To Panama and back

by Henry T. Byford

We were very pleasantly and cordially entertained. The ladies were animated and interesting, but unfortunately they did not converse in English. In the North my Spanish seemed good enough, but when exposed in the warm climate of Panama, and served to ladies, it became mushy and flavorless. It was cold storage stuff. The Panamanians speak so fast that even Doctor Echeverría, a native of Costa Rica, often found it difficult to understand them. But when it came to catching the meaning of the animated, fast talking ladies, and then framing animated, quick answers appropriate to the fairness of their sex and commensurate with the chivalric euphemism of the language, I was glad to talk plain English with Señor Arango. Having studied in the United States, he spoke our language fluently and with a soft, Southern accent that was charming.

Many Central Americans obtain a part of their education in the States and thus learn to speak English, and the building of the canal by Americans will cause many more of them to study it. Indeed, I think that in time the Panamanians, as well as the Cubans and Porto Ricans, will become North Americanized in their customs and habits, except in so far as they will be prevented by the enervating climatic conditions. South American young men more often go to France or Spain to complete their academic education, or take post graduate courses, and thus not only cultivate the French language, but are influenced largely by French customs and ideas. But the Panamanian ladies, who, of course, do not travel extensively, will now have a chance to learn and practice English at home, and perhaps lose thereby a portion of their charm. The Spanish spoken by the educated class of women is quite melodious, but that of lower class, native women, as we heard it on the streets, is anything but agreeable to listen to. They articulate rapidly and in a high pitch of voice, reminding one of the cackle of a hen who has just laid an egg, but with less accentuation. The cackle goes on until the breath is all out, and begins again with the next breath.

When we arose to go, Señor Arango insisted on walking and perspiring with us, keeping on his clothes for the purpose, and led us to the Southern Club in a three-story building near the plaza. As in nearly all buildings in Panama, the street floor was occupied by a store, which left the two upper ones for the use of the club. He took us to the second floor, where we found a bar and a bar-tender, but no one else—not even a mouse. What a lively club, I thought, with nobody but a bar-tender in it. No mischief going on. I did not know then, as I learned afterward when introduced to the club by Doctor Cook of Panama, that the reading and card rooms were on the third floor, and that it was lively up there where the seats and sitters were not all empty.

After the heat of our walk we were glad to seat ourselves on the little Spanish balcony at one of the windows and take the customary “treatment,” viz., a fresco. Señor Arango, who must have been younger than he looked, said that cola was very nice, so we ordered it. It was pop flavored with that name. Doctor Echeverría, who was inclined to be fleshy and had perspired freely, enjoyed it as any hot and thirsty man enjoys cool drinks, and he ordered more. Our host proposed a third round, but I discouraged it. It is no wonder that Central Americans take only an orange and coffee for their early breakfast, when they drink animated syrups in this way of evenings. Yet, after all, there is but little harm in spoiling a breakfast that consists of nothing to eat. Preliminary to separating for the night we sauntered over to the hotel and had another treat. My companions wanted more cola, but I grew desperate and impolite, and said that my stomach couldn’t stand any more cola or nectar; they were too sweet for my temperament, which preferred something bitter. The two pints I had already consumed were working like syrup in the sun, and I preferred to die for a sheep rather than a lamb, and would take a pint of Milwaukee beer to hurry up and complete the fermentation so that I might perhaps get a little convalescent sleep toward morning. Morally speaking, it was wicked for me to take any more alcoholic stimulant after having had the usual liberal Panama allowance during the day, but physically considered the end justified the means. The stomach as a vital organ had as much right to consideration as the head, and the head should share the evils of social customs with the stomach. Alcohol has always done me much less harm than sugar, and when I unfortunately have to choose between two devils I tackle the least. The two gentlemen gave no evidence of their surprise at my unceremonious declaration of honest opinion about their favorite fresco, for they were gentlemen. I was among gentlemen, and could say what I pleased without danger of open reproof. One can not always do so in Chicago and the Great West.

After they had consumed and complimented the Milwaukee beverage just as if it had been their favorite one, we parted, Señor Arango proposing a visit to his summer home on the sabanas (prairies) on the following Sunday.

I climbed up to my sublunar habitation, and as the electric lights on the plaza cast nearly as much light about my bed as the candle would have given, I did not light up. I concluded that candlelight would be of more service to malarious mosquitoes than to me. In Chicago I should have suffered great inconvenience at having no light in my bedroom, but having accepted the situation in Panama and having broken up the light habit, I was quite as happy without it. Happiness did not consist in having private illumination to enable me to see myself go to bed, but in being able to do without it. Unhappiness consists mainly of imaginary wants.

There were no window-panes in the hotel, and when the heavy shutters were opened up widely the cool night air came in freely and the mosquitoes remained outside under the electric lights, enabling me to settle myself to sleep with comparative peace and contentment. My experience on shipboard had rendered my sleep proof against noises, and had thoroughly broken in and hardened me to mattresses that were made to be cool but not to be comfortable.

After what seemed to be a short sleep I awoke, and noticed that the room was much darker than when I had retired. In a few minutes the cathedral clock across the square struck one and I raised myself in bed and looked toward it. But the electric light that had illumined the dial was out, as were, in fact, all of the street lights, and I could hardly see where the clock was. I inferred that the one stroke was for one o’clock and lights out, and wondered that I should wake up so early. I turned over to go to sleep again, but while turning over I thought that the room seemed a little lighter. I immediately turned back again and saw that it was really lighter. I raised upon my elbow, looked out and saw quite plainly by the clock, which could hardly be seen before I had turned over in bed, that the time was twenty-five minutes to six. Within five minutes of profound darkness it had become light enough for me to see the time of day by the clock. By twenty minutes of six it was daylight, and by a quarter to six it was almost as bright as at noonday. For a Chicagoan who had never been told or taught of such a dawn, and why it was so, to have gone to Panama, and then to have waked up early for the first time after leaving Chicago, such a sudden daybreak would have seemed a new miracle worthy of being compared with the standing still of the sun in Joshua’s time—only this time the sun had changed his tactics, and had taken a sudden leap over the horizon.

A couple of carts rattled over the cobblestones at six o’clock, whereupon I got up, looked out and saw workmen beginning work on a new building a short distance from the plaza. Men appeared on the street and the town seemed astir almost in a moment. Clerks were opening doors and window shutters, and one fellow was sprinkling the street in front of his store with a two-gallon sprinkling can such as are used for flowerbeds. It seemed strange to see full daylight develop in fifteen minutes and a sleeping city assume full activity in a half hour. In the North we consider Southerners indolent because they rest two hours in the middle of the day. But it is a wonder that they do not accuse us of indolence because our city workers sleep two or three hours after daylight in the summer mornings, and go to work at eight or nine o’clock when it is hot, instead of at six when it is cool.

My room was cool and pleasant at six-thirty, and I got out my clean clothes, consisting of gauze underwear, a negligee shirt, duck trousers and a skeleton coat. I felt, however, that I ought not to contaminate them by getting into them until I had taken a bath. I had perspired tubfuls of water since leaving New Orleans, ten days previously, but had not had a convincing, conscience-quieting, fresh-water, hot bath; only cold salt ones. Perspiration and dust, rain and disease had all been at me and about me. In the streets and in the barber shop I had seen skin diseases and hairless patches on heads, faces and necks, and felt sure that, like tobacco smoke (which is visible and scentable), some of the dust, or germs from diseased individuals, must have been wafted about me and into my hair, clothes and skin although I could not see them. There was only one way out of the difficulty and that was by means of baths, frequent, and uncompromising, soapy and scrubby. Plenty of soap and water outside, and alcohol and pop inside, seemed to be the only way to live out one’s shortened life in Panama.