Gonzo On González
Who’s a Liar, Who’s a Thief? Part I
The First Visit
Isla Pedro González, Panama
We’re anchored in a sweet cove fringed by beaches and palm trees at the northeast anchorage of Isla Pedro González.
Looking south, it’s perfectly unspoilt; looking west, there’s Pearl Island Resort.
More on that in Part II.
Isla Pedro González is the westernmost of Las Perlas.
The village of Pedro de Cabal juts into Ensenada Honda, the northern bay.
We’ve come to the third-largest of the Perlas looking for fresh food. I’ve read there are farms on the island and some basics in the village to the west. We're in the cockpit discussing our strategy when Marcel shows up. He’s friendly and easygoing, too good to be true.
“I’m Marcel. Everyone in all these islands knows me. Do you want fruit? Vegetables? Ask anyone about Marcel.”
Delighted by the prospect of delivery, I put an order in: green bananas, plantain, pineapple, papaya, fresh tuna, juice and soft drinks. Knowing grocery prices in Panama City, I give him lots of cash plus gas money for his outboard.
He returns with one papaya, green bananas, plantains and a promise to come back.
A few hours later, he brings a rotting pineapple, long-dead skipjack, a dozen cans of pear and apple juice, and more promises. He’ll bring vegetables on Tuesday.
I expected better quality and more selection. Food must be in short supply with the pandemic, but isn’t this a fishing town?
Wednesday morning, Marcel shows up—early and emptyhanded—on his way back from a trip to Contadora. He hasn’t slept, he says, looking like he’s been on a bender. He asks if we would like to buy some diesel for more cash up front.
Stephan declines. I ask about our produce, say we plan to weigh anchor in a few hours.
No problem. Everyone knows him. He is Marcel.
He disappears.
By noon, the Chief Engineer advises me not to wait. By sunset I, too, have my doubts.
Thursday morning Marcel zips past in his boat, ignoring us.
I can’t ignore the actions of a liar and a thief.
Fool me once, shame on you.
We leave, but I don’t let it go.
Pedro de Cabal’s million-dollar view.
The Second Visit
Over Christmas, Panama is in full pandemic lockdown, trying to stop the spread of COVID.
We flee to the same anchorage and find more boats.
And Marcel.
I watch him make the rounds, avoiding us. Is this a scam on cruising sailboats?
If he came over, what would I say? I know nothing about this culture. I imagine a victory of global citizenship and compassion. Mutual understanding.
But I still want to warn his customers.
We’re approached by a new vendor, a younger man named Rafael. He tells us that his sister sells fruits and vegetables in a village shop around the point, if we need anything. What he sells is right there in his boat: farm fresh eggs (.25 each), bread, fresh reef fish. The total cost is $7.
Okay, reality price check.
Ask anyone about Marcel.
In Spanish, mentiroso means a liar; a thief is a ladrón. Is that how everybody knows Marcel?
Rafael shakes his head like he’s sorry I brought it up. He says Marcel was once good and reliable, but now. . . maybe it’s drugs.
It isn’t my imagination.
The village of Pedro de Cabal overlooks Ensenada Honda, Isla Pedro González, Panama.
We make an excursion to the village, anchoring out at low tide and dragging our dinghy up the beach like the fishing cayucos.
Pedro de Cabal nestles against the shore of Ensenada Honda. The brutal record of the Spanish who came here–conquered, occupied, killed, and enslaved–is painfully familiar. Indians working on plantations and with pearls died of plague, maltreatment, outright murder; their work billets were filled by people abducted from the coast of Africa and enslaved. Since colonial times, they and their descendants have lived here, subsistence farming with a million-dollar view.
Back when the cruising guides were written, Pedro de Cabal had 453 residents. Now there are fewer than 200. Maybe one in ten wears a mask.
The “no COVID here” attitude reminds me of Peru before the virus struck.
No COVID here yet.
What to do when a stranger gives you Chinese lemons?
Make Chinese lemonade and popsicles.
So begins a treasure hunt, dodging free-ranging chickens as we pick our way down pathways with room for one bicycle.
Produce is surprisingly hard to come by. Perhaps most people grow only enough food for themselves.
With all the chickens, there must be eggs somewhere.
We buy SIM cards on the porch of a house decorated with ceramic art.
The produce shop locks up its wares. She doesn’t sell items that are spoken for.
Carrots, cucumbers and cabbage locked in a wooden box outside a cinder-block house. There are sweet potatoes, tomatoes and a few culantro stalks in a jar. Canned milk, beer, sugar and coffee reside in the shop a few blocks up.
A grinning man produces green bananas. “I’m Marcel.”
Marcel’s hair is shorter, less rust-colored, less scruffy.
I waste no time reverting to my native bluntness, a total fail of global citizenship and savoir-faire.
“We’ve met. Marcel, you owe me $30.” That’s less than half of what I gave him.
“I owe….” His eyes light up. “Oooooh, yes. You! I came back but you were gone. Tomorrow I’ll bring you fruit and vegetables. Take the bananas, no charge.
I do.
He doesn’t.
I’ve given him the benefit of the doubt and I’m still stewing.
Fool me twice? Shame on me.
To be continued.
Fair winds,
Christine
Do Tell
When you’re seen as a rich foreigner, is being cheated part of the cruising territory?
