Protest Season in Panama

The low season in Panama appears to have taken on new meaning, as almost every other day a new group gets depressed and goes on strike. They’ll block the streets and stop up traffic wearing ragtag uniforms and waving large flags as if to say, my protest is worse than yours.

The causes can vary widely, from underpaid workers to indigenous Indians who don’t like the fact people are stealing their land. They are usually pretty harmless, simply an annoying delay in your drive, but other times, they can get serious, like with rocks and all.

I don’t know who wrote it in the rule book, but it appears a demonstration is not a demonstration unless you have a megaphone. The leader often shouts into the megaphone words that come out the other end sounding like Spanish mush. The rest of the team echoes this mush for all the world to hear.

One, two, three, four, we don’t bleh bleh bleh no more.

The demonstrations usually take place at well-researched intersections: places the protestors know they’ll be seen. Upon arriving at said location, the team’ll usually get together and deter entire roads almost like expressive hippies, blocking cars and bicycles using only the power and force of the human chain. And while these clever intersections and locations can draw media, police, and courageous tourists with video cameras, I personally most enjoy the smaller-scale demonstrations: the ones on the back streets where the smaller voices can be heard more clearly.

Take for example, the one on my side street in Obarrio. It was three in the afternoon, hardly rush hour, when a gang of demonstrators decided to block a two-lane road that more resembled a large bowling alley. Very few cars and even fewer passersby. I stood there and watched the middling protestors who’s enthusiasm was, at best, indifferent, as they lulled around joking with each other and picking leaves off nearby shrubs.

Eventually, a few cars approached and the group took shape, putting down their candy bars and hustling into position like a confused offensive line. The cars, as expected, had to stop, turn around, and find another way to get to Calle 50. But minutes later, when a nice new Mercedez decided to question the integrity of the group by continuing straight for the crowd, all hell broke loose.

They jumped on the car, banging the side panels with wooden kitchen spoons and shouting like little monkeys. Hell no, we won’t blah! That is, until they saw proof that god hates protests, and it started raining, at which point they got pissed and went home.

Protest season is infectious. One can’t help but to assume the angered mentality and hold a number of protests on their own; really any subject will work. Take me the other day for example, when my morning cereal seemed to have gone stale over night. Oh hell no, I said to the box of Special K. I then slammed down my bowl waiting for the flakes to become magically crisp again. But alas, you can’t win them all.

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Hahaha
written by Freddy , July 06, 2007

That was a brilliant article. I soooooo agree with you. My gf and I were trying to get around the city last week and we hit two of those protests. Not angry ones, just funny! Your writing is very easy on the brain: love it!

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