Barbecue's Revenge

With the end of humanity now in sight, courtesy rebellious barbeque, I hope women will start throwing themselves at me. And less in the 28 Days Later we-wanna-share-the-plague-and-pain type of throwing oneself as the let's-get-it-on-in-these-last-moments type of forwardness.

Yesterday in Managua, on one of the many inner-city bus rides I took between Mercado Huembes, Plaza Inter, and Mercado Oriental, a girl near me vomited violently several times. Later a guy, without first assessing the floor, plopped down in the seat, his black boots swimming in the white sea of clam chowder -- of a chunkiness to which Campbell's aspires. I was gonna warn him but I felt like I needed a laugh. Mostly because riding city buses in Central American capitals, supposedly, is the russian roulette for muggings, so everybody is constantly mad-dogging everyone else, brandishing bags of mangos as if they were bricks, making sure the thorns of those dozen roses are prominently displayed.

Anyway, I figure I witnessed the introduction of barbecue's revenge to Nicaragua, and being on a packed, vomit-sloshing US school bus has probably ensured my quick demise. I'll be dead next week. So be it. So far, though rather quickly, said virus has only manifested itself as brutal purgings of the bowels -- which are making me suddenly thrilled horrible karaoke is blaring from the bar next door. Every time I fall upon the toilet seat is sounds like the Gremlin who squeezed into my anus is being skewered.

At least, before I die, I've rediscovered the joy of tipping. Which is to say rewarding good service when it isn't an obligation. I typically eat street food or in grungy market comedores, or I'm buying fruit by the bagful. Minimal service eating where tipping is unheard of. But yesterday morning, at a random comedor stuck in a dirt-floored, covered space between the long onion and watermelon galleries in Masaya's public market, I was spurred to generosity.

Of course the breakfast I wanted didn't correspond to any of the dozen covered pots of various meats and vegetables and concoctions atop the woodfire stove. I rattled off a short list of what would satisfy my cravings: gallo pinto, queso, y maduro. I was assured my demands would be met and was pointed to the plastic table with the rice and bean residue-soiled tablecloth. The ladies went to work.

After ten minutes appeared a heavenly platter of greasy gallo pinto, maduros y queso frito, mas la mitad de un aguacate, dos huevos fritos y un cafécito. The family chatted me up, Everth, the father of two-year-old cutie Belinda, had his daughter walk over and kiss me on the cheek, and proceeded to bill me C$30. Which is to say there was absolutely zero concern I was being given a gringo-weighted bill. Which is to say, in several emergency situations, I have literally considered wiping my ass with larger quantities of money. So I dropped a Pedro Joaquín Chamorro. BAM. Fifty Córdobas.

It's an incredible feeling to stuff yourself on a made-to-order feast, all in gracious company, then, in a place where tipping doesn't happen, dtop 66% of the bill, all this and walk out only US$2.50 lighter. Though, now that I think about it, my intestinal perturbance might have something to do with the family's use of avocados as the tool with which to soften and flatten raw steaks.

To top off a nice dining day I visited my first Nicaraguan taco stand. Nico tacos are like taquitos, rolled tortillas filled with spiced, shredded meat, served with cabbage salad. I had two chicken tacos, pulled fresh from the simmering oil-vat. They were intensely flavorful, all that crispy fattiness balanced by a pineapple sweetness, hot peppery bite, and juicy meat.

Today I breakfasted again in the market, treated to the same fresh feast at whatever hour I arrived (frickin' McDonalds, and all you have to do is reheat some frozen shit!). Afterward I chatted for hours with Everth, and carried his daughter around the market while he purchased a variety of fruits I'd never tried, so I could eat again. The guayabana with its incredibly sweet white flesh; nisporo, with its sapote but smaller, juicier imitation; hocote, simple and sweet. Tomorrow I've been promised anona, a red-skinned, sweeter take on the guayabana.

When I returned to my hotel, the owner delivered a note my good friend Marbel had left in my absence. I hadn't seen her since she suddenly stopped appearing for work at the quesillo stand, at which point I stopped eating quesillos. I called her up, her husband scooted over on the mini-moto and scooped me, and I spent the afternoon eating homemade baho and chocobananos in the humble family home. I got to hang out with Marbel's awesome kids, mom and sister, share laughs and compliments over old photo albums, and then share the majority of my 1800+ photos on the viewing screen of my digital camera -- many from parts of Nicaragua they'd theretofore, well, only seen in pictures.

And I was reminded again of one of the trillion reasons I'll regret dying soon, without having the pleasure of returning to NC for an eastern style BBQ-sandwich: People making you feel at home far, far from home. Good ol' southern hospitality.

If they catch fire, toss 'em in the lake.

Today I went to La Laguna de Apoyo, a crater lake near Masaya, Nicaragua. It was picturesque, just like Lonely Planet had promised. Yay! I hiked down to the water, touched the water, decided it would be nice to swim in, decided then that I'd prefer not to be wet, took a few pictures, then hiked back up to the crater rim, at which point I was dripping sweat, my khaki pants soaked through, and I decided a swim would be nice. Apoyo is at the wrong end of the journey.

This advisory, taped to my hotel room's wall, might be more interesting:

DO NOT USE the fan as clothes dryer. could overheat and cause fire. Think about their safety.

I guess clothes and/or fans, I'm still a bit confused, are something of sacred commodities around here...

Precious Metals

It would have already been obvious to the casual observer that I think Marbel is way fuckin' cool. How many married women of the non-cheating, non-friend's-moms varieties do you see me hanging around?

But it's obvious, you say, Marbel of Masaya sells superlative quesillos, thus commanding dominion over your stomach, to which your heart and brain are but accessory organs. Moreover, there's plenty of other pretty providers of sustenance for whom your adoration is not contingent upon personality or marital status.

Yes, granted, I reply. But you know I'm only patient enough to muster one half hour of active listening, all that nodding to feign listening allows you to survey all those luscious curves. Thus, I posit, Marbel had long ago -- hours upon hours of conversation the first time I passed through Masaya -- passed this crusty misanthropes tests of cool.

And then at dinner last night, if I wasn't already regretting that her husband was proving a genuinely excellent dude (thus constructing something of a moral speedbump on my usually flat path to justifying "accidents" like a lawnmower walking its way into bed), Marbel asked if I liked Metallica, pointing out a poster on the wall behind me. After I finished mashing with a fork prong the bug that had just crawled out of my no-so-fresh by-the-slice pizza, I responded in the affirmative. I expected the squashed face response, mocking devil horns and head banging. (I've been hanging out with too many superchristians, I think.) I added hasty comments about la musica being "muy pesada, muy fuerte," to excuse her forthcoming dismissal of my preferred tuneage.

"!Me fascina Metallica¡" she blurted with eyes wide. "¿Conoces la canción 'One'? Es bien bonita." She proceeded to further decimate my expectations (and urge me toward the nearest John Deere dealer) rattling off favorite bands and songs: Pantera, "Walk"; Iron Maiden, "Fear of the Dark"; Megadeath; Slayer; Sepultura; etc.

All of which are bands that would appreciate any diabolical plans I conjure.

The Fritangera and the Cañon

The Cañon de Somoto is a cool excursion. The kilometers-long rift runs through mountainous northern Nicaragua, the cool waters of the Rio Coco running through the slit below the cliffs. The Cañon offers a lazy afternoon floating in inflatable rafts (pulled by Nicaraguan men for a few bucks) or swimming in the refreshingly cool waters (which, unfortunately, requires your own exertion). It's way better if you're accompanied by your Nica-kissy-cuddly of indeterminate age. I'm still almost sure she's 19. Since she's pure morena and I'm pure gringo, we've been endowed the superpower of restoring everyone who sees us to infancy. Which means they forget it's impolite to stare. And stare. Since Luz Marina is older than 14, it's a given that people assume we're married, and our canyon guides inquired such.

Keeping cake close to my heart.

So I keep doing this thing where I eat an ungodly amount of cake, feel near-comatose as my pulse plods, veins running thick with icing, and promise myself I'm not going to ever do that again as I sink into sleep with a bready-brick in my stomach. Every next day, enchanted by twenty-five Córdoba cuts of fantastic layer cake that would leave Fat Bastard begging for a doggie bag, slices that standing side-by-side would dwarf Shaq's shoes, my willpower crumbles and I end up tempting shoulder dislocation hauling another hunk the twelve blocks home. And the repostería also makes giant donuts -- at least the size of the rims on my old Geo Prism -- that it smothers in a thick yellow cream dotted with raisins. These donuts somehow weigh even more than the cake, as if the secret ingredient is some undiscovered ultra-dense baking element from planet pastry.

What else? Well, all this flirting with diabetes usually takes place after my nightly bout of Thanksgiving-style gluttony. A recently discovered frintanga that completely hides its dinnerware beneath mounds of gallo pinto, cabbage salad, and whatever so-cheap-as-to-be-practically-free side item(s) I've elected to eat that night; side items that are essentially a fingernail's worth of something, say a mixture of chicken and rice, deep fried until it's fist sized. Or bigger.

That C$5 enchiladas are delicious deep-fried pockets filled with said rice and chicken. They look exactly like, though are probably less healthy than the "fruit" pies/turnovers you can buy at any Seven/Eleven, the empanada-looking crapsnacks that are stacked on shelves in either the traditional waxypaper bag or the more modern cardboard box. Regardless of the style of packaging, you'll recognize these treats for the huge grease stains soaking through the outside.

Dad, you can postpone that dentist appointment. I think we shoud go ahead and preemptively book be in for the gamut of major heart surgeries.

Cocksucking in Public

Few things are as surreal(ly arresting) as a two-year-old dressed in a princess' flowing white stroking the sticky, blood-saturated nape of a maimed gallo cradled, lovingly, against the chest of her father. Her white dress already spattered with splotches of deep red for her proximity to the ring of violence. Her sister, pigtails spilling over her Winnie the Pooh backpack, sports speckles of sangre on the backside of her hand, catching flecks flying from the frenzy below while she grips the top rung of the ring.

Los Gallos De Oro was the scene of my first pelea de gallos. Cockfight. Cross from Central Estelí into the rougher barrios across the Pan American. Don't flash your camera. Walk down some dirt streets and follow the squawking. Hand twenty Córdobas to the bruisers posted at the door and step inside. On the left are wife-beater donning men crowding card tables, fists clinching crumpled Córdobas, a bottle or smoke in the other. Next the bar and fritanga, doing quick service distributing cervezas y enchiladas.

A scale with a dangling horn-shaped depository, constricting enough that a gallo slid inside can't fidget and disrupt it's weighing. Further back -- past the long urinal whose curtain cover can't contain the rank odor of stale piss; past the walls of crates stacked ceiling high, from which emanate clucking and such -- the ring. Very professional. A 20' X 15' egg shaped pen, constructed of heavy wooden posts and sturdy chain link fencing. A swinging door opens at one end, decorated with a Victoria beer poster. Plenty of long, fluorescent bulbs hang overhead, illuminating the pit.

Man swarm in the ring, encircling other men equipping each gallo with devastating weaponry, some jagged, bladed impaling piece affixed to one leg. The doctors of death carry leather wallets that unzip; unfolded, both inside flaps are fitted with a range of these puncturing attachments, carefully arranged and fitted in foam like drill bits. One is removed, fiddled with, replaced and another selected. A precise science of death.

All around there's hootin' and hollerin', bills changing hands. The gallos, one leg each fitted with implements of death, hit the ground, testing their new, improved leg. Once again they're swooped into the air, introduced to each other by the arms of their trainers, necking aggressively but pecking nothing but air.

The pen empties but for a few, and one of the remaining jingles his bell. The gallos are loosed, neck feathers fanning. They posture around on tiptoes then WHOOSH, the gallos merge into a blur of fury, feathers flying out, men inside the ring and out jostling for position, views constantly obscured as the in-ring judges circle, crouch and stand. Half the crowd is shouting, some joking and sipping Toña as bits of bloodied dirt decorate their clothing. There's a pause, a moment of distinction, then the gallos recombine, a fluttering, jumping mess.

Really, when one considers the way gallos battle, it's a pretty fucking cool way to fight. Always trying to kick your opponent in the face. I like that idea. Though I'd hope somebody aiming his boot at my brain wouldn't be intent on puncturing my jugular with a well-placed flash of a militarized ankle. There's the interactive spectating, dodging scattering bullets of blood. And education. The math in gambling. Even better, practicing probabilities calculating percentage changes a trainer contracts Salmonella, for the questionable hygiene in the preferred method of cleaning and refreshing a battered gallo between rounds -- sucking and licking their heads, spitting out the residue. There's nothing stranger than seeing a bloodied cocks head with those crazy, what-the-fuck's-going-on-Tyler-Hansbrough eyes completely disappear inside a human mouth.

There's also nothing so brutal as witnessing true to-the-death. When one gallo can neither stand nor flap its wings, only tilt its beak to try to deflect blows raining down. Then the head starts to bob, pecks to the top of its skull bouncing its chin off the bloodied dirt below. Eventually the head sags to the dirt, falling to the side.

Then the fritangera fires up the grill.

Dad, looking for supplemental income?

Chase and I sipped Flor de Caña (Cuatro años, de Oro) with soda water for a few hours at the hotel, gaps in our conversation filled with moans and yelps from the five rooms recently occupied by couples without luggage (see post below), before we walked to Estelí's Casino Las Vegas. We found a table and enjoyed a Toña, then Chase disappeared behind the door labeled baños. He came back from the bathroom and said there was a long line of beautiful Nicas waiting for their bathroom.

For some reason I was suddenly reminded of the time(s) some years ago I convinced the gullible and ripe to be disgusted that my family was filty rich, thanks to my dad's pioneering use of advancing technology. My dad, the Toiletcam mogul, broadcasting unsuspecting privates through cyberspace from heavily trafficked public restrooms he had infiltrated worldwide.

(To be clear, my dad -- while quite internet savvy and posted in front of a monitor more than most -- would never condone such activities or invasions of privacy, and is in all interpretations an honest, upstanding, moral and ethical citizen. His son, on the other hand, lives in that gray area.)

Auto Hotel Chepito

"¿Cuanto cuesta la noche?" inquired the female voice outside Hospedaje Chepito's doorway.

"Setenta por una, cien por dos," replied Yorlenis. Again.

Conferring whispers hissed outside, an intermission long enough that I had time to wonder what period of stay the voice had intended the first time it had asked prices. The door swung outward and a woman and man passed inside. I was concerned about what had happened to their luggage. Maybe they had been robbed too, the barrios aren't safe at night. At least he managed to defend his bike, I thought.

Chepito's rooms are situated along one long corridor, a line for hanging laundry running the center. You can hear people breathe through the walls.

Soon we heard panting and screaming. It didn't sound like they were reenacting the robbery I assumed had relieved them of all their belongings. Maybe there were ghosts because soon the two exited the room and the hotel, bike in tow.

At least for more couples stopped by late at night, all absent luggage. Soon the moans and groans and exultations emanated from their walls too. Yesterday morning, even at 7am, anyone sleeping "late" awoke to a woman receiving some sort of punishment she seemed to enjoy.

And somewhere in Estelí there's a skinny Nicaraguan on his bike, scooting around looking for a hooker to adorn his handlebars. As I'd say, Peddling for P...well, you play with alliteration.

Time for a Baho movement! (Nilbog)

Fresh off a banana-leaf-lined-hushpuppy-style-serving-basket heaped feast of Baho -- all that long-boiled to disintegration-soft spiced yuca, plantain, and tomato, hiding skewer-length hunks of fatty beef, topped with cabbage salad and a tomato and onion chili -- and coconut cake, it's time to relive a few weeks of, well, nothing.

My time in Estelí can be summed up in a few sentences. Situps (which make the bed creak loudly, convincing my neighbors through the unclosed-at-the-top walls, I'm sure, that I'm involved in another vigorous bout of morning masturbation), pushups and a run when I awake. Daily breakfast (gallo pinto, huevos y platanos maduros fritos, con crema, queso, y un cafecito) for C$25 at Super Las Segovias. Returning to Hospedaje Chepito to deposit a Frosty in the freshly-cleaned men's toilet closet (the consistency may or may not be related to my decision to save a few bucks by drinking tapwater). Internet. Short spanish study. Stroll to the public market to buy bags of tomatoes, mangos, or a melon, and every other day a liter of milk; the daily lunch rotation, for vitamins, you know? Maybe sip rum and play cards with the cool folks I met in the Hospedaje, Ryan and Sarah. More likely, flirt with the 19-year-old fritangera I'm currently half-linked with, which rewards me in more ways than just extra gallo pinto. Like Spanish practice. Or the semi-date to La Casita that cost a whopping $4 including cab fare, food and drinks. For dinner, always fritanga hopping -- though I finally tired of the nightly greasebath and took a break for as long as it took me to go through a jumbo bag of wheat bread's worth of peanut butter and banana sandwiches (a few meals).

Estelí being a world renowned hotbed of fabricas de puros -- the expansive tobacco farms expanding from the cityish center filling the twentysome factories with plenty of strong smelling harvests for their highly regarded products -- I toured a cigar factory. A week later my eyes are still watering from entering some of the rooms (barely) filled with tobacco. But I did smoke a fat stogie that was one of the "throw-outs". Not that I'd be able to appreciate the difference.

Semana Santa encompassed my week in Estelí, though it was much quieter than expected. There were a few processions of candle-bearing devotees leading crucified Christs through the streets, and a big church night or two, but I witnessed none of the alcohol-fueled fury I grew so accustomed to during Guatemalan ferias. More than anything, Semana Santa appeared a weeklong excuse to avoid work. With less teenage girls selling bootleg whatevers on the main drag, I had nobody to excite with a smile and "adios", so I adopted an adorable 9-year-old Nicaraguan, Milagros, as my honorary little sister. Her family was, in typical Central American fashion, exceedingly sweet, and because I was chatty and, especially, because I made quick friends with Milagros and her older brother and sister, Joseph and Karin -- lots of half-understood conversation, fistbumps and handslaps -- I was fed freshmade gallo pinto and bread, and then gifted a pair of fOakley's on my way out. Yep, I miss my little sister.

Finally, edging slightly closer to bored after a week of doing nothing, I hopped a bus to Matagalpa, another of the larger northern cities. It's much more city-looking than Estelí, with more of a packed urban grid than Estelí's one forever-long packed street, with Matagalpa's barrios spreading out of the center and climbing the surrounding mountains. I met a cute Nicaraguan lawyer who spoke some English, though her constant refrain of "Yeah" and headnodding whether I was telling a story or asking a question undermined her claims of understanding. Every breakfast I ate in one market comedor, where the handmade tortillas were the best I've had in Nicaragua, and the younger server-cook took advantage of the gringo presence to learn essential phrases in English, perfect for attracting extra clientele (i.e. "I hate you"; "You are fat"; "You are an idiot"; "You are boring"; "You are a hypocrite"; and "Eggs.") Daily for dinner I ate a few feet worth of fresh baked pan sencillo layered with honey and peanut butter (leftover from the Estelí binge), and four to five bananas sliced lengthwise.

And I enjoyed the fuck outta the tiny TV I splurged for, those $7.50/night nights. I was mezmerized by all sorts of terrible movies and softcore porn on Cinemax later at night. And I got to watch Troll II, one of the best worst B-horror-movies of all-time. And, get this, not just once. As soon as it ended on one channel, it started on another. Got my fill of Goblins, I did. Went to an organic coffee farm, Selva Negra, further up the mountains too, but that was rather uneventful. The brakeless, breakneck, hitchhiked truckbed mountain descent was exhilerating however. Matagalpa was also noteworthy for the mobile hot dog carts in the park, similar to those ringing parks across Nicaragua, plastered with painted icons who, previously, had managed to hide their hot dog addictions from the public. Spider Man swinging through, snaring a hot dog in his web. There's Winnie the Pooh hoisting a giant hot dog over his head, like some sort of trophy. Winnie's pork friend, Piglet, is noticably absent...or maybe not so absent.

After admiring the hot dog carts, especially the ones decorated by the inexplicable Nike checks, for a few days, I decided to take the watch-me-do-nothing show on the road. Next stop, Jinotega. A beautifully set valley city encircled by peaking mountains, significantly smaller than Estelí or Matagalpa, its Nicas exhibiting that same natural northern beauty. For people that must have something to do, there is a steep ascent to a peaktop cross posted hundreds of meters over the town, above the cemetary, certainly an essential mirador as the skies streak orange and pink and cloudy wisps slide from sight. (A 50/50 combination of sprinting and panting the upward struggle is recommended for those who wish to enhance the reward of Hotel Mendoza's Baho.)

The Managua Family and Philosophy on Animal Fighting

They might well have been a family as claimed. In retrospect, they had all the makings of a cult.

I'd smiled at Elizabeth a number of times during our 24-hour TicaBus transit from Panama City to Managua, Nicaragua; when we'd cross paths disembarked for yet another border crossing, or crashing down the aisle toward the busback bathroom -- solamente para orinar. It wasn't until the TicaBus station in Managua that we exchanged words, and a ten minute conversation in which I revealed I was undecided as to my next destination ushered an invitation to spend the night in Elizabeth's household of fluctauting family, minimum fifteen.

I was going to say no, and I really intended to do so, but delirious and motivationally sapped after twenty-four mostly sleepless hours, I was overwhelmed by the enthusiastic arrival of her escort party: mom, a sister and brother. Mom shuffled up and -- her head swiveling between me and Elizabeth like a speed-addled gore freak trapped between two concurrent crashes -- and implored nobody in particular, "Y es cristiano él?" Harm rarely results from lying, so I answered with an affimative nod.

They flashed judgment blinding smiles and grabbed at my hands and luggage like geriatrics grappling for a basket of free Viagra samples. We crammed into their Toyota model Hot Wheel and belched and bucked our way across town, Christian music blaring at an unbearable volume all the way.

Their house turned out to be a number of rooms attached to the family's church, where a sermon was in progress. The living quarters had one well air conditioned room into which everyone around crammed themselves, rocking in chairs, leaning against walls, splayed across the floor or atop the bed. Christian music pulsed at a decibel level that made conversation impossible and almost drove me to accept the existence of a deity merely for someone to supplicate for miraculous intervention. The hand of God twisting the volume knob. People came and went and sang for the glory of god. It was asked if I was baptized. Shortly thereafter it was declared I would accompany the family to a rural retreat the following week, Semana Santa. Everyone squeeled with glee at the prospect of baptizing me. I excused myself to the bucket shower, which might well have been holy water, and contemplated drowning myself...but I can't execute a handstand for long, so dunking my head in the bucket would've resulted in me toppling over onto the hard tile, suffering some debilitating injury that would have imprisoned me in these eager Christian hands for much, much longer. A combination of frustration and cranium-rattling from the bumping bass vibrated free a river of tears that ran so thick I could've passed on the shower if it weren't for the sticky salty skin feeling I'd have been left with.

Day turned into night and the godspeak raged on, tainting my gallo pinto and pollo frito. I'd informed the family, to the disappointment, that I'd be leaving for Estelí for a bout of womanizing the next morning. "Pero, por supuesto voy a regresar para la Semana Santa. Quiero que pase un sin fin de tiempo con Ustedes."

Once I arrived in Estelí I took the coward's route, sending a thank you email that outlined how, suddenly, circumstances had changed and that Semana Santa reunion, regrettably, would be impossible.

Now I'm back home, Hospedaje Chepito in Estelí, Nicaragua. The girls are still the sexiest I've encountered and liberal with their eyelash-batting and smile-flashing. I've reestablished my nightly fritanga routine, a sagging plate of gallo pinto, cabbage salad, tortilla and chili with a carnivore-pleasing portion of marinated pollo o cerdo. I caught a Estelí vs. Granada baseball game yesterday, and am hoping to experience another national pastime, cockfighting, within the week. Now, animal fighting seems cruel and heartless and morally vacuous until you consider what it really is: just like Gummi Bears battling in your fingers, the loser banished to your mouth, animal fighting is just two pieces of meat competing for the honor of feeding you, titillating your tastebuds, first.

Empathizing with T-Pain

Maybe it was for my newly purchased, much haggled over black-on-black Puma Fuegos. Maybe for the sleek suave Gap khakis Jackson had gifted me from his overstuffed travelsack that afternoon. Or maybe it's just because we're talking about Colombian and Panamanian putas, who thought they'd found my transmission, the lever to throw me into a crazy, wallet-emptying spasm. Either way, distracted by the browned bosoms swelling near eye level, one pair at each peripheral, I didn't notice the hands gravitating toward my crotch, nor did I visibly react when the strippers' each took their tug at my inseam. I smiled goofily and apologized for not being a walking stiffy of a 15-year-old. "Son increibles bonitas," I assured them again. "Es porque he tomado demasiado," I offered, hoping to convince them I wasn't a fluttering mariposa.

They shook their heads and walked off, joining their already sidelined, grumbling vagina-vending friends across the bar, disgusted that the gringos (who actually comprised the entire crowd in the club this lively Monday evening) were actually thrifty backpackers content to simply take in the scenery -- bouncing boobs and superior ass-jiggling -- with their cold Balboas. Shit, whether it's mountains or putas, Central America provides me plenty of landscapes rife with mountains and valleys.

I think it's a sign that some decency survives behind my eyes -- performing Superman see-through inspections on every passing female -- that I, initially, took to averting my gaze whenever one of these stripping beauties of indeterminate age would take to humping the floor or acquainting tongue with tit while staring me down, wielding the force of nudity to try to pry into my wallet. Or maybe it's just that I don't want to encourage additional harrasment for pricier private-room attention to my privates, well aware that cheapskate me rolled into this stripclub with just enough crumpled Washingtons to snag a cab back to the hostel.

Actually, that's about all that restrained me from breaking a once long ago -- and certainly not at that moment sex-deprived -- promise to myself: that I'd never patronize a puta. The pancake browned Panamanian goddess whose gyrations left us gapmouthed and drooling is still, days later, jabbing at my mind with those six-inch glass heels of regret.

La ciudad de Panamà, otherwise, is this. (Drug funded?) Highrises cut an impressive skyline along the water, but corrugated rust-stained roofing and color splashed brick and block edifices, or dreary monolithic projects festooned with colorful lines of clothing strung up to dry above the floor-cluttering garbage on every balcony, are the real city. Miles away, the canal slices through, an engineering marvel that underwhelmed because my imagination feasted upon an utter lack of nautical knowledge. Around every first world corner thrives the world I've come to love: streetfood; nameless cafeterias that serve plate-bending portions for less than $2; shifty eyes searching tourists too casual with their camera or purse; stale urine the streetlong incense; loud, loud, constantly DJ-interrupted music booming from every car and household and grocery store; people dodging through traffic; the cacophony of compulsive honking, so common throughout Central America that the sound of a horn literally signifies nothing.