Colón, Republic of Panama, circa 1967

The rain stopped.

The morning sun warmed the streets, releasing the aromas of a tropical port city: urine, stale beer, charcoal fumes, rotting vegetation, and moldy buildings. A green-uniformed Guardia National policeman stood at the corner. He spat on the sidewalk and then lit a cigarette before shifting his carbine to the other shoulder.

Along the sidewalks in front of a row of cantinas and night clubs on Avenida Central, workers swept away the debris from last night’s crowds. Covered by the overhang of the second storey balconies, the passing rain showers had little effect on the trash left behind by the previous night’s revelers.

By mid-morning, another policeman replaced the one on the corner. A Chiva, its windows adorned with colorful tassels, its sides brightly painted with religious scenes, unloaded passengers across the street in the American Zone. A handful of soldiers from Fort Gulick and Fort Davis crossed into the Republic and headed down a side street past the New York Bar toward a back alley to the Zamba, a popular off-limits destination.

American soldiers in the Canal Zone were briefed about off-limits establishments when they arrived in country. And they learned from the old timers that the MPs only checked these places at night. Under a bi-lateral agreement with the Panamanian government, the MPs had to be escorted by an officer or NCO from the Guardia National. Each evening, two MPs would wait across the line in the American Zone until their escort motioned them to cross into the Republic.

During this time in the ‘60s, soldiers below the rank of Staff Sergeant required a pass to go off post. One exception were the Green Berets. Everyone in the 8th Special Forces Group below the rank of Staff Sergeant was issued a pass upon arrival in the unit. If asked by the MPs for their ID and Pass while in town, Special Forces soldiers were encouraged to always hand them first to the Guardia NCO, not the MPs. A smart way to show respect to the local constabulary and establish some rapport.

The New York Bar sat on a side street just off Avenida Central—the Zamba, just around corner. Not different from any other cantina in Colón, it did have a few posters of the Big Apple on its walls and a collection of tacky souvenirs from its namesake behind the bar. After midnight on the weekends, it was standing room only. The MPs checked it quite often.

The Guardia National policeman who seemed to escort the MPs most often on weekend nights was a very large, fat even, older corporal known as Cabo Gordo. More than once when Special Forces guys were asked for their IDs by the MPs, they spoke to Cabo Gordo in Spanish, and he shook his head and told the MPs to move on.

Around 3 a.m., the MPs would quit for the night. Cabo Gordo escorted them to the line, and they would cross over to the American Zone. He then returned to the New York Bar, where a crowd waited in anticipation. Taking his usual seat at the bar, he threw back one of the shots of rum arrayed in front of him. Without turning to look at his fan club, he’d wave a hand in the air and say, “MPs gone!” The bar emptied.

*

Earlier in the day back on Avenida Central, groups of foreign tourists in colorful shirts and dresses arrived from a cruise ship docked at one of the Cristobal Colón piers. Too early to take part in the night life, they roamed the streets searching for bargains in the shops. TVs, radios, VCRs, tape recorders and other electronic wares were most popular. The merchants knew when a cruse ship was arriving and would adjust their prices accordingly. One learned quickly to tell a shop keeper that you lived in the Zone and weren’t a tourist. A better price was always offered.

The lottery vendors also knew when the tourists would arrive, and they occupied the street corners and invaded the bars and restaurants. Also assaulting the tourists, off-duty soldiers, and everyone else were the street urchin beggars. Anyone kind enough to give up a few pesos or dollars would see them dash across the street to a woman who sat at the bus stop.

She greeted each Chiva as it deposited its passengers, especially the soldiers and American civilians from the Zone. She held a tin can in her lap for the generous or intimidated. She was ageless. Short, round, and wore a non-descript tattered dress, blouse, and scarf. She looked no different than other beggars in a multitude of other countries. The children under her command would drop their gains in the tin can and then run back across the street looking for another mark.

A soldier, fresh from an afternoon delight at the Zamba, dropped a dollar in her can before getting on the Chiva back to post. She gathered up the money from her can, crossed the street and bought a lottery ticket.

The rain returned.