, who enthusiastically recommended Roxanne, conveniently located on the main street downtown. I went to see her (no appointment necessary, I was told) and found her engaged in a protracted coloring job. Having nothing in particular to do, I waited in a room filled with magazines in Spanish and eventually received a haircut. It was nothing to write home about, but it was serviceable, and Roxanne, though harried and not particularly amiable, seemed okay. So, I returned three or four weeks later to find her too engaged to fit me in. Returning the next day, she was similarly occupied and, without so much as a hello, pushed me off on a male haircutter in her shop. He scalped me. Larry teased me all week, as did various friends.

I heard from someone that there was an excellent haircutter at the more upscale salon in the new Los Establos Plaza. I dropped in and was told, although everyone was sitting around twiddling their thumbs, that an appointment would be necessary. I made an appointment and returned the next day to see Ronnie, a Scot married to a Panamanian woman. He was very chatty, but I understood less of what he said than I generally understand the locals. Neverthless, the haircut was pretty good, so I returned. A couple of times he didn't show up at my appointment time, allegedly having had to do some work on their farm (this information was relayed without apology), and on other occasions his cell phone didn't work, making appointments a chore in itself. But I stuck with him until he abruptly decided to return to Scotland for a year (to make some money).

Adrift again, I consulted my neighbor, Penny Ripple, who always looks like she dropped into Boquete off Fifth Avenue, and she recommended an American, John Marks. (She mentioned that he charges $15 as opposed to Panamanian $4, but she assured me that he was worth it, noting that she had been pleased with Ronnie for a while but that her style had "fallen off" after a while.) I called John and found him to be in Bocas housesitting for a friend. At the time he was to return, he decided instead to return to the U.S. to call on his ailing mother.

Keep in mind that I never started searching for a stylist before my hair was so far gone as to be embarrassing, so all the delays were giving me a positively feral look.

So I went back to Los Establos, where I made an appointment with Miriam, who was doing absolutely nothing at the time but insisted on gazing at her appointment book, largely blank, and "fitting me in" three days hence. The first cutting was fine--hell, anything was an improvement at that point--so I stopped by again in several weeks to make a second appointment, their telephone being consistently busy. When I arrived at the appointed time of 9:00 a.m., the shop wasn't open. I sat outside over a cup of coffee for twenty minutes or so until another of the stylists arrived, unapologetically, and went to open the door. Alas, she had left her keys at home. A second stylist arrived shortly thereafter, also without keys. One of them left for home and keys, apparently a long trip inasmuch as it took 45 minutes. Eventually, I received a haircut.

The third time I visited Miriam, she announced that they were closing the shop because the rent was too high in Los Establos. She didn't know where they would be relocating, but she took my phone number and said she would call with the information. When no call was forthcoming, I once again turned to Penny Ripple, who enthusiastically recommended Flory, on the second floor of the Don Andres building.

I dropped by the next day and, after some searching and questioning, finally came upon Flory's unmarked shop. She was very friendly and gave me a decent (not to say good) haircut, so I had the foresight to make another appointment in three weeks. When I arrived, she wasn't there, but her assistant, who was busy sweeping the floor, called her on her cell phone and she arrived within half an hour. I was not so lucky on my third visit, however. This time she was nowhere to be found, and the assistant explained, without apology, that she was attending a funeral. I waited a while, but Panamanian funerals involve a long church service and then a procession through town to the cemetery (tying up traffic for an eternity), so it was in vain. I decided that I had been pushed around enough and wasn't going to take it anymore.

A few days later Steve's wife Michelle showed up with a stunningly flattering haircut. Upon questioning, she said she had dropped into a barber shop up from Melo's, the feed and fertilizer store, and had seen the younger of the two men there. Filled with new hope, I ventured there myself days later, was swept into a chair, and, without any fuss or conversation, was given a haircut no better or worse than others I had received. Charge: $2.50. I've been going there ever since without incident. I'm just waiting for him, whatever his name is, to fall victim to the plague or be run over by a taxi. (Larry's first barber, Jaime, to whom he was inexplicably attached, dropped dead within a few months of Larry's first visit.)

My computer's hard drive crashed last week and I lost all my pictures. I feel too bad to go outdoors to take some, so this missive will be photograph free.

Bonnie