Retirement Detectives

I am not a grinch, nor do I bark out “humbug” - in fact I used to love Christmas. It is just that I find it hard to get into the Christmas spirit when it is over ninety degrees out, and decorating a palm tree is just not the same. I always thought I needed snow to make me feel “Christmassy”, but not any more.

This year my wife and I had the best Christmas we have ever had playing Mr. and Mrs. Santa to a small village in the mountains of Coclé.

Monique Woods of Woody’s Beach Bar planted the seed of the idea when she asked me to play Santa to the kids of the local fishing village in Farallon. I was discussing the prospect at Xoko’s Restaurant when Jose Arauz, the owner of a local tortilla factory challenged me – why stop there? Rolando Sanchez, the owner of Xoko’s offered his assistance as well, and together we decided we would do a tour of Santa Clara as well. 

Flyin’ high in Farallon
By Roberto Chocolaté

As the Billy Joel song says; “Captain Jack will get you high tonight.” In our case, it’s Captain Jim, who runs the parasailing jet boat at Panama Water Sport Adventures located at The Royal Decameron Resort in Farallon. Captain Jim will indeed get you high, and does so for dozens of thrilled folks everyday who come to soar high above the white-sand beaches of Farallon.

I sign my life away promising not to to hold the company harmless in the event that I become maimed, dismembered or spindled in any way. I advise the skipper that I have no intention of holding anyone – harmless or not. We don our lifejackets from the rack, and I inspect the cornucopia of water-sports on offer – windsurfing, Jet Skiing, rubber banana boating, kayaking, rubber inner tubing, knee boarding, wake boarding, paddle boating - a near endless array of things to get you if not wet, at least out there and having fun on the water.

We step into a beached fiberglass panga and ride out to the anchored jet boat. On the way out, we pass ‘La Gorota’; a sailing vessel that Captain Dennis, owner of PWSA, insists it is 73 feet. Captain Jim estimates it is around 60 feet. As a former charter boat operator, I know where the discrepancy lies; there is a large bowsprit with netting extending beyond the bow of the vessel – marinas charge for this length, as it must be accommodated in a slip, yet it does not increase the waterline length. Different perspectives. No matter the length, this beautiful double-mast sailing vessel is used as a snorkeling/party-barge and in season (March – August) for whale watching.  Today it is filled with 15 bikini-clad Finnish flight attendants. Suddenly a day of sailing appeals to me much more than parasailing, but it's too late to switch horses in mid-stream, so to speak. I wave as they sail off. They wave back, and chugging rum punch and singing what I assumed to be Finish sailing or drinking songs, we go our separate ways.

After a safety check, the jet boat is ready and it is flight time. Since I suffer from vertigo, I elect to stay firmly on the deck and take photographs. My two traveling companions bravely climb into their harnesses and wave the ‘go’ signal. The boat edge ahead as a beautiful 32’ parachute fills out, a striking Panamanian-flag inspired design by Captain Jim. The chute expands out of its cover as my comrades are lifted effortlessly up into the brilliant blue sky. Squeals of excitement change to laughter as Captain Jim slows the boat, dipping the them into the water for a refreshing splash then raising them up, up and away again. It is a fifteen minute ride that seems to last much longer. Safely back on the deck they both declare their inaugural flight a ball, and claim that they’ll be back tomorrow, with friends.

We return our life jackets to the rack, and I head on my merry way to meet up with Woody and friends at Woody’s Beach Bar and Grill just up the beach. This lot has just returned from Captain Dennis’s famous five-hour fishing trip. Over cocktails I hear all about the ones that got away and more impressively the one's that didn't, including three large snapper ready for the grill. It is clear they also had all the liquid refreshments they could handle. They invite me to join them for their fish fry – the perfect end to a perfect beach/action day at Farallon, and a more than acceptable consolation prize for the Finnish  ship that got away. It’s a very good thing that it did get away, as I would have had a very difficult time explaining to my wife how my parasailing trip with Jim ended up as a drinking game with fifteen blondes. They say that God takes care of drunks, fools and sailors. I ponder which one I am.

For more information on all of the water sports, and for reservation, prices and parking directions, call: 993- 2255 or 993- 2327 or E-mail: This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it

Coming Soon.... Captain Jim is opening a Pizza Parlor inside Woody's 11 located at Playa Blanca - open to the public!

Logo design by Yolanda Van Der Kolk 

I’m laughing about it now, but it was pretty scary at the time.

My first and so far only Panamanian medical emergency began as an upset stomach. I took an antacid, and it got worse, spreading into a sharp band of pain that encircled my middle. I took a painkiller, but in minutes I was doubled over. It was then I decided it might be a good time to see a doctor.

I drove myself to the resort medical clinic near my house in the Panamanian interior. Suffering through a dozen speed bumps on the road, I arrived at the clinic, shaken and in need of immediate medical attention.

The clinic, it turned out, was perfectly equipped for predictable tourist disorders: hangovers, sunburns, upset stomach and diarrhea brought on by overindulgence at the all-inclusive poolside cocktails and buffets … and not much else.

Back in the car, I continued my torturous trek to a new mini-hospital that opened this year, about 20 minutes away.

I was ushered into the emergency area, and tended to immediately. Impressed by the timely attention, I spent the entire afternoon hooked up to painkillers and saline.

A very attractive nurse appeared and took ultrasounds of my mid-section. She slides her wand along my greased-up girth and says, “I think it will be a girl.” Professional, attractive and a sense of humor — I am impressed. I make a mental note to shed a few more pounds.

Shortly thereafter, a doctor arrived and informed me that I have pancreatitis, and need to proceed immediately to a hospital in Panama City and see a specialist. There is an ambulance already en route to take me there.

I asked how much that ambulance ride would set me back. His answer left me stunned: “Four hundred dollars.”

I opt out of the ambulance option, and arrange for a friend to pick up my wife, who I left fretting at home, to take us to the hospital in Panama City, where I am assured, a specialist awaits me.

I arrive at the hospital in Panama City in good time. I sit as patiently as possible through a mind-numbing round of admitting paperwork.

Soon I am in triage, being informed by a GP that I will require gallstone surgery. “Gallstones? I thought I had pancreatitis”?

“No, it is definitely gallstones, I can see on your ultrasound, you have a blockage” the doctor replied. “You’ll see when the specialist arrives.” He did an about-face and disappeared down a corridor.

I sat in the ER for five long hours, waiting, without food, water or attention of any kind, before I lose my patience.

I finally pulled my I.V. needles out of my arm, signed myself out, and despite my protesting wife, head to the car.

We head back to the clinic and I request a referral to another hospital.

A new attending physician takes the time to examine my ultrasound, and tells me all I have is gas.

So which is it? Gallstones? Pancreatitis? Gas? I decide to spend the next four days in bed with my wife’s chicken soup.

Today, I am fully recovered, thanks to the expert care of care of a new doctor - a specialist in internal medicine. He ordered a full set of blood tests and changed my medication. He discovered that the combinations of medications prescribed by my doctor in Canada have been known to cause severe stomach pain. 

The moral of my story … get your ducks, and your doctors in a row. Line ‘em lined up before you need ‘em, or risk losing your imaginary gallstones, and your cool, when you need it most. Stay healthy my friends.

Roberto Chocolate is The Retirement Detective. His real name is Robert Brown, but his last name does not translate well into Spanish – so in Panama he is known by his Spanish moniker – Chocolate.

He also writes a travel column for www.NewsroomPanama.com

In December 2008, he and his wife drove, along with their two large dogs from Toronto, Canada to Panama, investigating twenty-six retirement destinations along the way. You can read all about The Epic Journey on this website: http://www.retirementdetectives.com (home page)

I learned a valuable lesson today - don't use UPS or DHL within Panama - they cost too much.  The big international couriers are essential for getting mail delivered from Canada or the USA, but not for within Panama.

I was told by an employee of a Mailboxes Etc. franchise that the big couriers subcontract that work to a local delivery company anyway, and that I could go to directly to them and save a lot of money.

It turns out they were right. To send a set of lost keys from Coronado to David would have cost $10 using one of the big couriers, but cost only $1.00 by Uno Express.

There are a number of domestic delivery service in Panama such as Uno Express, Fletes Chavale, or Transportes Ferguson.

In Coronado, Uno Express is located on the west side of the Accel gas station, facing Cochez. 

 The perennial favorite expat bar, Woody's Beach Bar and Grill reopened on November 2nd, just in time for the busy tourist season - AKA - the dry season  (December - May). 

The restaurant was badly damaged when an eighteen-foot high tidal surge crashed into the bar, destroying cement walls, twisting steel gates and crushing to death a pet toucan that was trapped in its cage. The damage to the restaurant was covered by insurance and luckily it was not structural, however Sam - the pet toucan, will be deeply missed.

The new cosmetics look great and the restaurant has all the same staff, music and menu, including their now-famous poutine. Located just down the beach from The Royal Decameron Resort in Farallon.  Closed Mondays and Tuesdays until December.

Life’s a Gas, medically speaking

I’m laughing about it now, but it was pretty scary at the time.

My first and so far only Panamanian medical emergency began as an upset stomach. I took an antacid, and it got worse, spreading into a sharp band of pain that encircling my middle. I took a painkiller, but in minutes I was doubled over. It was then I decided it might be a good time to see a doctor.

I drove myself to the nearby clinic in an all-inclusive resort. Suffering through the dozen speed bumps on the road, I arrived at the clinic, shaken and in need of immediate medical attention.

The resort's clinic, it turned out, was perfectly equipped for predictable tourist disorders: hangovers, sunburns, upset stomach and diarrhea brought on by garden variety overindulgences due to overexposure to all-inclusive poolside cocktails and buffets … and not much else.

Back in the car, I continued my torturous trek to a new clinic I’d heard about, 20 minutes away in Coronado. I was ushered into the emergency area, and tended to immediately. Impressed by the timely attention, I spent the entire afternoon hooked up to painkillers and saline.

A very attractive nurse appeared and took ultrasounds of my mid-section. She slides her wand along my greased-up distended girth and says, “I think it will be a girl.” Professional, attractive and a sense of humor — I am impressed. I make a mental note to shed a few pounds.

Shortly thereafter, a doctor arrived and informed me that I have pancreatitis, and need to proceed immediately to a hospital immediately, and see a specialist. There is an ambulance already en route to take me there.

I asked, in part, to fill an awkward silence, how much that ambulance ride would set me back. His answer left me stunned: “Four hundred dollars.”

I opt out of the ambulance option, and arrange for my friend Juan to pick up my wife, who I left fretting at home, and take us to the hospital in Panama City, where a specialist awaits me.

I arrive at the hospital in Panama City in good time. I sit as patiently as possible through another mind-numbing round of admitting paperwork.

Soon I am in triage, being informed by a GP that I will require gallstone surgery. “I thought I had pancreatitis”?

“No, it is definitely gallstones, I can see on your ultrasound, you have a blockage” the doctor replied. “You’ll see when the specialist arrives.” He did an about-face and disappeared down a corridor.

I sat for five long hours, waiting, without food, water or attention of any kind, before I lose my patience.

I pulled my I.V. needles from my arm and sign myself out, and left with my protesting wife and friend to the car.

We head back to the clinic and request a referral to another hospital.

A new attending physician examines my ultrasound and tells me I have gas.

I spend the next four days in bed with my wife’s chicken soup. I decde to get myself set up with a good doctor should this ever happen again.

Today, I am fully recovered, thanks to the expert care of Dr. Eric Ulloa, a specialist in internal medicine who is an advisor to the Minister of Health and writes the medical column for Newsroom Panama. He ordered a full set of blood tests and changed my medication.

It turned out that the medication prescribed by my doctor in Canada was in fact the true cause of my severe stomach pain. It was reacting to another medicine I was taking.

The moral of my story … get your ducks, and your doctors in a row. Line ‘em lined up before you need ‘em, or risk losing your imaginary gallstones, and your cool, when you need it most.

Stay healthy my friends,

Roberto Chococlaté 

 Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water...

  On Saturday afternoon my wife was walking the dogs on the beach at Santa Clara and decided to rest for a spell. She laid down seventy feet from the water’s edge. Suddenly a rouge wave smashed into her, tossing her around like a rag doll, badly scrapping her legs. When she was finally able to struggle to her knees, her expensive sunglasses and favorite beach shoes were gone. Thankfully the dogs, especially our older dog had been even further away from the water and were not taken out by the undertow. 

        It seems sunglasses and shoes were not the only thing lost yesterday when an seventeen-foot surge smashed ashore around four o’clock Saturday afternoon. The true tragedy is that people lost their lives, at least two people drowned in the Pacific beaches area. Our hearts go out to the families of those people. Houses and business’s are damaged, some possibly beyond repair, and closer to home a young man lost a dear friend.

Henry Somenugå  is a love-able young man who at four months old contracted a high fever. Lack of money and medical aid left him deaf and as a result, he never learned to speak. He works as a dishwasher at Woody’s Bar and Grill in his hometown of Farrallon. Henry is part of the Woody’s family. His disability does not deter his spirit. His squeals of happiness upon seeing you as you enter will light up your entire day. 

Two years ago, Monique got him a pet toucan named Samantha, who was also disabled. Her wing had been broken when an eagle attacked it. Life is harsh in the jungle. Samantha was well loved and well taken care of by Henry. Always the center of attention, Sam was constantly being photographed and fed treats by guests. The life of Riley, until late Saturday afternoon.

At sixteen hundred hours a seventeen-foot high tidal surge smashed into Woody’s Bar and Grill. The guests and staff ran shrieking to safety, but not Henry. Unconcerned for his own safety, he turned and ran back into the restaurant to save his beloved Samantha. Just as he entered the building, a second huge wave smashed in the iron gates, ripping out the palm trees, and demolished the six foot-high cement walls, it exploded the glass windows like they were made of balsa wood. 

The salt water mixed with septic tank contents, sink drains, grease traps and toilets water together with the black sand created a toxic, filthy wall of water.  All Henry could think of was Samantha trapped inside her cage. Racing against time, he fought his way underwater, through the filth, glass and debris. Woody raced back in to rescue Henry.

As the water receded, the full extent of the damage could be seen. Ice makers tossed across the room liked toys, full freezers set on their ends, heavy steel tables crushed against the far wall, the debris filled with sand and mud. Despite serious cuts that required many stitches, Henry frantically pulled away debris until he found the crushed cage and the lifeless body of Samantha, drowned inside her cage. 

Ironically, animals can sense the impending danger, and will flee even before humans can detect anything amiss. Samantha’s protective cage became her prison and her death sentence. 

My wife and I bring sandwiches and coffee to Woody’s as we deliver the review from yesterday’s paper. It is a bitter-sweet moment. I see the pain in Henry’s eyes, yet he still manages a hug and a small smile as we enter the sand-filled devastation that was filled with customers yesterday. 

Henry shows me his scrapes, bruises and stitches. He is walking around in a daze, the flip flops he found are two sizes too large for his feet. He seems not to notice. How terrifying to be trapped inside his silent world, unable to call out for help, unable to save the thing he loved most. Sometimes life is just not fair. 

Monique is trying to be tough, but the tears flow when she talks about Henry. “His silent sobs as he buried his little friend was almost too much for us to bear” she said. 

Woody’s will reopen, bigger and better than ever, she and Woody vow. “We will be open by November first, you just wait and see”. I believe her.

I leave to check the other bar that I had reviewed on Saturday - Pipas. The front-end loaders and trucks are already clearing out Pipas Beach Bar and Grill. It will be re-opened in two days. They were built higher up and further away from the water, so they are fine. I also discover that Las Verenarus in Santa Clara is flooded, but still mostly undamaged. It will take some digging out and cleaning up, but their kitchen is already serving food. 

   Woody’s is badly damaged, and a young man’s heart is broken. The bar will be rebuilt, and Henry will heal. 

Could this disaster have been prevented? Yes. A clear early-warning system delivered in both Spanish and in English would have alerted people in time to save property and pets. Safety glass in all windows facing the sea, building first floors on open stilts, using v-shaped steel storm barriers on shoreline properties to dissipate waves, and most importantly enforcing high-water building limits would all help lessen the detestation, and possibly safe lives. 

It sometimes takes an incident like this to force developers and builders to build stronger safeguards against tidal force surges. Better yet lets get inspectors to enforce the rules that are already in place, and stop  developers from skirting the law with well placed cash incentives. Earthquakes, major storms and tsunami’s can, and do happen in Panama, despite what the real estate spin doctors try to say.

World famous fishing spot at Piñas bay

FISHING ADVENTURE - Hooked on a feeling

I have heard rumors of a mythical fishing lodge where fishing virgins are transformed into seasoned pros.

A failed fisherman and eternal optimist, I find myself seated in a tiny charter plane en route to one of the top fishing resorts in the world, the Tropic Star Lodge in the Darien.

An hour later, we rise sharply over Mount Cerra Pina, and drop spectacularly onto the seaside runway.

Somebody wisely hands out cocktails as we deplane. We pile into a tractor-pulled wagon, and begin a breathtaking journey through primal Darien jungle to Pinas Bay.

My fellow fishermen and women consist of an eclectic collection of Americans, Canadians, Europeans, South Americans and a Panamanian.

According to their web site, morefishing records have been set at the Tropic Star Lodge than anywhere else in the world.

But a truly great resort requires more than splashy fishing records, and since the lodge counts world leaders, movie stars and captains of industry among its clientele, I am hoping for more than improved fortune on the open water.

We arrive at the lodge, and are met by our hosts, owners Terri and Mike Andrews. Over a spectacular communal dinner, we begin to experience the uniqueness of the lodge.

The multi-course meal is spectacular, our hosts warm and welcoming, and their lodge casual and beautiful.

With a dawn awakening ahead of me, I bid my fishing comrades good night and retreat to my rustically elegant room. Tomorrow I shall see if The Tropic Star can accomplish the hitherto impossible, and make a fisherman out of me.

To portray myself as a deep-sea fishing underachiever would be an understatement. On each of three previous attempts, hungry predators ate my catch before I managed to haul a torn, bodiless head aboard.

But hope, as they say, springs eternal, and after a five-star breakfast the next morning my crew and I are on the open saltwater, and I find myself where I have been three times before — in the aptly named fighting chair.

Before long, a magnificent sailfish blasts out of the water. Twice my height and over half my weight, it rises again and again out of the water, struggling to tear the $1000 rod out of my hands. The mate snaps photos of my battle. I haul back, reeling in the test line as fast as I can. He breaks water, fighting harder than before, and takes 60 meters of line with him.

I start over, reeling him in as hard as I can. He goes deep and then races towards the boat. I furiously twirl the handle. All he needs is a little slack — a quick jerk and the line will snap.

A loose line can easily backlash and become entangled in the spool. He tries circling the boat to snare the line, but the captain comes to my rescue, manipulating throttles and steering wheel like a NASCAR pro.

He plows the boat backwards, splashing water over the aft rail of the cockpit. He then lurches suddenly forward, spins around and races to keep pace with my monster of the deep.

My arms are burning jelly. Just as I am about to lose him he rises out of the water and stays on the surface, signaling his exhaustion and capitulation.

With all my remaining strength I reel him into the boat. The mate takes a photo and slips the circle hook off. He slowly descends, his cold eyes staring me down as he disappears back into the deep.

This is the largest fish I have ever seen in the flesh, but nowhere close to a record ? maybe so, but he is my champion fish.

The Tropic Star Lodge was an experience I will never forget. Like the song says, I am hooked on the feeling. Treat yourself, and you will be hooked as well.

The detective’s web site is: http://www.retirementdetectives.com

RATES:
All rates include a 31 foot Bertram yacht, captain, mate, fuel, tackle, air conditioned room, all meals, wine/beer: High season Dec 9 – March 12 = $2,800 per non-fishing person in The Palace (sleeps 6) to $4,995 per person per week (4 persons to a boat).

Surcharges for fewer than four per boat apply. Partial weeks and non-fishing rates are available.

TO GET THERE:

There are no roads to Pinas Bay. Air Panama or Aeroperlas have flights from Albrook Airport, $500 return. In Panama: www.tropicstar.com, (507) 232-8375. In the US: 1-800 682-3424.

Article reprinted with permission from the Panama Star

     Happy wife, happy life.

     by THE TRAVELING DETECTIVE

     Roberto Chocolaté

      "Map? I don't need no stinkin' map"

      Panama Star PANAMA.

According to my wife, we are lost.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t do lost. I drove the entire North and Central American continents without a map. Map? I don’t need no stinkin‘ map. Just point the high beams south and keep on ‘til Christmas. That’s my style. Besides, I maintain, since we are driving around with no particular destination, we cannot possibly be lost.”
She thinks we are out for a pleasant drive. She doesn’t suspect a thing.

I check in the mirror. I look good, my Ray Bans glistening in the setting sun, my sleek Montecristo Panama hat perfectly shaped, sunroof open to catch the breeze, my mind fixed on the succulent reward awaiting us at our undisclosed destination.

It’s hard to see at dusk with Ray Bans on, and I remove them just in time to avoid a gigantic pothole that would have swallowed our minivan whole.

Panama does have unique driving challenges. It seems that putting up a directional sign or a street name is perhaps illegal or some sort of mortal sin. To make my life as a travel writer more of a challenge, there are towns with the same name all over the country, and the capital city, district, province and country share the same name.
My wife reminds me that in Canada every town name seems taken from a village in England, and how many Springfield’s or Riversides are there in the USA? “Touché,” I submit.

I glance over at my bride, remembering my father-in-law’s advice on the day of our wedding. “For a happy marriage,” he said, “learn these three phrases: ‘Yes Dear,’ ‘I’m sorry,’ and ‘You’re Right’. Add to this the words ‘I love you’ and you have found life’s most precious secret— happy wife, happy life. “

In the spirit of maintaining my bliss, I break down and ask directions. “Donde La Casa Vieja Steak House?” I pray silently that I understand the response. “La Pintada, directo, diez kilometros,” he helpfully replies. “Gracias,” I respond, and drive off smugly.

“I am not lost. You are just a tad impatient,” I explain, violating one of my father-in-law’s keys to happiness. Appearing lost was my first mistake, arguing only amplified the gravity of the error. If I didn’t buck up this dinner would cost me a lot more than money.
The town of La Pintada appears on the horizon. We park in the town square and walk across to the restaurant. La Casa Vieja has a quaint Western cowboy feel to it, a fitting for a steakhouse. As an Irishman, I eat both kinds of foods – meat and potatoes, so I am packing my carnivorous appetite. With its authentic décor, and the best steaks in Panama, it is well worth the drive.

For an unforgettable, authentic steakhouse experience, take the direct route through Penonome to La Pintada. A sign in the town square even points to La Pintada.
The name La Pintada came from this house. Over two hundred years ago, when most homes in the area were made of straw, this stone and plaster house was “la casa pintada” (The painted house).

The decor is reminiscent of its New Mexico owner’s home state. Ted Apolaca’s family has been in the hospitality business for decades and it shows in the service and style of this authentic steakhouse.

If you love meat, sink your fangs into the Asado de Tiras – a thick, juicy New York strip grilled and spiced to perfection. $14.95. Leave room for the flan.

Sunglasses and Panama hat optional. Appetite required. Happy life secured.

August 8, 2009 article in the Panama Star