Getting through Panama Customs


Getting through Panama Customs

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Written by Claire Saylor

Wednesday, March 21 2007

I crossed over the Costa Rica-Panamanian border at 9:40pm on March 13, after braving the unsympathetic glares and rhetoric from the man behind the plexi glass. While slightly less than traumatic, I would have appreciated a bit of a heads up on what to expect.

Before deciding to take a 16-hour bus ride from San Jose to Panama City, I had been waiting to hear about a free helicopter ride to my new home in the south from one of my old boss's overly attentive female friends, who happens to be the youngest helicopter pilot in Costa Rica. Good intentions and high hopes could not overcome schedule mix-ups and a strict arrival deadline. So alas, in defeat, I purchased my $25 one way Panaline ticket the same morning of my departure at their bus terminal near the infamous Coca Cola bus station in San Jose.

If punctuality were a virtue in Central America, I might have been surprised that my 1pm bus left at 3:15pm, but as most of you know, it's not. Luckily, sensing our boredom, a transvestite with AIDS entered the waiting area in knee-high boots and a white, lace blouse pushing a baby stroller with four black pooches. She proceeded to put on a 5-minute show in which the dogs died, danced and prayed for our sins and hopped right back into their home on wheels. A bounteous collection of respect, sympathy and colones was offered for her efforts.

Because of our little delay, we were not allowed any pit stops so that we could make it to customs, 6 hours away, before the nightly border closing. What we were offered was quality pirated entertainment, including a detective movie about the hunt for a prostitute slayer, and Apocalypto, the disturbingly graphic account of the pillaging and sacrifice of small indigenous tribes by the Aztecs, ending with the arrival of the “white man”. Were they making a statement about my arrival to this new world?

When we got to customs, I was given the advice from a fellow passenger to keep my mouth shut about any potential business I might be doing in Panama, emphasize my naive tourist side and either present, or purchase a return ticket out of the country. Luckily I was equipped with my e-ticket for a departing flight out of PTY dated four months later, a strong capacity for lying, and, well, naivete is my middle name.

After walking down the glamorous, dimly lit truck parking lot that is the Costa Rica-Panama border, a young Costa Rican boy kindly adopted me and offered advice on what to do. I succeeded in paying $2 for a $1 little stamp and following the little boy wielding my passport to the far side of the platform to purchase my $5 tourist card, but I had failed to predict the need (as an American) to prove that I was carrying $500 cash.

As much as I wanted to pay the little boy's friend, Pedro, $15 to get this little prerequisite waived and move on with my border-crossing, I went back to the man behind the plexi glass to protest the matter. Finally after some serious pouting, and explaining that I was carrying two credit cards, a AAA Cash Passport worth $300, and a whooping $15 in cash, I was stamped and dismissed with a grunt. I gave the little boy $2 for his kind words and budding third-world entrepreneurial skills, and went to await my turn in the baggage search area, which was carried out without ado.

Back on the bus I settled into my cough medicine induced daze while trying to shut out the remaining screams of mutilated Indians, but comforted by my successful border-crossing. I awoke when the bus pulled to a stop, praying to open my eyes to the rising sun and the big city. But it was only 1 am. We were in Santiago, Panama making our first official pit stop in 10 hours. However, by the time I realized this, the bus driver announced last call for those getting off, and then promptly closed the doors behind him rather than waiting for a response.

I tried to reclaim my sleepy haze, but I couldn't shake the self-disappointment at my failure to act. At this point, my relationship with a middle-aged Italian who I shared life stories with during our delay at the bus terminal had ceded to a survivalistic sharing of food and half-hearted smiles. One apple for one Bimbo brand Bran Frut bar? Deal, my friend!

I did finally drift off with glorious images of rice and beans sauntering through my mind. But what I awoke to made me realize this wasn't going to be a rice and beans kind of experience. My first clue that we had made it, besides the well paved freeway, was when I saw the huge, illuminated white Canal Referendums building on a hill. This pompous, yet aesthetically pleasing, display of economic power could only mean one thing: capitalism and American influence was alive and well in this city.

We were dropped off at the massive and yet orderly Albrook station, which rests at the site of a former U.S. Air force base, along with a popular shopping center, hotel and domestic airport. Just wandering around the giant two story construction lined with small but well established banks and stores that demand attention, I knew that I had crossed over to a place where consumption is an art form, and where a $500 wad of cash probably wouldn't have lasted me very long in the first place.

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Last Updated ( Wednesday, May 16 2007 )

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