Senor Nice (16 page)

‘That’s the best compliment an author can hope for,’ said Paulo. ‘His book was too short. Would you agree, Howard?’

‘In an obvious sense, yes, of course I do. And I think mine was too long—’

‘You’re right,’ interrupted Tina. ‘It did go on a bit in parts.’

‘Mine was too long,’ I continued, a bit pissed off with Tina, ‘but I suppose the real compliment is the size of the book sales.’

‘How many books have you sold, Howard?’

‘I suppose about a million,’ I said proudly, ‘if you count the different languages and the sales of my new book,
Dope Stories
. How about you?’

‘Counting all the languages, about sixty-five million.’

Tina looked at the floor trying not to laugh. Paulo sensed my embarrassment. ‘Howard, please take my card. If you are ever in Brazil, look me up. Have you been there?’

‘Thanks. No, I haven’t. I would love to, of course. I’ll be close, Panama, in a few days, then back to Jamaica.’

‘A writing trip?’

‘Yes, a travel piece for the
Observer
, and I’m doing some research for my next book.’

‘What’s that about?’

‘Another autobiography really, but it will cover Wales and South American connections, such as Henry Morgan, the Welsh colony in Patagonia and the visits to South America made by Welshmen long before other Europeans.’

‘Then, Howard, you must definitely come to Brazil as part of your research. I have incomplete but vivid memories of learning as a child about the discovery in the Brazilian forest of a tribe who had remained there isolated for seven hundred years and spoke only ancient Welsh. It was so long ago that I don’t know now if it was a fairy story or history, but it has stayed with me forever.’

I took his card, and we shook hands.

‘Sorry for embarrassing you there – I didn’t realise you didn’t recognise him,’ said Tina as we walked away from the party.

‘I’d never heard of him before, but I was really interested in what he was saying about that tribe.’

‘What! You’re kidding. You’d never heard of Paulo Coelho, one of the world’s biggest-selling authors ever. I don’t believe it. I honestly don’t believe it.’

‘Tina, there’s no end of gaps in both my memory and my knowledge. There’s loads of stuff which I’m totally ignorant of.’

‘Tell me about it; I was part of that stuff.’

Tina and I had become friends. We remain friends. We haven’t had a DNA test.

Panama City and its airport lie on the Pacific coast. European explorers were familiar with the Atlantic northern coast long before Balboa discovered the country’s Pacific southern coast and declared all the lands it touched to be the property of Spain. I decided I would get to know the country in the same order.

The sun dazzled me with its welcome as I got off the plane and walked the few steps to the bright and airy arrivals hall. Invisible speakers emitted Latin American rhythms, increasing the holiday atmosphere. A young clean-shaven immigration officer dealt efficiently with the arriving passengers. He smiled broadly as he stamped each passport after just a cursory glance at the holder. I handed mine to him. He took one look at the name, turned bright red and pressed a button under his desk. Another fresh-faced immigration officer joined us and took my passport.

‘Sir, would you come this way, please.’

Severely brought down, I followed him to a stark windowless office with a metal desk, two upright plastic chairs and a large CCTV camera.

‘Wait here, please.’

He disappeared with my passport and closed the door.

The usual thoughts raced through my head. I had never been here before. Why were the Panamanian authorities interested in me? Some other country must have advised them I was coming. Was there an international arrest warrant for me, an all-points bulletin to lock me up wherever I was found? Had I inadvertently left something suspicious in my luggage before I checked it in? Had Panama suddenly become the fifty-first state of America?

The door opened. In walked someone I first believed to be Craig Lovato, the DEA agent who had arrested me in 1988. My mind disintegrated. No, it wasn’t Lovato, it was the great Brazilian footballer Rivelino. Or was it Cheech, or Chong? He carried an expensive leather briefcase and wore an immaculate grey uniform covered with medals, tassels, stripes and insignia. Was he a Mexican about to bust me for telling an Old Bailey jury in 1981 that I worked for his secret service? He put his briefcase on the desk and opened it. A pair of handcuffs fell out. My heart sank. Then he smiled broadly and pulled out a copy of the Spanish translation of
Mr Nice
.

‘Ah, Señor Nice. We study your book in our police college. Would you be so kind as to sign it for me?’

‘Of course. I’d be glad to.’

‘Thank you, Señor Nice. I am sorry to have delayed you.’

‘It’s no problem at all. I have to wait here at the airport to catch my next flight, so there is no inconvenience whatsoever. In fact, I’m very flattered that you want my autograph.’

‘My colleagues and I love your book, Señor Nice. It is very good. To which place are you flying?’

‘Bocas del Toro.’

‘You will enjoy it there. The flight leaves in about two hours, I believe. Would you like to wait in the VIP lounge? It is very easy for me to arrange.’

‘That’s very kind of you. Thank you.’

After passing through the friendliest possible immigration
and customs checks and downing half a bottle of tequila in the VIP lounge, I caught a domestic flight to Bocas del Toro on the island of Colón, where tales of wrecks and buried treasure are commonplace. As the name suggests, it was a favourite spot of Columbus (Cristóbal Colón), who had tarried there when searching for a sea channel between Cuba – which he thought was eastern Asia – and South America. On the plane I remembered a grey-haired history teacher telling us that Columbus discovered the world to be round and that previously sailors had been paranoid about sailing off the edge. Yet when I was about five years old my father had taken me up to the ‘ton’ of Kenfig Hill and pointed out a ship coming over the horizon. At first we could only see the top of the ship’s mast, and then slowly the rest came into view. My father explained the curvature of the earth made me see the top of the boat first. If the world were flat, we would have seen both top and bottom at the same time. The world could only be round. Many years later I found out that ancient Greek philosopher Eratothsenes had accurately calculated the circumference of the earth as long ago as 600
BC
.

Millions of years before that, archipelagos of unconnected volcanic islands had surfaced between the separate land masses of North and South America and eventually spewed up enough lava to link and form an S-shaped isthmus. Plants and terrestrial animals could now move between the top and bottom of the world across this wasp-waist of the Americas. The coexistence and mingling of previously isolated species caused new land creatures to evolve. Conversely, the new feature provided an insurmountable barrier for fish and other marine organisms in the now divided Atlantic and Pacific. It also redirected the flow of the world’s oceans, gave rise to the Gulf Stream, and radically altered global climates. Densely folded mountain ranges bisect the isthmus, causing differing weather patterns on the Pacific and Atlantic coasts.

A few minutes water-ferry ride from Costa Rica and a short
flight from the high-tech international banking centre of Panama City, Bocas del Toro has no muggers, no miles of tropical swamp and no mosquitoes. Everything moves on water: water taxis move people from island to island; big boats arrive with city goods and passengers, and little ones leave with fish, coconuts and bananas. It seemed an ideal place in which to relax and read up on Panama for my
Observer
article and on Henry Morgan for my own mad projects, so I carefully studied the hotel information offered at the airport and chose Punta Caracol Acqua Lodge, a complex of cabins on stilts with palm-leaf roofs. Solar panels provided the electricity while biodigesters debugged the drinking water. A complimentary glass-bottomed water taxi took me to a small complex of wooden gangways connecting guest rooms with restaurants and shops, all above a natural aquarium full of manta rays, barracuda and squid.

The hotel bar was still open after I had checked in so I ordered a Seco, sugar-cane rum and milk, known as a
baja panties
– panty lowerer – and listened to the sounds of nature competing with the dishes and glasses being washed and stacked. Nearby, playful dolphins ignored the impressive sunset.

An exquisite woman with gold rings in her ears and nose and coloured beads on her forearms and calves sat in the corner and smiled at me. She wore a pirate headscarf over her straight black hair, a bright cloth around her waist and a blouse printed with psychedelic symbols. I smiled back at her. She smiled again and left. She was at breakfast the next morning, this time in a denim mini-skirt and black bikini top. I sat facing her just one small table away.

The hotel restaurant stood on a floating wooden platform surrounded by coral atolls and hidden by mangroves in an inlet where dolphins ate jellyfish, gave birth to their young and popped up to greet children paddling canoes on their way to school. Cuddly two- and three-toed sloths hung from
mangrove branches. Nearby, later in the day, turtles would crawl out of the sea and lay their eggs on the beach. A little farther away were playful manatees, the rare sea cows that sailors once believed to be mermaids. A friendly but mildly disturbing pelican swooped out of what might have been sea mist or dewy fog, perched on the back of a nearby chair and looked longingly at my plate of fried sausages and banana poppadoms. The beautiful woman started laughing. So did I.

‘Do you speak English?’

‘Sure,’ she drawled.

‘Sorry, I didn’t realise you were American,’ I said with obvious disappointment.

‘I hope you mean South American.’

‘Sorry again. I didn’t,’ I said with equally obvious relief, ‘but let me introduce myself. I’m Howard.’

‘Hi, Howard. I’m Rosa. You’re British, right?’

‘Right. You look as if you might be from round here but sound like you’re from New York.’

‘That’s where I learned my English, went to university and lived for a while, but you’ll find most Panamanians speak English with an American accent. Actually, I am of mixed race, part Kuna, one of our country’s seven indigenous peoples. We have always been here. Shall we sit at the same table?’

The pelican seemed slightly disconcerted by her presence but stood its ground.

‘Isn’t it beautiful? You know we have almost a thousand separate species of bird in our country.’

As it happened, I did know. There were also over a hundred species of cockroach and countless different butterflies, as well as miniature red frogs with venomous skin, golden toads with luminous skin, and square trees. I smiled and nodded. The pelican gave up and shot away across the clear blue water.

‘There are even more fish. I can tell you don’t like North
Americans. Don’t worry; no one will hold that against you in Panama.’

For almost a century American troops had occupied and controlled the country, packing it full of military, air and naval bases. United States forces used it as a base to invade other countries, to hit drug barons and to train soldiers to fight against enemies real and imaginary.

But now the GIs have gone. Fort Grant, once the most powerful defence complex in the world, is now a route for joggers and strollers. Fort Sherman, former US Army jungle training camp, is an ecological showcase. Fort Clayton, the old headquarters of US Army South, has been converted into the City of Knowledge, an academic community and technological park. Canopy Tower, once a US military radar post, is a birdwatching platform. Fort Davis and other buildings that once housed munitions and armaments now accommodate light industry and factories. Abandoned construction cranes have become tools in pioneering studies of the ecosystem of the dry tropical forest canopy. Military bases are now tourist centres in a classic transformation of swords into ploughshares. The country runs itself. What happened?

‘Howard, you seem deep in thought.’

‘I’m here to write a travel article on Panama and was wondering why its tourist industry seems in some ways to have only just started.’

‘I guess we never needed tourism. Millions of people have always visited Panama but for other reasons. Don’t forget we were Uncle Sam’s favourite nephew. Now we have to survive alone, but our government is not investing enough in tourism; it simply doesn’t realise the potential. The exception is the cruise ship industry, which thanks to al-Qaeda is the fastest-growing tourist market. Until recently cruise ships made no stop at Panama; they just went through it. Now they stop at ports or anchor for the day in the middle of the canal’s lakes.’

*

Despite the country having miles of beautiful shell-covered beaches on two oceans and cheap high-quality hotels with excellent service and every conceivable water toy, there is no Panamanian tourist office outside the country. The weather is warm throughout the year, and the country exudes cheerful hospitality, extravagant scenery, the world’s best drinking water, an overdose of flora and fauna, a rich historical and cultural patrimony and several autonomous Indian communities upholding their customs and traditions, including hunting for supper with blowpipes. Hurricanes don’t get close, earthquakes and volcanic eruptions stopped long ago and tourists are almost impossible to find, while ecological awareness has reduced visitors’ potential for doing serious damage.

Panama has a rich Pre-Columbian heritage of peoples whose presence stretches back over 12,000 years. At the time of the European conquest the population of the isthmus numbered at least a million. Fewer than 500 years ago, Spaniards Balboa and Pedrarias (the Cruel) Davila discovered and founded Old Panama, the Native American meaning of which is ‘good fishing’. When the Spanish torched the small village’s huts and built a new city, they kept the old name and spread in all directions, capturing the Mayan cities of Central America and the Inca strongholds of Peru, plundering gold, silver, pearls and other priceless treasures. Old Panama, the oldest non-indigenous settlement in the New World, became the jumping-off point for further conquests north and south, its Renaissance-style architecture serving as the model for the other Central and South American cities built by the Spanish colonists.