Movistars

Saturday, March 11

You probably won´t get that title unless you´ve either been to Panama or I explain it to you. I won´t assume that anybody reading this has been here, so I guess I´m only left with one option.

Movistar is a prominent provider of cell phone service in Panama. They sell prepaid SIM cards that users can slide into their phones, which is the way that most cell companies work outside the U.S. Anyway, I love the name because it reeks of globalization and it portrays my transformation from a relative unknown to an "executive extra" in a CBN feature.

Although we hadn´t set the alarm, I awoke at about 8:30 to the sound of Chuck rummaging through the shipwreck that is our hotel room. Brad and I had no specific plans. We figured we would explore more of the city and meet up with Chuck later in the day. But Chuck had other ideas.

As we drifted in and out of sleep, he said, "Well, I was gonna hire you guys to be extras in our shoot today, but we have to leave in a few minutes."

That woke us up, especially when he mentioned that we would be paid. I had been an extra in one of Chuck´s CBN pieces in Jordan. I was floating in the Dead Sea with rocks stacked up on my chest. This time, however, I´d get to see more of the inner workings of taping a feature.

One shower and 15 minutes later, we were leading a caravan of cars to the Casa de Oracion Cristiana, a church on the other side of the city. The CBN crew was planning to shoot a reenactment for a story they were doing about maestro David Choy, a composer well recognized in Panama for the worship songs he has written. I didn´t catch the whole story, but apparently he was in a car accident that left him seriously injured. As far as I know, he was watching the 700 Club one day and he was healed of his illness through prayer. The part of the story we were shooting was when he returned to his home church and prayed at the altar after the healing took place. Brad and I are faux audience members, acting as if we are discussing the scriptures (and we actually were) while other members of the church are praying for Choy.

Each of us received $10 for our services, not bad for about 2 hours of hanging out, waiting for other extras to arrive and for the producers to put the shots together.

After the reenactment, we headed to a restaurante for lunch, where Brad and I both ordered filet mignon. With CBN footing $5 of the bill for our services, we figured we´d splurge for the $6.75 steak. Apparently, Panamanians have a different idea of filet mignon than we do. But it was still tasty, and we were glad to get all the protein we could from meat before we have to subsist on dried foods on Isla Coiba.

After lunch, Chuck dropped Brad and me off at the Super 99 grocery store to finish shopping for food that we would eat on the island. Chuck´s been trying to get us to plan a menu since we got here, but neither Brad nor I am very organized about those types of things. Our trip to the Super 99 was more to get ideas from the store than to actually buy them. (More on shopping in a later post).

We later ran some errands with Chuck before heading back to the hotel. Again we led the caravan to the Choys´ house, where the CBN crew was to film one more reenactment. This time, they would stage the car accident that put maestro Choy in the hospital. We pulled into a dark parking lot at the end of the street where the Choys live. A lone streetlight shone yellow on the rugged pavement under which most of the action took place. The crew used their rented van for the "accident," but to make the scene more realistic, they needed traffic in the picture.

I was called upon to drive two different times. Once, my part was nothing more than backing the car up. The second time, though, I played the part of oncoming traffic, and I had to swerve off the road to avoid slamming into Chuck, who was playing the part of the drunk driver in the reenactment.

I thought my duties as an actor were over, but I also served as a filler person in the last shot of the night. It was the interior view of the wreck scene. David´s son Alex was used to play his father, and all the other actors in the car--who played party-crazed friends--were latino except me.

Overall, it was an exhausting experience and an unorthodox way to spend a day in Panama, but I learned a lot about broadcast journalism and TV production. I also got to meet some amazing Christian brothers and sisters. Everyone was very receptive and courteous toward us, and they even tolerated my botched attempts to speak to them in their heart language. I´d like to think I encouraged them as much as they did me.

I never realize how limited my vision is until God pries me away from the States. Every time, he seems to say, Remember when I said, "Every tribe, tongue, and nation? I wasn´t kidding."

He´s never kidding about saving people from their sins and encouraging believers. I pray that my eyes will always be open to where he´s working around the world. And I pray that he´ll continue to give me the grace to join him where he´ll have me do so.

On the run

For those of you who have been faithfully checking the blog, I'm sorry to tell you that I haven't had time yet to post something in detail about Saturday's events. I'll catch up tonight and let you know about all the interesting things we experienced yesterday. For today, we'll be tying up some loose ends around Panama City and hopefully we'll be able to head out to Santa Catalina tomorrow morning.

Panama City--Way better than Florida´s

I can´t remember if the alarm woke me, but somehow I opened my eyes at about 8:15 a.m. The tropical sun was already shining bright, an early reminder that sunscreen would be on my list of necessities today. Chuck was sifting through the wreckage of that is our hotel room, and Brad was lying next to me. Without speaking, we were debating over who should get in the shower first, or if there should be any showers at all. Brad got up first, and I enjoyed an extra 15 minutes of lying around.

The great thing about vacations is that you don´t have anywhere you have to go. While obligations dictate our every move in daily life, I´m now about 2000 miles away from all my duties. Brad and I were free to plan our day however we wanted, a fact that´s both scary and freeing at the same time.

Chuck went off to shoot some interviews for CBN, leaving us with his phone, our wallets, and a metropolitan playground with over 3 million inhabitants. After showers and free breakfast (I would say continental, but Panama is kind of in the no-man´s land for continents) we caught a taxi from the hotel to a part of the city called Casco Viejo. Before the Canal was built in 1904, Casco Viejo comprised the entire city. There were only about 30,000 inhabitants.

We rode through a pretty tough area called Chorillo. Even Chuck, who´s bulletproof, told us that we didn´t need to be walking down any dark alleys there. The driver let us out next to a big museum situated on the west side of a large public square in Casco Viejo. On the north edge of the square, there was a huge cathedral that boasted a white bell tower on each side. We took some pictures there and headed south on Avenida Central to the ocean.

From this, the second oldest part of the historic city, we could see modern Panama City, with its towering skyscrapers, sprawling eastward down the Pacific coast. We walked down the coast, catching some great views of the sea and crossing paths with numerous tourist groups. If you can believe this, some Chinese people were taking pictures on one of the sidewalks. I started speaking to them in Chinese, and got them to snap a picture of Brad and me with the city in the background.

We made a circle back to the square (a lot of shapes there), passing the French embassy on the way. Once back to where we started, we sat down to rest and plan our next course.

A Haitian refugee who identified himself as Jacques approached us as we sat on the bench. He began babbling about the plight of his country, asking us if we had heard of the poverty his countrymen had to endure. He told us he would be obliged to give us a tour of the area.

And then it came--the punch line. We knew it was coming from the time he sat down.

"I´ve been around to twelve churches today, and we´re trying to raise money to buy one can of milk for 27 kids. If you could help us, I´d appreciate it. And I wish you had time to let me earn the money by taking you on a tour," he said.

I´ve heard beggars´scams before, so I tested this one out. He said the can of milk (a giant can of condensed milk) would cost around $5, and he´d lend us the 75 cents he had to help pay for it.

"Okay, we can help you. Show us where to buy the milk." Now, if this guy just wanted money, he would´ve left us alone at that point. But no, he dutifully led us to a shop a few steps away and found the can he was talking about. He handed it to me.

Call me a softy or whatever, but I can´t refuse someone that needs food, especially if the food is for children. I went to the register to pay for the milk. And guess what. More Chinese people. I got them laughing as I asked them in their native language whether or not they were Chinese. Jacques also got a kick out of it--and some milk for the kids.

After the milk incident, we left Jacques and traveled the pedestrian walkway of Avenida Central. Innumberable shops lined the road on both sides, most of them either zapaterias (shoe stores) or cell phone shops. We enjoyed the experience, but didn´t find any great bargains.

By the time we had passed the shops and dodged some diablos rojos (red devils, school buses sprayed with graffiti boasting pimped-out rims and deafening mufflers. These are an integral part of the public transporation system in Panama City), it was noon and the sun was high in the sky. It beat down on my neck, picking on the places where I had forgotten to put sunscreen.

We took refuge in a Burger King for lunch, then headed over to Albrook Mall, an American-style shopping center that seemed to go on for miles. We stayed there for a good while, waiting for the brutal sun to move a little more west. Luckily I was able to keep from getting burned.

Another taxi later, and we made it to the Parque Natural Metropolitano (Metropolitan Nature Park, for those of you who don´t ¡Habla Español!), a 250-hectare forest preserved right in the middle of the city. The lady at the desolate park was very polite, and I could actually understand most of what she was saying. We hiked a short trail through the jungle, but couldn´t find any of the birds and monkeys the Lonely Planet book had been so excited about. While that was a letdown, the quick trek whetted our appetites for Coiba even more.

All that walking coupled with the sun exposure had us dog-tired, so Brad and I hopped a cab back to our hotel, the Country Inn and Suites in the Amador, located right next to southern part of the Canal. The sea is about 100 yards from our pool, and the Bridge of the Americas is entirely visible from the grounds.

The rest of the day wasn´t too eventful, other than the fact that we got word that our Coiba permits wouldn´t come through in time for us to get out on the island. Don´t fret though. To make a long story short, something got lost in translation, and one of the guys at the office told Chuck it would be all right if we just went out there and got permits from the ANAM Ranger station on the north end of the island. Now, if we could just find our guide, Mali Mali, we´d be ready to go. The former prisoner is taking care of some things here in the city, but we haven´t touched based with him yet.

With all these things going on, our theme for the day has been that it´s good to know a sovereign God who won´t let something happen to us unless he can use it for good.

I´m learning a lot, about this historic city and about myself. I hope you´ll continue to share the journey with us, as we attempt to conquer more of the city tomorrow and prepare for our expedition to Santa Catalina, and ultimately to Coiba.

It begins

It hasn't even been half a day since we boarded the plane in Atlanta, but the adventure has already begun. And by adventure, I mean peculiar circumstances that have blindsided us and knocked us out of what little comfort we had.

The plane ride was pleasant, a 4-hour walk in the park compared to the 20-plus hour sojourn to China that Brad and I are used to. There was a surprising amount of college students on the plane, a few of which down an entire bottle of Jack in the four hours we were on board. I was impressed that they could still walk after we landed. I sat next to a guy named Jason, a lonely adventurer drawn to the surfing environment in Santa Catalina, Panama. From what I gathered, he liked the solitude just as much as the "big pipes" he plans to catch tomorrow. He had been on a surfing excursion to Panama before--for five months--and apparently he couldn´t get enough.

After the landing, we were able to get through customs relatively quickly. The lady at the window asked me if I could speak Spanish.

"A little bit," I replied. She then proceeded to ask me some questions in Spanish, none of which I could answer. So much for a little bit.

Baggage claim was a breeze too. This was shaping up to be a nice travel experience. To me, a missed connection is more of an opportunity than a mishap, but there are times I enjoy having things actually work out like I plan them. All we needed was for Chuck to be waiting on the other side of the painted black automatic doors that separated the baggage area from the arrivals terminal.

We walked through and were greeted with hoards of people lined up behind those temporary barriers you see in restaurants and Six Flags lines. My eyes sifted through the sea of tan faces. Chuck´s was nowhere to be found.

"Maybe he´s outside waiting with the car," one of us (I´m not sure which) reasoned. So out into the heavy air we went, and we were welcomed by Panama´s distinct aroma. Still no sign of Chuck. Back inside, we regrouped. Brad noticed some payphones, and I tried to use them to call Chuck´s Panamanian cell phone. No luck there, so I tried out my Spanish on two ladies sitting next to me.

I asked them if they could help me dial the number. We had a difficult time communicating about whether the number was Panamanian or American. One of them took me to the phone and tried her best, but to no avail. I´d tell you the woman´s name, but Í've already forgotten it.

So here we were, stranded at the Panama airport with weak language skills and no idea where Chuck was. We waited a few more minutes, hoping he´d arrive in his rental van to rescue us. He didn´t come. A cab driver had been eyeing us since we walked through the door. By this time, it was past eleven, and business was getting slim. With no other options, I asked the guy if he could give us a ride to the hotel where Chuck is staying. He responded by leading us out to his taxi.

"How much to Hotel Europa?" I asked.

"25 dolares," he said, as if he was giving us a steal of a deal.

I shook my head and told him I thought it was too expensive.

"18 and no less," he said. I still thought we were getting ripped off. The look on my face told him that I wasn´t pleased.

"10," I said.

"15," he countered. I agreed.

The ride was interesting. I did my best to converse with the driver, whose English was limited to numbers and words like "brother." I´m still terrible at Spanish, but it at least started to come back to me a little bit. After 25 minutes or so, we pulled up at the hotel. The girl at the front desk said they had no vacancy, and she couldn´t find a Chuck Holton in the database. Still no sign of him.

Our driver, who was waiting outside with Brad, said he would take us to a "more economical" hotel where we could get a room, internet and free breakfast for $20. We decided we´d find Chuck in the morning.

After settling in and saying goodbye to our friend, we sat down in the internet area. Having exhausted all other means of communication, I sent an email to Chuck telling him where we were and what had happened. We fully expected it to take him till tomorrow to find us. Less than 30 minutes later, we heard a light rap on the door. We looked up, and sure enough, it was him. Chucky boy to the rescue.

"C´mon guys. You can come stay with me," he said after our initial greetings.

Sadly, we´d already paid for the room, and we couldn´t get a refund. We counted it as a sunk cost, a really expensive 20 minutes on the internet, and we grabbed our packs and headed out of the tiny rat hole that was our room. We piled in the van and in a few minutes, we were staring at a very modern and spacious Country Inn and Suites, where I now sit writing this narrative.

I came seeking adventure, and today´s strange events promise nothing less. And just think; it´s only just begun.

¡Vamos a Panama!

For those of you who don't know, I'm taking a little break from the China narrative, and I'll be blogging about my trip to Panama for the next few days (while I'm there). So sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride. It's sure to be bumpy and filled with twists and turns.