Melting Pot of the Americas
travels through Panama

Striding along Avenida Balboa, towards the crumbling stonework of the old town, my back was to the tall concrete-and-glass fingers of what the locals call ‘Manhattan.’ These skyscrapers represent the new money of Panama City and, amongst the inhabitants of the barrios (neighbourhoods), the rumour is rife that many are the property of Colombian drug cartels.
Within ten minutes I had passed from ‘Manhattan’ into what appeared to be a dog-eared version of New Orleans: peeling paintwork, twisted wrought-iron balconies draped with greenery, and the rusted tracks of trams that used to cruise the quarter in finer days.
Many of the houses in Casco Viejo are condemned and the barrio is now home to a diverse ‘squatter community.’ West Indians, Cubans, Chinese and Mestizos (of mixed Indian and Spanish origin) alike are content to risk the tumbling brickwork for rent-free accommodation.
The barrio is now under the protection of UNESCO, and ‘The Casco Viejo Restoration Project’ has been slowly but surely making the old buildings fit for habitation. The official line is that: ‘this will be accomplished by getting the current occupants of the area involved in the creation of centres for diverse uses that will meet their needs without hurting the environment and the value of our cultural patrimony.’
Only time will tell who will really benefit from the restoration.
Just beyond Plaza Santa Ana, I entered a narrow alleyway and struggled to push my way through a scrimmage of salesmen, sailors and prostitutes. This is the aptly named Calle Sal Si Puedes, ‘Get Out if You Can Street,’ and it has a reputation as a risky place to be when darkness falls. The upper and middle classes - mostly Criollos (proud of their Spanish descent), wealthy Jewish businessmen and American expats (living on guarded estates from which Panamanians are barred) - do not often enter the Casco Viejo.
Panama has often been called the ‘Melting Pot of the Americas,’ but it was once whispered about in pirate dens from Aruba to Tortuga as ‘The Cup of Gold.’
In the 16th century, Panama City was the counting house of Spain, with gold passing through regularly from the conquered lands of the Incas. Nuñez de Balboa was the first European to cross the isthmus in 1513 and, arriving at the only stretch of coastline in Latin America that faces south, he made the second greatest geographical mistake of all time (after Columbus’s discovery of the ‘West Indies’). In full regalia, Balboa marched into the ocean and claimed the ‘South Sea’ for the Spanish crown. In fairness it was an easy mistake to make since in some parts Panama twists back on itself to such an extent that it is possible to reach the Pacific Coast from the Caribbean by travelling due east.
A hundred and fifty years later, the Welsh pirate, Captain Morgan (who lives on today in the hearts of many of us as the inspiration for a certain brand of rum), crossed the isthmus and plundered ‘The Cup of Gold.’ Legend has it that he led his men into the city in true buccaneer style, singing ‘There’ll be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight.’
In 1883, almost four centuries after the idea was first conceived, the French started carving a canal through the fifty miles of the isthmus. It took them twenty years to excavate just over ten miles, before the jungle, the mosquitoes and the balance sheets forced them to give up. By backing the Panamanian struggle for independence from Colombia, the US secured the right to buy up the French concession for US$40 million and the ‘Eighth Wonder of the World’ was opened in 1914. At today’s passage fees, that original ‘down-payment’ is equalled in an average month.
Richard Halliburton swam the canal in 1926 and, after his displacement tonnage was calculated, he was charged (some would say by overly pedantic accountants) a fee of 36 cents. But with a single vessel paying as much as US$120,000, it’s no wonder that Panama was looking forward to taking hold of the reins for itself in 2000.
The sun was rapidly dropping into the Pacific by the time I reached French Park, the furthest point of Casco Viejo. Back in ‘Manhattan’ the casinos and cabarets would be coming to life in the nightly transformation into ‘Las Vegas,’ by which the new town is alternatively known.
To the north, the web-like structure of the Bridge of the Americas glowed like neon in the crimson sky. The tarmac serpent of the Pan-American Highway crosses this bridge during its almost unbroken run down the spine of the American continents. Almost unbroken because a 150 miles to the south of Panama City it stutters to a halt at the legendary Darien Gap. No great master plan was involved in the huge engineering feat of linking Fairbanks, Alaska, by almost ten thousand miles of asphalt, with the anticlimactic Choco Indian town of Yaviza, in the Darien region of Southern Panama.
Panamanians call the region el Tapón,the stopper. At Yaviza, the jungle once again bars its doors to progress.
In one way the Darien Gap should be viewed as less of a barricade and more of a bridge. For millions of years it has, in fact, been the land bridge for the distribution of the species between the two American hemispheres.
In ecological geek-speak, Darien has been described as ‘a motherlode of ecodiversity, emanating bio waves north and south.’ To the adventurous traveller it is rated simply as one of the greatest (and most easily accessible) jungle expeditions on the planet. There are still no transport links crossing ‘The Gap’ and travel between Panama and Colombia takes up to a week by foot and canoe. The trail is well travelled and guides are reasonably forthcoming (and experienced) but there are frequent reports of robberies, and even raids on Indian villages, by Colombian bandits.
At a point where the winds and weather cycles of two great oceans and two radically different landmasses meet, in a zone which is scarred by a history of intense geological activity and human conflict, Panama was always destined to be the ‘Melting Pot of the Americas.’

The End