Karma Police, Radiohead

One thing that’s key to remember about Panamanians is that they love stories.  Whether true or false, kind or no, the stories are what keeps the community running.  Like the true reason why Chicago is called the “Windy City” (the politicians’ talk kept the buildings standing upright), I’m sure that Panama would collapse under a mass of chiggers if not for all the bochinche.

On Saturday, March 10, our second to last day in our training community, the town was full of Panamanian police.  Unlike American police officers, the Panamanian version carry multiple firearms, wear fatigues and bullet proof vests and never smile.  Unless they see a Gringa hanging her laundry.  As to why there was a squadron of police (like a pride of lions) in my town?  We received about four different stories.  The one that you may completely disregard (i.e. the most outlandish), is that a gang of Colombians (maleantes de Colombia) kidnapped a family inside their home, poisoned them with cow medicine and then shot them in the knee caps before running off, throwing the gun into a yard (my yard) a few towns away and holing up in the Colombian chicken factory that is a cover up for a Colombian drug trafficking gang.  All of this is false.

The true story lies somewhere in a combination of the following stories.  At about 2:00 or 3:00 am on Saturday morning, a (Colombian escaped from prison) man robbed someone (allá (over there)/Near Mama Cheva’s house/Mama Cheva herself), threw the gun between Mama Cheva and Mama Olga’s yard, holed himself in another Colombian’s home and stayed there.  Which began the hunt for the gun.

I awoke that morning around 7:30, preparing to spend the day doing laundry and editing photos.  The police presence had begun.  They began by speaking with Mama Cheva, Mama Olga, Gringo and who knows who else.  Having not heard the story yet, I did laundry, then sat with my computer open, clicking through photos.  Mama Olga came back, sat with me and told me what happened, neglecting to mention that the police would begin looking through our yard for the gun.

Taking some of my clothes out of the spin dryer (I miss real dryers – none of my clothes fit me), I shoved all my underwear in my hand, threw some clothespins on my shirt, hair, collar and anywhere else I could stick them while I didn’t have pockets.  I walked over to the line and began hanging my lacy underwear.  A twig snapped and I looked up, straight into the eyes of a police man.  It was the first time I had ever seen a police officer smile, probably at the ridiculousness of a gringa hanging her underwear in running shorts and an oversized t-shirt with clothespins everywhere.  Oof.

Lili, Tonin’s girlfriend was beside me, helping me hang clothes, suddenly.  As the police officer walked away, she whispered, “Que guapo, no?”  I laughed and told her I’d tell Tonin on her before adding that with a bit more height, he might be.

They never found the gun.