The Tailor of Panama is a dialogue - driven movie, which brings to light some of the charming and not so attractive characteristics of Panama… depending on the perspective one takes in interpreting the conversations offered. This movie was not highly rated when it came out in 2001 as many were anticipating a high-action, James Bond type spy flick. But as someone who is presently living in Panama, there were several lines in the movie that struck a chord with me, that made me reflect on Panama as a culture. Seeing Panama in its days prior to the international “invasion” of multinational corporations and northern retirees made quite an impression as well.
The ones that resonated most:
“Nobody ever loses their reputation in Panama. They hang it in the wardrobe for a few months to get its shape back. When they put it on again, it's as good as new.”
- Forgive and forget. Is this having a short memory for bad situations and undesirable or even immoral character? Could it be that there is the belief that nothing will change, so why bother? Or, is it a true belief that people can change? Personally, I question how personal integrity and responsibility figure into the equation? I have yet to find out.
“Do you know what the poor call those? The Cocaine Towers.”
- Posh living and Money laundering is apparently a big thing here. Just 10 years ago the tallest building in Panama was the BBVA building that couldn’t be more than 20 stories high. Now there are skyscrapers going up everywhere. Although some boast that Panama is becoming the Miami of Latin America (never mind the current states of that city), there are still many locals who believe that that these monstrosities are being funded mainly by drug money. I’m just trying to figure out where the heck they are going to get enough people to fill all of the buildings once they are finished with construction. For goodness sake, there are only 3 million Panamanians. How many international retirees and expats will it take? No wonder the Panamanians are a bit leery of us outsiders.
“Their task was to beat the dignity out of anyone remotely critical of Noriega. It was Dr. Frankenstein, George Bush, who created this monster......when he was head of the CIA. And when Noriega's......drug running and brutality got too much even for the CIA......it was George, now President Bush, who decided to take him out. And just to make sure......they firebombed a big chunk of the old city. Sadly, that's where the anti-Noriega rebels were. The handful that Noriega hadn't banged up already. So, no more opposition, silent or otherwise. Burnt......scattered......fled. Or risen again from the ashes.”
- The US and foreign intervention: Let’s just say that the people of Panama have suffered, and this is not the only time in history that the US government has helped create monsters. Just recently I read that there are still 60 bodies from the time of the dictatorship that have not been identified because the government doesn’t have enough money to pay for the research and investigation it would take to do so. However, Panama can be proud of 20 some years of modern-day democracy.
“You're too soft, afraid they'll dislike you if you make them pay. It's tradition. Gentlemen like to keep their tailors waiting for the money. Gentlemen? Find me one.”
- Pay people for the work they do? Is it tradition to keep those who work for you waiting for their pay? This same behavior was apparent in another movie I recently viewed, called “Chance”, a Panamanian-Colombian movie. And, if you don’t pay a person, what kind of work can you expect? Will they work harder to receive the money they are owed, or will they work less and less effectively until they are paid? Coming from a culture that values hard work and payment for doing so, this behavior perplexes me.
“This girl in school told me mothers who work......feel guilty about their children. Why don't you?”
- Stay-at-Home Moms: I firmly believe that having my mom stay home with us when we were children was very beneficial for us. But, should a woman feel guilty about going to work and perhaps sacrifice her personal needs for mental stimulation, personal growth, and interaction with other adults? Should a woman’s goal in life be to marry and have children and NOT work outside of the house? Just throwing a few questions out there. I don’t have the answer. I’m not a mom, but I was a child and I am an adult.
“Well, I had absolutely no idea how delightful Panama was going to be. Yes. It's a beautiful country. I was thinking about the people.”
- Panama: Yes, it is a beautiful country. Yes, the people can be warm and welcoming. A very pleasant place to visit.
“You see, lying's what you do in prison, Lou. It's instead of love, really. You tell a thing the way it ought to be, because it's much better than how it is. If you follow me.”
- White lies: You don’t hurt anyone, do you? If you lie, you are saving me from the truth, which may hurt me. By not hurting me, you must be showing me how much you care. But, please, oh, please, would you just tell me what time you really expect to show up at my place to fix the air conditioner (insert any other item that could break)? And, please, please, tell me how much time you really think it will take to repair. And, please, don’t be so polite to not let me know that you never really knew what you were doing in the first place. I truly prefer honesty; no matter how much it may hurt me.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Late - What?
Several days a week I teach English to a lawyer at his office. The process to get into the building isn't complicated, but it does take some time, so I make sure I leave plenty of time before class to do the necessary steps - park, get my parking ticket from one person, sign in and give my ID to another, take the visitor pass from another, get my ticket stamped by yet another, etc, etc.
Today, I arrived about 10 minutes later than usual. Mind you, I wasn't late but had arrived later than is customary. So, as chit-chat with the man who takes my ID and gives me the visitor badge, I mentioned that I was "running late". His response was so simple, but in one instant and with a few modest phrases, he summed up an aspect of the culture I have been struggling with since our arrival. "Late - What? You have all day. It's only morning." He said it with such enthusiasm that I had to laugh. I knew this was part of the culture, but to hear it voiced in such a wonderfully positive way, made me realize that demanding chronometry in my life here in Panama, or trying to impose it on the lives of others who I come in contact with or need to work with will only lead me into further frustration.
Funny how happenstance can make such a large impact on one's sense of understanding of the world around him, right?
Today, I arrived about 10 minutes later than usual. Mind you, I wasn't late but had arrived later than is customary. So, as chit-chat with the man who takes my ID and gives me the visitor badge, I mentioned that I was "running late". His response was so simple, but in one instant and with a few modest phrases, he summed up an aspect of the culture I have been struggling with since our arrival. "Late - What? You have all day. It's only morning." He said it with such enthusiasm that I had to laugh. I knew this was part of the culture, but to hear it voiced in such a wonderfully positive way, made me realize that demanding chronometry in my life here in Panama, or trying to impose it on the lives of others who I come in contact with or need to work with will only lead me into further frustration.
Funny how happenstance can make such a large impact on one's sense of understanding of the world around him, right?
Monday, July 5, 2010
The Beauty of Hitting Rock Bottom
When I was a kid, my parents used to call me “Mugwump”, which inevitably morphed into “Mugmump” and got shortened to “Muggie” and “Mugs”. In fact, I didn’t know what my real name was until I was almost 4 years old. Anyway… My dad used to tell me that the name was a Native American word meaning “rebel”, and it fit my personality from Day 1. I’ve always been fiercely independent, testing the limits. But the difference between me and a true rebel is that I only resist out of stubbornness, not defy wholeheartedly. I’ve learned since then that the original meaning of “mugwump” is an Algonquin word meaning “war leader, chief, or important person”. And, believe me, I’ve been on the warpath lately. (By the way, mugwump later came to mean “fence-sitter” in the 1884 Presidential elections, and that definition, too, has had significance in my life in recent weeks.)
We have had problems with the apartment the entire time we have lived here. For 9 months now we have had a steady stream of workers coming in and out, almost on a daily basis from mid-September to May and a mere 1-2 times a week during the past 2 months. One handyman after another giving their opinions, giving assessments and quotes, fixing things that just break again, or they just never show up at all after I rearrange my day to make sure I’d be there to let them in. The waiting is killing me. I’ve been relegated to the simple role of sentinel – I guard the door and wait.
The problems have been endless: toilets that leak at the base, toilets that don’t flush, toilets that don’t stop running, pipes that aren’t connected to sinks, faucets that don’t work, crossed electrical wires that make ceiling fans in one room turn on while turning off the light in another and vice versa, the only electrical outlets in the room not working, A/C problems, a water heater that turns off when it feels like it – 4 or so times a day, and a leak from who-knows-where that streams down the wall, causing paint to peel off and ponds to form at its base …and last but not least, marble floors and shower walls that have exploded creating valleys and mountains and making for hazardous walking and precarious bathing conditions.
And, let’s not overlook the months that it took to get the contractually agreed upon security doors, alarm system, and curtains installed – all of which were supposed to be completed prior to our arrival. No, no, the owner didn’t do the negotiating, the hunt for the most reasonable prices, get a minimum of 3 quotes, or determine which workers would complete the work (a big problem here – work left undone). No, he didn’t have to wait for an alarm system to be installed, only to have to have it reinstalled because it was put in improperly. He didn’t have his belongings broken in the process. He didn’t have to schedule, reschedule, and re-reschedule an appointment with the people who installed the security doors because the handle was too loose to use. Not too secure, huh? Oh, and by the way, I’m still waiting for the owner to find someone to remove the former doors and window pane that still sit in our entry way. He won't let us do it because they have to be placed i his storage room. Yes, it’s been wearisome.
So we have had our parade of 8 plumbers, 7 marble workers, 5 electricians, 4 security door installers, 3 alarm system installers, and … I feel like I should be singing “The 12 Days of Christmas”, the handyman version. Many of these gentlemen (if I can use that term lightly) I have seen more than once, some as many as 7 times. God love them, I just really wish to never see any of them again.
And, in the midst of all this chaos has been Jose Amet. My husband has affectionately, though sarcastically, started calling him my best friend, since I see him more than anyone else here (at times, even more than my husband). Jose Amet is the intermediary between the owner, the handymen, and me. He’s a wonderful man with a good sense of humor with no power to make decisions, but he does a fabulous job of making sure the river of workers never runneth dry. (If the apartment owner ever reads this blog, I’d like him to know that Jose Amet works his tail off.)
Net, I feel like I’ve had to fight tooth and nail to get anything done. Letters, and calls, and more letters, and text messages, and more calls, and more letters. I tried to explain to my husband how useless, helpless, and unappreciated I have felt during this whole process. If my job is to run the household, then I have been a complete and utter failure. No one seems to care if they are making me wait, if they are wasting my time. I have come to realize that being a woman makes my opinions and my voice soft, useless. The cooing and consoling. The promises that work will be done. Oh, the many promises. It has consumed my time, and it has consumed me.
So, here I am, sitting on a fence between frustration and despair. (The 1884 definition of my nickname) American women never truly understand how good they have it until the balance of power is wiped away from them. I’m a married woman. My husband’s voice is the only one that really matters here. I finally had to break down and ask for help. Please call. Please send an email. Wouldn’t you know it – what took me 8 months to accomplish, he was able to achieve in 15 minutes. A more rapid response, I’ve never seen. And, to prove my point, the email he sent was written by yours truly.
When we decided to move here, I thought this would be a wonderful opportunity to reinvent myself, create a new identity. I thought it would be fun. Little did I know that my change in roles would mean feeling less important, feeling a loss in status, and produce such a lack of confidence.
Having to spend so much time in the apartment, waiting for people to show, meant that I was (and still am) missing out on networking opportunities, kindling friendships, and familiarizing myself with other aspects of life in Panama. Mental stimulation was limited to debating with a plumber who believed WD-40 could solve all our toilet problems. (Please, do you have some duct tape to go with that???) I started to feel alone, very, very alone. My independence had been compromised. I felt as if I no longer had control of the situation or my own life. The apartment ruled my every thought. I had become disconnected from everything that made me happy. And, for the first time in my life, I didn’t know how to create my own happiness.
My husband, not understanding the undercurrents of the situation, as I had not explained my feelings to him, also did not understand why the only topic I ever talked about was the apartment. The apartment had become my prison, not my refuge. All of this produced a deep sense of displacement and anxiety. I hit rock bottom.
But the beauty of hitting rock bottom is that the only place you can go is up.
I spoke to my husband about my feelings, something I had not done because I didn’t want to burden him. He already has so much to deal with, a high-stress job that requires frequent international travel. But, sharing my frustrations allowed me to clear my mind and air out my soul.
The very next day, my motivation returned. I have decided to withhold payment of our rent until we have tangible results. I have contacted a lawyer. And, I have started reestablishing my relationships.
Indeed, I am reinventing myself here in Panama. You see, there is always an opportunity for growth.
Mugwump is back!
We have had problems with the apartment the entire time we have lived here. For 9 months now we have had a steady stream of workers coming in and out, almost on a daily basis from mid-September to May and a mere 1-2 times a week during the past 2 months. One handyman after another giving their opinions, giving assessments and quotes, fixing things that just break again, or they just never show up at all after I rearrange my day to make sure I’d be there to let them in. The waiting is killing me. I’ve been relegated to the simple role of sentinel – I guard the door and wait.
The problems have been endless: toilets that leak at the base, toilets that don’t flush, toilets that don’t stop running, pipes that aren’t connected to sinks, faucets that don’t work, crossed electrical wires that make ceiling fans in one room turn on while turning off the light in another and vice versa, the only electrical outlets in the room not working, A/C problems, a water heater that turns off when it feels like it – 4 or so times a day, and a leak from who-knows-where that streams down the wall, causing paint to peel off and ponds to form at its base …and last but not least, marble floors and shower walls that have exploded creating valleys and mountains and making for hazardous walking and precarious bathing conditions.
And, let’s not overlook the months that it took to get the contractually agreed upon security doors, alarm system, and curtains installed – all of which were supposed to be completed prior to our arrival. No, no, the owner didn’t do the negotiating, the hunt for the most reasonable prices, get a minimum of 3 quotes, or determine which workers would complete the work (a big problem here – work left undone). No, he didn’t have to wait for an alarm system to be installed, only to have to have it reinstalled because it was put in improperly. He didn’t have his belongings broken in the process. He didn’t have to schedule, reschedule, and re-reschedule an appointment with the people who installed the security doors because the handle was too loose to use. Not too secure, huh? Oh, and by the way, I’m still waiting for the owner to find someone to remove the former doors and window pane that still sit in our entry way. He won't let us do it because they have to be placed i his storage room. Yes, it’s been wearisome.
So we have had our parade of 8 plumbers, 7 marble workers, 5 electricians, 4 security door installers, 3 alarm system installers, and … I feel like I should be singing “The 12 Days of Christmas”, the handyman version. Many of these gentlemen (if I can use that term lightly) I have seen more than once, some as many as 7 times. God love them, I just really wish to never see any of them again.
And, in the midst of all this chaos has been Jose Amet. My husband has affectionately, though sarcastically, started calling him my best friend, since I see him more than anyone else here (at times, even more than my husband). Jose Amet is the intermediary between the owner, the handymen, and me. He’s a wonderful man with a good sense of humor with no power to make decisions, but he does a fabulous job of making sure the river of workers never runneth dry. (If the apartment owner ever reads this blog, I’d like him to know that Jose Amet works his tail off.)
Net, I feel like I’ve had to fight tooth and nail to get anything done. Letters, and calls, and more letters, and text messages, and more calls, and more letters. I tried to explain to my husband how useless, helpless, and unappreciated I have felt during this whole process. If my job is to run the household, then I have been a complete and utter failure. No one seems to care if they are making me wait, if they are wasting my time. I have come to realize that being a woman makes my opinions and my voice soft, useless. The cooing and consoling. The promises that work will be done. Oh, the many promises. It has consumed my time, and it has consumed me.
So, here I am, sitting on a fence between frustration and despair. (The 1884 definition of my nickname) American women never truly understand how good they have it until the balance of power is wiped away from them. I’m a married woman. My husband’s voice is the only one that really matters here. I finally had to break down and ask for help. Please call. Please send an email. Wouldn’t you know it – what took me 8 months to accomplish, he was able to achieve in 15 minutes. A more rapid response, I’ve never seen. And, to prove my point, the email he sent was written by yours truly.
When we decided to move here, I thought this would be a wonderful opportunity to reinvent myself, create a new identity. I thought it would be fun. Little did I know that my change in roles would mean feeling less important, feeling a loss in status, and produce such a lack of confidence.
Having to spend so much time in the apartment, waiting for people to show, meant that I was (and still am) missing out on networking opportunities, kindling friendships, and familiarizing myself with other aspects of life in Panama. Mental stimulation was limited to debating with a plumber who believed WD-40 could solve all our toilet problems. (Please, do you have some duct tape to go with that???) I started to feel alone, very, very alone. My independence had been compromised. I felt as if I no longer had control of the situation or my own life. The apartment ruled my every thought. I had become disconnected from everything that made me happy. And, for the first time in my life, I didn’t know how to create my own happiness.
My husband, not understanding the undercurrents of the situation, as I had not explained my feelings to him, also did not understand why the only topic I ever talked about was the apartment. The apartment had become my prison, not my refuge. All of this produced a deep sense of displacement and anxiety. I hit rock bottom.
But the beauty of hitting rock bottom is that the only place you can go is up.
I spoke to my husband about my feelings, something I had not done because I didn’t want to burden him. He already has so much to deal with, a high-stress job that requires frequent international travel. But, sharing my frustrations allowed me to clear my mind and air out my soul.
The very next day, my motivation returned. I have decided to withhold payment of our rent until we have tangible results. I have contacted a lawyer. And, I have started reestablishing my relationships.
Indeed, I am reinventing myself here in Panama. You see, there is always an opportunity for growth.
Mugwump is back!
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