My Panama Life

Help Your Expat Kids Thrive!

2015-01-22T07:10:00.004-07:00

Thinking about moving overseas with kids? Your children can thrive in new & unfamiliar surroundings. Mine did.

I wrote this book in response to questions from parents. Its hero is my youngest son William, who faced the hurdles of blending & growing in rural Central America with bravery, tenacity & style.

When we arrived in 2008, my son was only half way through the 3rd grade. Today, he has successfully finished 10th, & he moves easily between the two cultures & languages he embraces.

It wasn't a cakewalk. Not by a long shot.
But, was it worth it?
Yes. Yes. Yes. And you can do it too!

Read the first few chapters, FREE. You do not need a Kindle for these.

Read Reviews.

The Two Year School Itch -- Here We Go ... Again?

2015-01-08T11:41:00.000-07:00

William, 3rd from left, on his 16th birthday with friends.

In my Panama life, change happens in twos. School that is. Just as I think we are gliding on a smooth ramp heading toward the end of high school, two years off, Bam! Change. Every two years, without fail.

We bumpity-bumped our way through the fifth grade and then sailed through sixth, both at Instituto Guadalupano. When seventh grade rolled in, William wanted a change, so, after the first trimester, he announced he wanted to give full-time homeschooling a try. I had strong suspicions that this would not be the best plan for him, but I agreed to give it a good "go."

Yippiee! ... not! While I love to teach and love the challenge of putting classes together, this came, frankly, at a rotten time. We had just -- and I mean just -- opened up our restaurant and were working at a frantic pace to build it up. Still, I figured I could school my son form 8am till noon, and then work the restaurant.

I spent copious hours carefully piecing together a plan for finishing up seventh grade. I purchased courses in Monarch, a division of Alpha Omega/Switched On Schoolhouse, out of Canada, because this was their program that was live-streamed and offered interactive testing and immediate results. Perfect for the active, kinesthetic learner! William could study geography and history and science, and even some English in this way, online. There were also supplements I either purchased or designed with hands-on activities and reading. I had Saxon Math, and Khan Academy for math back up and also for some art history. Plus, I had outlined detailed scheduled, beautifully color-coded, to keep us on a good track.

All this look perfect, as they say, on paper. But not so much when the real live kid came into the scene. It just went to hell in a hand basket, and in a heartbeat. William is highly social and it was obvious he missed the camaraderie of the classroom experience. I figured that one out the day I came home and, entering our gate, dressed in white, I was completely startled right out of my high heels by an unexpected downpour of water from above. On my head. And my white clothing.

I looked up and there, on the roof, grinning down at me with a mixture of fear and glee, was my own little Tom Sawyer ... and an empty bucket where the water had been.
I got it.
He was bored.

So the next morning, early, I packed him up in a mini fury ( he was in blue jeans, not a uniform, which is standard here) and dropped him off at the closest school, a sweet evangelical school just blocks from both the house and the restaurant.

We are not evangelicals, but I figured that this was the least of my worries. My son grumbled as he entered, announcing he would of course "hate" it and would not stay, to which I responded with "I'll see you at 2 pm. And behave! You represent your family! Oh, and just don't come out Homophobic!"

When I pulled up at the end of the school day, I was met with a grinning preteen. "Mom, I love the kids here and I know most of them anyway ... and... I need to get my uniform!"

And there he remained for a full two years at Colegio El Buen Pastor school (a.k.a The God Squad School) right through the eighth grade. He also learned a bit of saxophone from an outstanding musical teacher we supported. Plus.. there was no bullying, well, at least not from the kids! After all, they have to behave like Jesus. And for the most part, they really did. So it was both a good choice and also... a blessing.

On the one morning a week, when prayers that involved "laying on of hands" took place, I just kept my son home, with no fight from the excellent director. I never had to explain why.

After eighth grade, and as the high school years approached, it became clear that my son, now fully bilingual (in a rural Panama farming town way), was going to need to beef up his English. By this year, the fairly newish international school, Academia Internacional Boquete (AIB) had added upper grades and I reasoned they'd had some time to iron out the wrinkles of newness, so we enrolled him for the ninth grade.

Just recently, in December, 2014, he graduated in good standing from the tenth grade. I was absolutely delighted by the English teacher he had this year and hoped she would be staying on. And I hoped also that my son would feel completely settled at school.

Too much hoping going on! Alas, the two year curse is upon us, once again! For reasons that have little to do with the school, my son recently expressed serious interest in returning to the USA to finish out his remaining two years of high school.

He is hoping for more organized sports of his choice and I suspect missing family connections, old friends, and feeling a need for more than what a rural town has to offer a young man heading toward adulthood. Part of this was expected: teens and small towns don't always mix well. And of course the desire for change is partly due to personality and his particular interests. Finally, it does factor in that in seven years in Panama, my son has collectively spent only about seven weeks in the USA. He is simply ready for a change.

So, like a good dance partner, I am ready to spin either way. Neither my son's dad nor I wish to live in the USA for now, having fully adapted ourselves to the gentle pace of Boquete life. But we will work it out.

Years ago, the news of another big change would have sent me into a crazed, mommy tail spin. Today, I take it with a grain of salt, knowing that nothing stays the same, accepting there is only so much I can control. And I trust that if I wait and pray and have enough faith that eventually all things come right, there will be a practical solution.

So, what's next? Who knows? More adventure...

My Panama Park Whore?

2013-07-12T22:46:00.000-06:00

“Parkour” is supposedly a discipline that grew out of military obstacle course training, but which has developed into a new and dangerous loose sport of free running and building jumping.

Just check out any Youtube channel and you’ll see hyper energetic kids, such as my nearly 15 year old, engaged in mind-boggling and dangerous Parkour.

So tonight, he and his buddy fairly burst into the restauant, breathless with excitement and news.My kid lifts up his Tee Shirt to reveal a new wound on his side exclaims:

“Mom! Look what Parkour gave me!”

I glance down and see a not too serious rash-like thing that looks, oddly, more like a large hickey.

And of course, all my Mom ears had heard was:

“Look what that Park Whore did to me!”

I was up on my feet faster than you can swat a fly.

And then, all of us, my son, his friend, the customer I’d been sitting with and I, laughed so hard at the language confusion until we nearly cried.

But hey, just to be safe... Watch out for those Park Whores, I say.

My Ongoing Panama School Saga

2013-05-23T10:05:00.005-06:00

The ongoing saga of how to educate my expat kid in Boquete, continues. Ugh.
I try to remain fluid on this issue, but today, having now shot past five years with this dilemna, I just feel like a good whine. Or, in keeping with the "fluid" theme... a good Wine.

So much about education is driven not only by the school systems here, (mediocre at best,) which are for the most part antiquated, old school, copy-from-the-board, rigid rote learning before exams, followed by forget it all tomorrow, but also by the type of child you have.

In the best of the school, there are classrooms that are utterly chaotic and teachers who scream at the top of their lungs. Sometimes they make the children cry.

In one of the schools we were previously involved with, I have heard credible accounts from parents and students alike of older teachers actually bullying middle school students. And I have heard believable accounts of teachers logging onto Facebook during class, or being entirely absent from the classroom for hours.

For the moment, the jury is out on the newer school we are trying. I believe the have a true vision of bringing something new, more creative and expansive in the way of educatin to the Panama school system. So far, I do see improvements over issues we have experienced before, but they too suffer from some very strong challenges. The trouble is, I'm running out of time. My kid was in 3rd grade when we arrived; now he has officially hit high school, and he has to be prepared to enter a decent University in four or five years.

God did not send me a timid girl content to sit in a corner and read for hours, or create her own fabulous journals and turn in meticulously carried out homework assignments. Nope. God sent me a fantastic, fidgety, fast-moving, fast-thinking, fun, fiesty and incredibly charming boy -- now a young man -- who has claimed, over a period of five years, to have nary a home work assignment. Meanwhile, the schools have claimed he has had homework nearly every single day. Go to that math!

And still the kid gets decent grades, which causes me to wonder: Is this ability to get by using the least amount of energy a sign of early genious? Or am I seeing glimpses of a future, slick, super smart bilingual, border hustler. Hmmm.

Oh! And did I mention? During one night, several months ago, someone, maybe my higher power, pressed the "Automatic Download" button and apparently a program (I'm calling it Gene14to the 10th power) streamed directly into my child's brain. In case you are not yet familiar, this is the gene that ignites, around age 14, and turns your previously sweet, loving, considerate, fun, thoughtful boy into a suddenly a sleep-till-noon, sometimes snarky, teenager.

And still, I love him more than air and water. What can I say?

Meantime, he is now enrolled in the 9th grade in the the newer private school which claims to have the best curriculum, and truly has a vision, (but which has mandated personal computers/laptops -- a personal hell, if I'm being honest), and which, despite a few positive changes, seems to offer little difference in teaching style and is navigating some common but difficult challenges particular to so-called bilingual education. Many teachers are wrestling with the super struggles of having class with some fully bilingual students, but also many students many in serious need of the most basic ESL. Other teachers are trying to manage really chaotic classrooms, leaving little time for real learning and a wake of frustration.

An easy solution for me would be to supplement at home, right? And I know families who do this and for whom it just fills in the right pieces. Alas,, not so easy with a kid who is burnt after 7 hours of sitting still-ish and now chomping at the bit to get on top of a soccer ball. Switching to homeschooling could be a solution but, the last time I tried that, full steam, it was a month of three hours of head butting, eventually getting things done, and then my kid was ready to play with a group. Trouble is, the "group" were all at school!

Alas, I find myself, still, sitting most uncomfortably on a big fence. Which begs the question: What next? To be continued...

My (Former) Panama Restaurant

2011-10-28T07:15:00.025-06:00

For three and a half years, from March 31, 2011 until August 15, 2014, my then husband and I owned a restaurant in Panama. We started with a whole lot of ugly, to wit: horrible blue and yellow fast-food style picnic tables with fixed, metal seats. Ouch. No artwork, no outdoor seating, and a tacky, reflex blue sign that came out all wrong. It took so long to get all our approvals that we nearly closed our doors before we opened them. We worked 20 hours a day, 7 days a week for the first year, at least. Larry built a rustic porch and bar out back which became the popular spot to hang out and drink margaritas, enjoy fresh fish tacos, and watch the chickens hunt and peck.

Larry is a genius in the restaurant business and he knew super fresh fish would sell. But that was a double-edged sword; he was saddled with with the unbelievably difficult task of obtaining -- on nearly a daily basis-- fresh, whole ocean fish, straight off the boats (hours away from our mountain village) and and personally portioning out hundreds of pounds of the stuff himself. While we were never a good match in our matrimonial life, in business our skills sets made a perfect marriage. Larry did the fish, all pricing and portions and training of kitchen staff. I painted the walls and ceiling and even some of the artwork, I typeset all the menus, handled all internet marketing, and trained all wait staff. We were just both good at our jobs and the division of labor was a good flow.

I used to pull folks off the street and seduce them with my sexy food talk. And at first, and for a long time, I prayed to achieve an average of 30 guests at the end of both lunch and dinner shifts, combined. We began with the six ugly tables, one waitress and two kitchen helpers. We ended with eight loyal employees and regular service for between 100-150 guests daily, off season, and between 200 and 250 per day in season. We were usually ranked number 2 of 53 restaurants, and that behind the number 1 spot, a fine bakery and not our competition. We were written up in both the Panama Moon Guide and The Lonely Planet with high compliments. The restaurant became a sort of "Cheers" for Boquete's classiest, fun people, a great core local following. But much of our business came from Panamanians and travelers.

My life, and all the adventure and drama that comes with running a restaurant, happened at Big Daddy's Grill, Boquete. I could not blog about the hilarious and perilous events that occurred during those three-plus years. But now I can... And I have some tales!

Coming soon, My Panama Restaurant Chronicles. Meantime, below is the original post used for advertising purposes, before Facebook & Trip Advisor became the go-to sites. Big Daddy's has, after just days, taken on a new feel, look and will grow with the new owner. Best to them!

Home of Boquete's Original,
Grilled Fish Taco

Fish so Fresh, it was swimming yesterday!
Best Hand-Crafted Margarita
Outrageously Good Buffalo Wings
A Delicious Selection of Grill Items

Double-Washed, Daily-Picked, Organic Salad
Vegetarian /Vegan Options
Gluten-Free Options

A Food-Safety Conscious Establishment
Home-Made, Fresh Local Ingredients
Prompt, Friendly Service
Outdoor Seating in our Garden Patio
PRICES: $2 - $8.95
(Whole, Fried Corvina at Market Price. Filet Mignon Dinner, $13.95)

CASH ONLY. No checks, no credit cards.

OPERATING HOURS:
NOON - 9 pm Tuesday- Saturday
NOON - 8 pm Sunday
CLOSED MONDAY

Questions re: Jubilado/Pensionado Restaurant Discounts? Click: www.mypanamalife.com

Grilled Fish Tacos

BEST MARGARITAS IN BOQUETE!

Mr. & Mrs. Big Daddy, William, 2011. (Missing Dylan.)

Mimi's Whole Corvina w/Patacones & Slaw

Ronni's favorite Chcken over Salad, Strawberry Dressing

Grilled Fresh Dorado/Mani over Salad,Lemon Dressing

Informal, festive, inside dining area.

Filet Mignon Tacos, Monterrey Jack, Fresh Salsa Verde

Grilled Amberjack on Hydroponic Salad

Made with "LOVE & BUTTER" from Elizabeth's kitchen

Fish Tacos w/Hand-Dipped Rings, Avacado-Chipotle + Fruity Pico de Gallo

Grilled, Blackened Tuna Filet Sandwich (L)..Cheeseburger (R) + Rings

One-Day Special. Fresh Grilled Tuna Filet Salad atop Organic Salad

Home-Made Citrus Ice Cream w/Fresh Strawberry Mandarin Topping

Dayra, Jim Omer, Gisela & One 3-lb. Corvina!

Jim, Boquete Outdoor Adventure. Numero Uno Fish Eater!

Shrimp Tacos, Double Slaw

"DOUBLE DOG" HAND-DIPPED CORN DOGS + BY-HAND ONION RINGS

Big Daddy's Grill, Boquete, purchases it's fish directly from the boats of Boca Chica, Pedregal. Never purchased frozen or pre-cut ... never farm-raised.

Depending on the catch, varieties include: Tuna; Snook; Amberjack; Swordfish; Dorado; Corvina; Pargo; Shrimp & more.

Fish is served GRILLED or FRIED, as a Sandwich on a Bakery Bun; atop a large, organic Salad, or as a Platter... with a choice of fresh sides. We've been told by people who seek them out that our Grilled Fish Tacos are some of the tastiest! Sandwiches (Fish; Chicken Breast; Vegan) are ample & served on a bakery bun. For something Very Panamanian, try the Whole Fish "Entero" ...
Our Fried Chicken is juicy and cooked to perfection! Corn Dogs & Onion Rings are hand-dipped. It's been said by many that Big Daddy's Grill has the Best Burger in town, served with a side of Pickles, LTM plus Cole Slaw, Fries or Rice & Beans. Our Grilled & Blackened Tuna Sandwich has become a local favorite. Portions are ample so you never leave hungry!

FOR THE CONSCIOUS EATER
Whether you are Gluten Free, Vegan, Vegetarian or just a Healthy eater, we have several options for those who don't want to sacrifice taste for freshness! Our large Salad Platters are Organic, Hydroponic & Double-Washed & SAFE. Home-made dressings include Strawberry or Olive-Lime. Vegetarians can fill up on Salads, Delicious Vege Tacos or our own, Home-Made, Vegan Burger.

Citrus Ice Cream is Home-Made, just for Big Daddy's, fresh, light & topped w/Elizabeth's Strawberry Sauce.

Big Daddy's is known for it's hand-crafted MARGARITA prepared with our own Home Made Sour Mix & Premium Liquors, including Cointreau & Jose Cuervo Tequila!

Dine in the peaceful setting of a Panamanian non-smoking "Patio" (a.k.a. the Secret Garden), in our casual dining room, or, for a busy street side view, out on the front porch.

PHOTO GALLERY

Elizabeth's Hand-Pulled Chowder, Personal Loaf Bakery Bread

Vegan Burgers on Bakery Bun (hidden), Black Beans & Rice

Chayote Soup w/Saffron, Lemon Grass & Secret Spices

Chris & Lindsey on her Birthday

WHOLE, FRIED CORVINA WITH PATACONES

TENDER "PINKS" ATOP ORGANIC SALAD, PEACH ICED TEA

BRENDA, MARK AND GUESTS

Rodrigo w/our Kitchen Staff & Me. He grows all our Hydroponic Salads!

THE SALAD GURU GIVES OUR KITCHEN A CLASS ON HYDROPONICS

HOT STAFF, ODALYS VERONICA & BELKIS

Restaurant Chronicle 1. My Panama Porn Dogs

2011-05-04T09:13:00.003-06:00

Yes, dear reader, I said "Porn Dogs." So send the kiddies out for ice cream. This one's for you.

We have a small restaurant in Panama and one of our most popular menu items are our hand-dipped Corn Dogs on a stick. We figured that since Panamanians love "meat on a stick" and also corn meal, Corn Dogs just seemed a natural way to go.

It's fun to watch people eat a Corn Dog for the very first time. It turns out, there is more than one way to down a dog.

Some folks will slide the whole thing off the stick and eat it daintily with a knife and fork, the way they'd tackle, say, a chicken breast. Others cut it up into little bits or chunks. Then there are those who turn it on its side, holding it by the stick, and nibble away, Corn-on-the-Cob style. And the there's the X-rated way of attacking a corn dog.

I have a regular customer who loves our "Double Dog" basket. He's an elegant, older gentleman, but when he's in front of those two puppies, he exclaims, every time and with each bite "Wow! Elizabeth... Tell Larry this is one good corn dog!"

I always sit with him when he come is, partly because he's elderly and alone and I adore him. . But also because I'm afraid he's going to kill himself in the process. Every bite he takes becomes a brain-bleeding, nerve wracking moment because of the way he eats those pups.
.
Rather than practice "safe" eating methods, he holds the thing by the stick and then just descends, plunges actually, straight down on it in what I can only describe as 'deep throating the dog'... or what I now refer to fondly as eating it "Porn Dog" style.

The visuals aside, the bigger problem is that every time he goes down on that dog, he exposes more and more of the stick. But instead of sliding the remaining food upwards, he just continues shoving that dog straight down his gullet, -- stick and all -- until I truly fear he is going to stab himself in the uvula.

One day, sitting at the next table, a gentleman, also with a Double Dog basket, called me over to say he hadn't realized the Corn Dogs had "bread" on them and he was on a low-carb diet, so could I please take them away and cut off the coating for him? Okay people. I do aim to please my customers. But I couldn't help notice that he was closer in age to sixty than to ten, and, wondering for a teensy weensy second if he was next going to ask me to cut up his food in pieces for him, I was tempted, just for a teensy, weensy, split instant, to just deep throat those puppies and yank off that bread with my teeth.

Instead, I smiled, stepped away, and happily, gently, even tenderly removed the corn meal with a knife and fork. Very respectable.

My Panama Life At My Doorstep

2011-04-20T06:23:00.001-06:00

My Panama Life happens right outside my front door.

The Balboa Beer Truck

The Taylors Drive By, Christmas, 2010

A Bird In Hand

Band Practice, Buen Pastor School

Miguel, the Fish Guy

Katy in the Middle

Graduation Day, on to Middle School!

G' Night, Horse.

Braces. My Panama Impulse Purchase.

2011-01-05T16:33:00.004-07:00

Okay, I've never actually gotten plastered on naked, upside-down Margaritas and woken up with a tattoo. But yesterday I'm pretty sure I topped myself on impulse purchases.
I got braces.
Just ... like ... that.

I had accompanied William on his usual once-a-month orthodontia appointment from Dr. Spiegel, one of three in David, but the only Dr. Speigel who visits Boquete. As we were leaving, William mentioned that my front tooth, crooked and jutting out since childhood, was on a new and visible course all it's own.

Yes, I had actually noticed last week in a photo that suddenly it looked like I was growing a fork out of my front lips… or a tiny, pointy weapon.

As if it isn’t bad enough that a quick glance at my elbows reminds me that I look more like my kid’s grandmother than the sassy mom of a twelve year old; Oh boy! Now I get to battle a snaggletooth?

The thing I love about orthodontia in Boquete is the no-pretense, no-frills style. William had initially come in with a $10 X-ray in hand, and not the 3-D Panoramic landscape you get in the states that when they upload and projected it into a state-of-the-art software program, you can hardly capture the landscape of your kid's mouth without using special eyeglasses just to view it. Plus, in the USA, our orthodontist has an office with a special Game Room so the children could be thoroughly entertained instead of having to endure, well... waiting! Plus we got pamphlets and special holiday emails. And long explanations of why with was going to cost $3,000 for Phase One. And another three grand for Phase Two.

Nope. Here in Boquete all we turned up with ws a $10 X-ray. And that's not all.

So the doctor takes the X-ray, snaps a quick photo of the X-ray with his own camera, uploads it onto his laptop and... Voila! William's jutting overbite is there, in all it's two-dimensional glory. A half hour later William emerged with braces. One reasonable down-payment, monthly check-ups at $50 a pop and after only six months, William's extreme overbite and receding chin were so transformed his case was discussed at the latest convention in Acapulco.

So, yesterday, as we were finishing up a regular check-up, William innocently but honestly mentioned, as nicely as he could, that from the my profile view, I was "beginning to look like, well, Mom... Okay, don't take this personally Mom....but you look a little like a rat… but don't worry Mom. It's only from the side. Sorry!”

The orthodontist casually suggested he "take a look," no appointment necessary. So on a whim, or maybe because I really don't want to resemble a Rat!... I said “Okay, but do I need fancy X-rays and stuff?” To this he quickly whipped out his camera and 20 minutes later, no kidding, 20 minutes later, with William pinch hitting as the doctor’s assistant, in Spanish, I walked out with a set of front braces. Purple, of course, because purple goes with my skin tone.

By the time I got home and stared in minor horror as I bared my teeth in the mirror, it dawned on me what I had taken on. And it was a done deal. This must be what it's like to wake up in your twenties, after a wild night during spring break, to discover you have a Yin Yang symbol tattooed on your lower back that maybe you didn’t think all the way through?

Okay. I actually don’t have a tattoo. But on a whim, I do now have braces. Wrinkly elbows, low estrogen, and purple braces. I'll probably be sixty when they come off. Or dead.

There you go!

Another Panama Parade

2011-01-02T14:15:00.002-07:00

I heard that between ten and twenty thousand people came to downtown Boquete for the November 28 independence day parade. When I dropped William off in the park, it was 7:00 a.m..
The parading began at 8:00-ish and lasted close to15 hours -- without a break. Just this endless, flowing and flamboyant, sixteen-hour long caterpillar.

Folks show up by bus loads, on bikes, in cars and on foot. The come early, wedging their cars where they can, changing clothing while crouched behind an open car door, or at the river's edge.

Ngobe people, perched on a hillside by the main road.

Most local schools participate, this being William's class.

I got a "thumbs up!"


One of dozens of parading groups.

Graduation Day, Panama

2010-12-20T20:28:00.002-07:00

At the Instituto Guadalupano, being graduated from Kindergarten and the Sixth Grade are considered important milestones, acknowledged by an elaborate "recognition" ceremony, including gifts and a special mass later in the week. Our little dude is the only "gringo" in the group... alas. Ditto, as far as I could tell, during our 15 hour, non-stop Independence Day Parade, where William marched with his classroom in his ethnic dance costume.

The little ones wore cap and gown. It was a darling celebration.

Maestra Vielsa is practically an institution here,
having taught many of William's friends' parents!

Abram & William in uniform, graduation day.

A Taste of Town; My Panama Apartment

2010-12-09T07:27:00.027-07:00

This One Bedroom Apartment has Wireless internet, Satellite TV & Laundry Service.
Read on for description and photos.

In Panama: (507) 720-1755
USA Phone: (941) 351-0378
E-Mail: ebslagle@hotmail.com

We love our Downtown Boquete neighborhood. Only 3-1/2 blocks from the heart of town, it's just far enough off the beaten track to offer peace, but walking distance to the Language Schools and all the adventures Boquete has to offer: Coffee Tours; Rafting & Kayaking; Horseback Riding; Hiking; Zip Line Tree Trek; Birding; ATV Tours, and more.

Plus, our street is full of real Panama life, inhabited mostly by farmers who have lived on this street for thirty and forty years. Horses pass by on a daily basis along with foot traffic mostly from Ngobe-Bugle people. Our fish vendor, Miguel, comes by once a week in his red truck. It's peaceful and safe, but never dull.

Bedroom (full size bed, closet)
Bath w/Shower (towels provided)
Full Kitchen w/ coffee maker, toaster, stove, oven, fridge, utensils, etc.
Living Area w/ Futon Sleeper,
full size (can handle 1 large or 2 small children. Yes. We like children.)
Satellite TV
Wireless Internet
Laundry & Maid Service

Photos Below:
Entrance to Apartment
Living Area
Full kitchen & Dining Area
Bedroom
Back Yard View
Front Street View

Entrance to the Apartment


Living Area, TV and Wireless Internet, Full-Futon.

Bedroom, full size bed, closet and mirror.

Full Kitchen, bedroom to left.

From the back yard.

View looking out your front door.

Redemption in Panama... Is Oprah The New Jesus?

2010-11-03T09:51:00.005-06:00

It's election day in the USA but here in Panama, it's raining so when the phone rings, I'm nestled snugly into my sofa. It's my brother Nicholas in California, calling to make sure we sent in our absentee ballots on time.

UH oh.
OH Boy.
Ummm . Okay. It seems we kind of screwed that one up this year.
Sorr-reee.

Without actually scolding, my responsible brother gently and firmly lets me know we have committed the unforgivable by giving away our precious votes to the Tea Party. But, practically in the same breath, all is not lost. He brightly explains (as he hits ENTER on his keyboard ) there is still time for me to single-handedly redeem my family from spending eternity in Hades by picking up the phone to make some "Get Out and Vote" calls using, of course, the link that now and already awaits me via his email.

My brother is, of course, is correct. Although I'm an Independent, left on some issues, surprisingly right on others, I am still registered as a Democrat, something I did in order to vote in the primaries -- which of course never counted since I was voting in Florida, where your votes magically disappear like socks in the dryer. I am, after all, a Ballard.

And Ballards vote. Ballards come from a long line of active Democrats -- that's "active" with a capital "A." My internalized parental and grand-parental values were rapidly surfacing, taking on the form of painful contrition. And guilt will kill you.

Also, I'm pretty sure I felt the earth moving under my house as my ancestors began to squirm in their graves.

So, while I definitely wanted to remain in my now form fitting spot on the couch, that wasn't going to happen; the guilt was now gnawing away at my lazy, easy day.

But was it the guilt alone that propelled me out of my comfort zone? Loyalty to my brother and our family ideals? Maybe it was my good old higher power calling me into action -- that faint voice of right and reason that I sometimes refer to as Uncle Jesus' Holy Spirit.

Or, perhaps, just maybe it was the voice of Oprah Winfrey herself!

Let's face it. Haven't most of us over the past 25 years been minding the messages of Oprah? Oprah leading us to meditate, eat /pray/love; dump the dieting; follow the mother ship (whatever that is); dive into the vortex (whatever that is); and oh yeah, above all, Vote!

Maybe it was Oprah herself calling to me all the way from Chicago. Chicago, city of my birth; home of Hull House and the great Jane Addams, alongside whom my grandparents worked and where they became directors after her death. Chicago...place of my parents' alma mater, the then matchless University of Chicago, and home of the progressive Hyde Park area, where my grandparents, and later Barack Obama himself resided, before he moved to the White House.

Whatever it was that pulled me into action, it worked.
I did the good deed.
I dialed. I persuaded. I left creative and cajoling messages, forgoing of course the provided internet Script.
And ... I began to feel better. I felt redeemed.
I had single-handedly brought the future of my children (and their children) away from the arms of hell and closer to heaven's embrace by my earnest campaigning efforts.

All this got me to thinking:
It's probably forgivable to disobey Jesus once in a while because, you know, Jesus is a pretty forgiving guy.
But it's not okay to go against Oprah.
Let's face it. If you cross Oprah, you probably go straight to hell.
So.
Is Oprah the new Jesus?
I don't know.
As of this writing, the ballots haven't been counted.

The "Blob" At My Panama Door

2010-08-31T05:33:00.004-06:00

There are worse surprises than finding a spider on your bed or a snake at your breakfast table.

Yesterday, very early, as I tidied up and swept my front porch, I noticed a pile of what looked like small trails of ... well... dirt? Only thing was, the pile was slowly moving down the path, like a slinking, slithering blob.

As I honed in on the mass of black, I realized that it was a glob of maybe a hundred black caterpillars, squiggling individually, but moving slowly, grotesquely and neatly as one collective and large mass.

I have to say, this spectacle kind of put me off my feed..

Yes, Taoists and Buddhists, I blasted them with my lethal weapon, an economy size can of Raid. No guilt.

And here they are, a little closer to the edge. (And so was I.)

The Water is Wide in Panama

2010-08-23T06:43:00.024-06:00

The water will have it's way... every time.
No matter how much time and money is spent o fortify what used to be a ribbon of river streaming through our town, and what now esembles a fortress, a canal, the river still goes where the river will.

Early this morning, the day after last night's sudden flooding in our valley, I took a drive through the valley to take in the after flow. Literally. Because some of this river is still flowing where it didn't.

This photo is not mine. But it is exactly what I faced at 7:00 this morning as I stood, mouth agape, at the sight of "The Rock" -- a popular riverside dining spot here in Boquete.

Carrying tree trunks, boulders and debris, the river snubbed the newly placed wall of boulders, or perhaps it just changed it's course entirely, and slammed into the side of the restaurant, which sits now on a sea of rock and sand, windows gone.

Where Nairn and I sat serenely six weeks ago, happily enjoying a riverside lunch, there are now only walls, walls without windows, walls nestled in mud, sand and water. As I walked away, a gentleman (perhaps the owner?) commented tongue in cheek "We're temporarily closed for business."

The B&B a hundred yards up from this still had part of the river running through it when I pulled away.

Ditto for the lovely home a few blocks down from our house. The deep, main river that ran along it's side seems to have stayed its course. However, the river that feeds it, and which winds its way through our neighborhood and behind this lovely stone house, overwhelmed the home entirely and last night it had to be evacuated. I heard they had to help the gentleman residing there out with a rope. When we passed, rain still falling, the lights on, door open, mud and water coursing through the causeway. Boots on, a neighbor and I held onto each other, trudged through the little river, and shut the door.

A neighbor and I shut the door once the water level was safe enough to navigate. Another neighbor parked their car in the driveway to stave off thieves. As of this morning, there appears to be water still flowing between the main house and casita.

After more than two and a half years here, after floods and mudslides and more floods, I have learned that you can't mess with a river. Eventually, the river wins. Below is part of the Boquete Gardens Inn which sits at an altitude over 3,000 feet. These photos just don't depict the real life drama Larry and I beheld later this day. The bridge was mostly gone and we heard (unconfirmed) that two cabanas were lost. Damage throughout the valley is intermittent but serious, damage that lies in the wake of a sea of rocks.

About Schooling In Boquete

2010-08-16T06:33:00.004-06:00

Toward the top of this blog, and in the right-hand column, you will find a section called PAGES.
In the same PAGES sections, you will also find a Directory of private schools in this immediate area.

Directory, Boquete Schools

2010-08-15T18:36:00.009-06:00

A the top right of this blog is a PAGE with a Director of Boquete's Private Schools, complete with contact information and pricing.

Our Panama Apartment, Before & After

2010-08-06T08:41:00.006-06:00

Was it really less than one year ago that we were all crammed into the little apartment attached to our downtown digs? Mid-renovation and we settled in to about 300 sq.ft of living space. Larry, me, William, one crazy-ass dog, plus the kitty. And hungry visiting kids. Not to mention a very rainy Rainy Season. Oh the mud. Larry rigged up TV and computer. We had a small bedroom, a tiny bath and I had, of course, a pretty good kitchen. It was pretty much what boat-living might be like. And we were fine.

For a long time after we moved to the main house, we just used the flat as a storage facility and occasional study area. But with my God daughter, Connie, due to arrive from New Zealand, via Mexico and Guatemala, we decided to give her a Panama nest.

Remember this?

Then ... This?

Well, now we have... this!

School Dazed: Educating Expat Kids in Panama

2010-07-03T14:03:00.007-06:00

Mahlin, Pyper & William Tricked Out for a School Performance, 2008

People often write to ask me about schooling choices, and I'm sorry to say I don't have the quick & easy answer to that one. Despite the gated communities that pepper our hillsides, Boquete is essentially a farming town with out-dated a school systems a la rote-style learning, copious copying, mandated military style hair for boys, uniforms for all -- a real throw-back to schools of an earlier era. But it's not all that bad, if you decide you want to stick it out.

Deciding how to handle your child's schooling depends much on your her or his learning style, adaptability and personality, as well as on your own goals for your child's education. Our school saga wasn't quick and it was hardly easy --I wouldn't want to do it again for all the licorice in Holland. But now that I can look back with relief, I can say it's ended up pretty well. So far.

When we came to Panama William was half way through the third grade. Frantic about what I was going to do when we arrived, I purchased and packed up an accredited Distance Learning program. It was a pretty great curriculum (Laurel Springs); easy to understand and to implement, in theory. The realities of teaching it to a resistant kid with a strong kinesthetic learning style who was also smack in the throes of adjusting to a new culture and language, not to mention a completely new family structure... well.... not so much a picnic! Dad did the lion's share of school, often finding himself smack into the middle of that personal hell and chaos: The Home School Battle Field.

But the challenges (and I use "challenges" euphemistically) sprang largely from issues around a total realignment of our family structure. Plus, there was that other thing going on.. the fact that we had just changed countries. So the problems had little to do with the program itself. Not everyone who transitions from traditional school to home school faces challenges. Maybe you come from hat one "functional family" we all keep hearing about; that elusive, perfect family the rest of us messy parents continually measure ourselves against, coming up short. If that's the case, you won't have any problems. I say "Go for it!"

Eventually, however, we worked it out and William successfully completed the third grade with dad while at the same time attending local school -- as an auditor -- from 10:00 - 1:00 p.m. At that time he did not speak more than a few words of Spanish but he began to pick it up.

The school system here can be a bear, especially for us the overly involved, controlling, sometimes impatient north American mommy. (Do you know anyone like that?) Communication is definitely challenges, even if you speak Spanish, and the schools don't exactly bend over backwards to make adjustments.

The sixth grade classroom at Instituto Guadalupano

In school, William had to withstand a certain amount of teasing and isolation and, as a mother, that is very hard to take. I'm crazy about my kid and I'm not really joking when I tell you that, at eleven (now), he's lucky I let him feed himself! I've seen many parents pull their children out of the local schools here after only a few months, and there were times when I was close, very close to doing the same.

Still, I would check in with him on this issue, this minimal bullying he was going through, weekly, and he said he wanted to persevere. (The day he told me, rather poignantly, that he had had enough, I immediately switched schools and he became much happier.) So, persevere we did and, through the process, we watched William develop decent coping strategies and also measurably mature.

Eventually I realized that clinging to the great relief provided by regular weekend gatherings of expat families was actually hindering the assimilation process. Our kid's feet just weren't fully or firmly planted in either world; he didn't really belong anywhere. That is why, after our first ten months and during the Panama school break, we pulled him away from the expats and watched him take off like a rocket!.

Spanish began to come steadily, fueled by William's socially driven engine and need to be verbal and make friends (a Ballard through and through). The next school year we continued with the Distance Learning and the part-time auditing until we were able to get matriculate him. I won't pretend this was easy; it was a process so prolonged and frustrating there were times I wanted to tear out my fingernails, one by one. However I proceeded with uncharacteristic patience and smiles -- lots of "Gracias" for nothing... while inside my brain was screeching '"FerGodSake hurry this up it doesn't make any sense I will be past menopause by the time we get this done!". But, testament to the idea that "this too shall pass," William was indeed matriculated. Today, our lives are easier and, I thin,k much richer for the experience.

Social life buzzes with an endless stream of friends, because they come from, well, from here. William is close to his classmates because they move on up to the next grades together, as a group. Play time is mostly free play, soccer, running around the neighborhood and the like. Very little time is spent on Game Boys, computers, and such (its definitely more like the 1960s childhood of my day).

At this year's annual school show, July, 2010

Sometimes I worry that we aren't pushing enough. I struggle, on a daily basis, with questions about whether my kid is getting enough. It's a never-ending internal tug-of-war. Our son is not going to be studying Mandarin or taking advanced placement classes so he can chalk up a his first years of college while at the same time, attending high school. But the anxiety we parents often impose on our children is one of the very reasons we moved away in the first place! The truth is, though, that William is getting the basics in school. (Most surprising is that ten of his classes are given in English, materials included!) And of course we fill in at home by continuing to read with and to William in English.

I try to remember that "children grow where you plant them." I also see that, because of our move to Boquete, Larry and I are very present in all aspects of son's life.

Each little person is different and no one understands the child's needs better than a loving parent. The choices parents make regarding an expat education will be very much directed by the type of child they have. Our choice to stay with a local school was in no small part driven by the active and social nature of our son. I know many families who are finding great success via home school (some accredited, some not, some piece-meal) and home school co-ops. Remember that of the roads you take will lead to a dead end, so, if it's not working out, try another route.

For a Directory of Schools in Boquete and Details on deciding about schooling,
you can refer to the "pages" on the right column of this blog.

The Big Reveal

2010-05-28T06:45:00.003-06:00

It's the Before & After of it all.

Food is Love: Some Panama Kitchens

2010-03-25T07:31:00.002-06:00

In the Philippines I learned that food equals love. Go ahead and refuse a Philippina hostess' hospitality by turning down her food, and you'll soon discover that you may as well have spat right there on her floor. While the Panamanians don't take the Food = Love equation quite so personally, cooking here is big, ongoing and somewhat communal.

In our little Barrio, we women are endlessly sharing the fruits of our kitchens and gardens. It's common to see one of us girls shuttling down the street to a neighbor's with a covered platter or, more commonly, a recycled plastic food container. Yesterday, my neighbor, Rumelia, turned up with a styrafoam plate arranged with cut fruits -- and with it a used jar filled "Plantain Flour" her husband had ground from a bunch of plantains I'd given them. I used the flour to make a hot drink for William's breakfast, adding milk, honey and vanilla. Another neighbors keeps me in a dozen freshly laid eggs every week so I return the favor by sending over hot, baked cakes.

For me, there's nothing more comforting that a busy kitchen spilling over with pots and pans and food and love and life. Nothing. The kitchen is where I want to be and where I want everyone I love to gather. Nothing pleases me more than being able to offer William's friends, or someone just stopping by, a bowl of home-made soup or a slice of fresh banana cake.

Below are two of my favorite kitchens here in Boquete.

The first belongs to Elba Landau but is mostly run by her sister, Tia Chichita, who makes excellent soup. Elba is from one of the oldest families here in Boquete and she used to teach piano in New Orleans. Tia Chichita, does the lion's share of the cooking and keeps a wood fire burning most of the day.

You will notice that the kitchen is not walled off, but opens out at the back to the yard. There is, way at the back, an open, wood burning oven. Also, there truly is no end to what one might find in Tia Chichita's kitchen, which is more reminiscent of a hobby shop than a cookery.

William & Elba Landau outside her front door.

Tia Chichita in Elba's Kitchen

Grandma Gloria's Kitchen

When William is not eating at home, he has his meals around the corner in "Grandma Gloria's" kitchen. Gloria (I call her by her given name, Gloriella) is the grandmother of William's schoolmate, Abraham, and one of my closest friends here. Gloriella is a Boquetena, born and raised in this pueblo, and she feeds a lot of people.

In addition to renting room and board to several locals, Gloriella has most of her children living with her: Abraham and his mother (also Gloria); Aunt Marquelda and Aunt Elizabeth (Ellie), who is also my "tocaya" since we share a name; Elizabeth's baby, little Victor; and Uncle Victor, whom we call Tito, and who helps the boys with their homework.

William loves to eat at Grandma Gloria's and Abraham loves to eat at your house. So they show up interchangeably at either house, as if we were all related. William especially loves Gloriella's Arroz con Guandu (Guandu looks like kind of pea, can be green or purple, and is a perfect protein), Carimanollas (stuffed mashed Yucca) and any meat she's prepared, including cow tonghe.

About once a month, Gloriella has neighborhood women gather at her house to work on a batch of Panamanian Tamales, quite different from what I ate in Mexico. Photos below.

Gloria's pots and pans.

Above is the smooth "river rock" used to smash open garlic or to pound and tenderize meats.

I have my own river rock t home.

This chicken will be cooked on an open fire out back and then added to the Tamales.

Below, Larry and William enjoy hot Tamales sent over at the end of the day. (Photos taken in November when we were living next door in the attached apartment.)

Mudslide Anyone? Another Natural Distaster Hits Panama

2010-02-21T07:19:00.001-07:00

Nothing stops a Panama parade. Not even a mudslide.

After last year's devastating floods, near hurricane winds that left us barricaded by felled trees, and the whopping 6.2 earthquake that shook us out of our sleep, I was thinking "Hey. What could possibly happen next?"

Oh, yeah. Mudslides. That's what.

November is a patriotic, parade-filled month in Panama. The collective anticipation building up to the festivities beats out on steady drums all during October, when every single school sends their marching bands out into the streets for practice, seemingly at random.

It's not uncommon to run smack into a marching band heading straight for your car as you head home from the market. This is when you immediately change course and grab your cell to alert your friends -- "Heads up! Marching band heading west at the hardware store." Otherwise, you'll be stuck.

The first parade, on November 3, celebrates Panama's liberation from Columbia, and is followed by three more parades during the month. This November 3rd was also the day a force that later became Hurricane Ida came to visit Boquete.

By the night before a parade, our little pueblo was bursting with all the bustle and excitement a small town can muster.

By mid morning the day of, the village is spilling over with vendors and banners, flags and ribbons. People arrives in droves, four deep on the sidewalks. Alleyways become curb-to-curb cars. When cars get blocked in, folks just set up grills on the backs of their pick-ups and cook.

The children are decked out in extravagant costumes and uniforms, which will inevitably end up drenched because November is still rainy season. But they march on, dripping, soaked to the bone, cold and shivering.

Early in the morning of the parade, William and three neighboring boys prepared themselves for the long day ahead. I dropped them off by the firehouse at 7:00 a.m. where they waited, bored, hungry until their drums began to beat until about 10:00. It's grueling, carrying those drums in the rain for hours and hour. It was drizzling and I crossed my fingers, trying to will the hard rain to hold off until after 1:00. No such luck.

Naturally the clouds broke earlier than usual that day. I had stayed for the entire parade so I could give the boys, now drenched past their skin, a ride home and a hot meal. Practically every single citizen, including all our officials, was downtown for the parade and probably unaware of the havoc that was about to break loose on us all.

At that time, we were living in the modest apartment attached to the main house, still under renovation. The other boys had stopped home to change, but as the rains grew heavier, I knew they wouldn't make it back for lunch, even though they live only a few houses away.

Rain on a metal roof is loud. But this rain was so hard I commented to Larry that it sounded almost scary. I decided to take a look outside to check and see if it was coming into our porch. "Aw Don't worry about it" protested Larry. But I did worry, because our house sits at the low point of an steep, unpaved mountain road frequented by farmers and native Ngobe-Bugle.

The noise was overpowering as I poked my head out to take a look-see. Our so-called road had become a flowing river of muddy water, a the river that flowed to my gate and ended at the front door to the main house. About two or three gallons of rain water had already made their way into our newly finished living room, so I ran to the front gate and tried, frantically (and a little ridiculously) to shore up the flow with a shovel, or a broom, or my hands. I can't quite recall.

I do, however, recall Larry's glancing at my pitiful efforts with near disgust. "Aw Quit it!" he shouted. "I have it covered!" and off he ran, returning shortly with some cement blocks that he quickly implemented to successfully re-direct the flow of water in his adept, manly fashion.

Of course at times like these, we Slagles go from happy threesome to the dysfunctional Jerry Springer Show family in three seconds flat. Larry began shouting at me to get out of his way; William started grabbing at brooms and shovels, underfoot. I started yelling at William "You're not helping!". William was yelling back "I am too helping!". Then Larry yelled at me to "stop yelling at William."

Meanwhile, the Panamanian families up the road are working quietly to re-direct the small river up the road.

When we get our house squared away, we look up and realize that a piece of the mountain is missing. Where there once was green lush mountainside, the re is now a wide strip of bare land, looking like a big BandAid slapped against the mountain side.

All around us, slices of our valley's mountain walls have let loose and hurled down onto homes, driveways, and roads, carrying with them rocks, banana trees, water, mud and more rocks. The popular gated community of Valle Escondido was a mess and later evacuated. The damage to roads and homes was extensive.

As the next day dawned and the rains continued, our town held it's collective breath waiting to see if more of it's valley would collapse.

"Well" I thought to myself. "At least these poor tired kids won't have to march in the Flag Day Parade today."

And how wrong I was. The parade was on, the children marched, the people watched,and the hills continued to crumble.

Panama loves a parade.

A Clear & Difficult Choice

2010-01-22T14:02:00.001-07:00

Our poor Petey, so happy in this recent Christmas photo. Sadly, he was quietly, painlessly put to sleep last week after a shocking and frightening event.

It is startling to process what happened. Hard to understand that our funny pup, hyper as a hot wire, who, when he ran, looked like a deer on a trampoline, had a dangerous streak so hidden and unpredictable that he attacked a guest at my house. Not nipped at a guest... attacked.

I had asked a new friend over for lunch, a woman I'd been emailing over the past year, another Elizabeth from Connecticut, a friend of a friend. Finally she crossed boarders and I invited her to lunch. Petey was scratching at the kitchen slider throughout our visit, tail wagging, wanting in. But over the past few months, only since our move, we had noticed he barked increasingly and aggressively at passersby and visitors. So, when he wasn't cuddling with us or playing with Larry, we relegated him to the back yard.

Petey was so eager to come in that day I thought I'd allow it. And as he wagged and panted at us, so happy to be in, and as Elizabeth reached down to pet him, he attacked her, faster as lightning, biting her arm and hand maybe three or four times, her clothing at least twice. I couldn't pull him off her. He was in another state.. Finally Elizabeth tossed a glass of water in his face, and I virtually kicked him out the door.

I looked down and noticed the drops of blood on the floor. "Oh my God!" I said, horrified. "Let me see your arm!" Elizabeth had been bitten to the veins. She was bruised and bleeding. Talk about shock and horror. So, off we hurried to the doctor to dress wounds, get boosters, bandages, antibiotics, and ointments. It was horrible. Thank God he didn't get her face, or go deeper into a vein.

This attack was vicious and unprovoked. It was terrifying. And risking another, with children around, with all the left-open doors and gates and coming and going was simply not an optioin. Neither was leashing this beautiful creature to a fence all day, especially since we ourselves were now afraid of him. And giving him to someone to use as a guard dog where he was likely be tied to a fence and abused was also not something we were willing to do.

For me, this is new territory. I'm still processing the shock of having someone over for a meal and a mauling. Not an event I can easily wrap my head around. I guess I'm going to have to pass up that "Hostess of the Year" award. Second, I've never had to put to sleep a young and healthy dog. I've put dogs down before, but it's not quite the same as your very old dog -- covered-in-warts-and-bumps kind of old, barks-after-the-stranger-leaves old dog -- has a stroke and is spinning and vomiting on your little sister's bedroom floor, unable to focus or function. Okay. That's a euthanasia no-brainer.

It's different when it's a young and healthy, loving family pet in his prime, a nap-mate, a walking companion. That's a different ball game. (The professionals I spoke with said there was no way to get that kind of aggression out of a dog's brain.) And there was no way I could sentence Petey to a lesser life than the one he had with us, the life he had before he snapped and went bonkers.

So as we come up on two years, we add one more loss to our list of losses. A lovely but ailing hen, our funny, fat rooster, all those spiders, and now our goofy, nutty, un-fixable but beautiful dog.

Farewell Petey. We loved you.
Get well, Elizabeth, brave woman, trooper girl, kind lady.

Spider, Spider... Pants on Fire!

2010-01-02T11:09:00.001-07:00

(This shot is of a light-weight I found outside our house in November.)

Household 2009 Death Toll
By my calculations, and I’m being conservative, the household death toll for 2009 is as follows: 90 Tarantulas; five pairs of shoes; three handbags; a $22 dollar bottle of eye drops; one snake; a pair of trousers; and one small yapping dog...almost.

During the two month stay in our attached apartment, I killed, on average, one to two Tarantulas a day. Every… single… day. But it wasn’t so bad, because, with the exception of one juicy and hirsute whopper I stumbled across in the garden (not shown, but about the size of my hand to my first set of knuckles), most of the spiders were smallish in size, between the size of a quarter and a silver dollar.

But, after last night, I’m ready to pack up and move to Maine.

As Larry and I settled on the sofa in the semi-dark, quietly watching TV, Penny-the-Cat suddenly chased a super-high-speed Tarantula — the size of Rhode Island — right up Larry’s arm.

It happened at lightning speed. (Contrary to popular belief, Tarantulas, when peeved, are not sluggish)

Frantically, Larry flicked the thing hard off his body and up into the air it was flung. Even in the dim light it looked like a low flying bat. Then … it disappeared, somewhere, in my house.

Oh, God. “Okay. That’s IT!” I huffed with exasperated determination. “We’re not going to bed with that thing alive in our house!” No argument from Larry as we started pushing away furniture.

Eureka! There it was, on the floor, between 5 and 6 inches in diameter (yes, run and take a gander at your ruler.) I quickly handed Larry the cover of one of our I Love Lucy DVDs and WHAM! Dead as a Doornail...just the way I like my Tarantulas.

Ok. Killing Ginormous spiders definitely brings instant relief. But, it's also an enormously anticlimactic experience because, once squashed, the thing that looked like it belonged in your old Godzilla movie suddenly shrivels to a pitiful fraction of it’s original freakish size, leaving you not only feeling entirely unsatisfied, but with no one really understanding what all the fuss was about.

Milder Carnage
The shoes, handbags and eye drops were courtesy of Petey, our family pet-turned vicious Killer Watchdog who, when not attacking small children (no kiding, and not always the children you wish he would go after), happily chews anything in his path.

(The snake, which appeared one afternoon on the street and which was rapidly heading to my neighbor Olga's yard, was swiftly dispatched with the machete our fish guy, Miguel, keeps in his truck. What kid of snake was it? Was it a savage and deadly Fer-de-Lance? A Bushmaster? I don't know... but Who CARES? This is Panama, for heaven's sake! My half hearted apologies to the purest "Creature-loving-hippie-Buddhist-Taoist-Meditating Vegan" who wants to capture it in a cup and release it in the wild. God love you, but I'm not taking any chances, my Karhma be damned.

So this leaves us with one pair of pants and the matter of that small dog I mentioned.

The Pants
I'm feel fairly secure that after suffering another year in the goofy and frustrating Panamanian school system (where all boys take a hit, no matter what), I can't go straight to hell for allowing my kid to set afire a pair of old uniform trousers... a happy and sacrificial graduation ceremony.

Still, the flames of Hades stretch to lick up to snatch me to my eternal damnation. Because, there remains the small matter of one teensy dog ...(story to be featured in the next post. Also coming soon, if I dare!)

More Critters, Close Quarters & One Castration

2009-10-18T07:20:00.001-06:00

Eighteen days ago we moved into the small, unfurnished, unpainted and somewhat unfinished apartment attached to what will soon be our new home.
So far, so good.
Sort of.

I don't know what it is that attracts the critters to a new abode, but as of this writing the death toll is as follows: two enormous, hairy, well fed, juicy Tarantulas; two teen-aged Tarantulas; one poisonous caterpillar; no children (so far), and a snake that got away from my shovel.

Quarters are cramped and damp, not unlike boat living, and everything is covered in a fine dust generated from the many workers sanding ceiling wood, cutting tile, mixing cement. Until we got the cement poured, we were surrounded by a moat of mud that turned slurry with the afternoon rains.

The ear shattering sanding, filing, pounding, hammering and sawing begins at 7:00 a.m. and grinds on till around dinner time. Larry, who of course works right along side the crew, has developed his own charming and slightly boisterous style of speaking Spanish to them. He can be heard for at least a block exclaiming "Bueno! Bueno!" in approval.

I spend my days dusting and tidying, endlessly washing the floor, or gathering up outdoor rubble. But mostly, and oddly, I'm happy and handling it. This is not to say that I don't have an occasional meltdown. But I know that we'll have more room soon and it's really up to me to maintain a happy flow for the family. If I'm not happy, I'll make everyone around me suffer, and I just don't want to do that.

William is, of course, in heaven. He took one look at the small and shabby apartment and exclaimed "Oh Mom. This is a beautiful house!" What more can an 11 year old want than a street chock full of kids, dogs, horses, chickens, passing Ngobe natives and trucks loaded up fat with onions and other farm goods. Our neighbor sells home made strawberry icy's and there is a perpetual leaky pipe on the street that makes for more fun with water.

In the midst of the semi-controlled chaos, it became clear that our dog Petey had to be fixed. And no, it couldn't wait. Petey had gone from loving our kitty in a respectable and brotherly fashion, to practically licking and humping her to death.

It turns out that having your pet fixed in Panama is almost as easy as running to the store for a quart of milk. I'm not exaggerating. I tossed the dog into the car for the four minute car ride up a bumpy road to the house/office of Chely the vet.

Two hours and twenty-five bucks later, Senor Petey was a Senorita. My only instructions were to keep him quiet and make sure he takes it easy. Okay I thought to myself. This is a joke.

Petey, who initially appeared to be undaunted by the surgical removal of most of his genitalia, continued to springboard happily around the backyard, bouncing like a reindeer on a trampoline, ferociously tearing his head from side to side as he tried to rip apart the stuffy bear clamped in his jaws. And he did this for three days, until his wound was bleeding and swollen.

When I couldn't keep him calm and couldn't stand the suffering any longer, I did the only logical thing any Ballard girl would do. (No, I didn't give him a cocktail.) I did what my Dad taught me to do. I gave him a pill.

Okay, big oops. Turns out you're not supposed to give IBU Profin to a puppy.
(Of course, I didn't go on the internet till after I had shoved it down his gullet.)

The Yahoo reports weren't encouraging. Apparently I had done the unthinkable and by midnight we could expect Petey to be in full renal failure.

I went into a Lizzy tizzy and frantically called my good friend Nairn, who, according to her husband, is saving the world one dog at a time by rescuing them. Nairn had actually saved Petey from a life of dog drudgery, leter entrusting his life to me, the idiot chick from Connecticut who gave him people painkillers. Nairn knows from dogs. I apparently don't know from Adam.

Big "Phew" sigh of relief. According to Nairn's research, the dose was very small and Petey would survive. Nevertheless, I spent the entire night pinching Petey awake every half hour.
So, this morning? I'm beat.

And what of Petey? He woke up at 6:00, tended as best he could to the remains of his private parts, downed an enormous breakfast, charged out the back door, sprang three feet into the air and began to lick the cat silly.

Riding The Bus With Jesus

2009-08-19T06:19:00.001-06:00

When heading out of the country, most people cab it to the Panama City airport. A cab ride costs something around $40, depending, and takes you on a 30 minute highway tour. Boring.

So, with more than a four hour layover and more idle time ahead, plus a fidgety kid and luggage too, we decided to kill some time and travel the slow bus through town.

The buses here are tricked out beyond the stretches of kistch, and clearly, Uncle Jesus is taking the wheel!

With Hey-Seus being so prominently displayed, including a full center fold type spread on the cieling (see left), I wondered if this might not be Panama's cheaper and improved answer to Allstate.

As the rest of traffic whizzed by at a fair clip, our driver traveled at a trickle, stopping frequently not only to let new riders board, but to allow vendors step on briefly to sell candies, sodas and the like.

Unlike the more glamorous view of Panama City's white and distant skyline, the scenes from a local bus reveal a seedier, dirtier and truer side of the city.'

After about 90 minutes, we were deposited at a stop, a quick walk to the airport, luggage in tow. Hooray for wheels, right? Total cost of our trip for the three of us? About $2.00!
Additional photos of our tour are posted at left.