When I first decided I wanted to visit Panama, I was sitting on an Amtrak train heading to New York City and the baby next to me had just puked on my leg. He was propped up against his mothers shoulder and was looking at me with a crooked smile–a look, that I now realize was meant to say I know something you don’t. I turned to pull out my Mickey Mouse pen when, with all the stealth and slyness of a fox, the devil baby made a muted gurgling sound, which led to this miserable cascading gush of Gerber yellows and greens. The Panama guidebook that I was reading was also damaged in the incident and to this day, I have no way of finding a decent restaurant in the Cocle Province.
Panama has been good to me over the past year. I came down to Central America as a young, seemingly knowledge-less kid from Jersey, who wanted to do anything but «work». The nine to five job was something I had nightmares about, my dreams always beginning in a generic cubicle setting and always ending with me packed like a duffle bag into a tall filing cabinet. I didn’t think I could handle the terror of that sort of job and there was certainly no decent company in the States who’d want to hire someone with a fear of filing cabinets. «I can’t go fetch that file» I’d tell them. «Too risky.»
I am nothing by trade. After a great stint in Costa Rica, I tagged Panama as my next victim, following the advice of many friends and my tendencies to migrate towards the equator. I moved down with the intention of making some money, meeting new people, and most of all, having some fun. The opportunities that have presented themselves to me, from the second I landed in Panama, have been overwhelming. Take for example, the baggage carrousel in PTY that broke while I was waiting for my suitcase: «I know how to fix it» I told one of the men. Bam. Job opportunity numero uno.
The immigration laws in Panama are relatively strict and make starting a business for a gringo like myself a bit tricky. They pronounce rules like, every new business must have a Panamanian owner. And, a foreigner must provide a new skill that a Panamanian is not capable of performing. Though I only picked up a tourist visa–allowing me 90 days in the country–I wanted to be a citizen the second I met Panama City. In my first few weeks I gave myself a crash course in the country: sailing in San Blas, exploring secluded beaches in Veraguas, gorging myself at the all-inclusive resorts in Santa Clara, snorkeling in Bocas, road tripping through Azuero, waterfall hunting in El Valle and the like.
First thing that hit me? The low cost of living. In all my travels, I had never before stumbled upon a $.25 beer or a $3 replica soccer jersey. My apartment rents at $200 a month and the meals I eat cost no more than a Gatorade. Cab rides anywhere in the city cost $1.50 and going to the movies doesn’t burn a hole in my wallet. I am now of the firm belief, that when you are paying less for living you have less guilt and less worries. This was what I was in search of: forgetting the debts, the fears and the exorbitant cost of living that are so common at home.
I consult for several tourism and real estate companies now and have been enjoying watching Panama grow almost every day. A New York Bagel Café just opened up around the corner from me and there are too many posh internet cafes to count. More tourists are pouring in all the time and new real estate projects pop up faster than that fake snake that comes out of canned nuts. They are preparing to expand the canal–a subject that has its supporters and its opponents–which could be good or bad for the country, and Donald Trump is stamping his name on a waterfront project. Things seem to be going well for Panama and I intend to explore every nook of this country before the real crowds hit. Every nook except the Cocle restaurant scene that is.
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