Ghandi was not so wrong. Life is suffering. But he forgot to add that this is what makes the beauty in between shine. He would certainly have liked Panama City. Here, the latest glossy skyscrapers stand next to a completely dilapidated old town, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. At seven in the morning, the sun shines pale on empty building shells supported by steel girders.
After the tour through the Casco Antiguo, I walk a few kilometres further up to the Punete de las Americas. This is where the Panamericana motorway crosses the Panama Canal. At some point, the narrow left-hand pedestrian lane, which is never used, comes to an end. I cross to the other side and obey the many “no trespassing” signs. The canal belongs to the Americans, the bridge probably does too, and only Asterix should mess with Romans.
The Spanish were driven out here by English pirates in 1671. At some point they were driven out by the new Romans from the north. To enter their empire, you need a permit before applying for a visa, even for transit. This online form, which costs $14 and goes by the name of ESTA, was missing for some travellers in Frankfurt. The plane boarded without them. My rucksack also had problems with ESTA. It got stuck in Frankfurt. My split-kiteboard, on the other hand, was obviously not considered a terrorist weapon of mass destruction due to its split personality and was carried.
In the late morning, my jeans enter into a less than favourable symbiotic relationship with my leg hair after being worn for over 30 hours. I drive on to the gigantic Albrook Mall. It takes over 30 minutes to walk from one end to the other, excluding the second floor and side corridors. Between GAP and ZARA, automatic assault rifles are on sale. The displays are arranged in a highly fashionable way. At all other shops, signs prohibit the carrying of weapons. The heavily armed security behind them interrogates me for photographing signs. Well entertained and overwhelmed by the luxury, I buy the essentials from my missing rucksack – and savour the lightness of my new existence.
My Magnolia Inn hostel is in the centre of the old town and has ancient fans, marble in the bathrooms and stucco on the high ceilings. The neighbours doze in hammocks on the dilapidated balcony of the building next door. Hip-hop gangs have a dance battle in front of the cathedral. Children skate along the harbour promenade, and at the fish market behind, an incredible Sunday food festival is held to salsa music. There’s no end to the shopping in the Chinese quarter, as every cash machine only ever spits out US dollars despite supposedly having its own currency. Panama CIty is colourful. I’m glad I didn’t read anything beforehand.
In the evening, the whole old town is buzzing from the Superbowl. When the GIs in Afghanistan are shown, the whole stadium cheers. I don’t understand it, but I think it’s really great that Americans are happy about totally stupid deeds. The numerous expats here go along with it – with light beer. Every now and then the person at the next table gives me a dirty look while I’m writing this blog. Their eyes say: “How can you trample on my religion like that?” Quite simply: after such a good beef steak with tamarind salsa, I don’t like to mess up my keyboard trying to understand the world because I’ve shoved my Freedom Fries somewhere else for someone who only ever subjugates it. After all, Katy Perry doesn’t kiss girls just to cover Lenny Kravitz’s arse, does she?
Frank Woelky, born in 1973. Kitesurfer since 1998. Since 2006, I have been combining kitesurfing and web design on trips lasting several months off the beaten track.