few vehicles behind us. There was the tinkle of breaking glass and the sound of buckling metal, followed by some irate Spanish.
Aaron looked like a small child.
'Sorry 'bout that.'
The reason why we'd all stopped was now plain to see. A line of pre-teen schoolkids in pairs and holding hands was crossing the road, towards the promenade and the bay. The girls were all in white dresses, the boys in blue shorts and white shirts. One of the teachers was shouting at a taxi driver who complained at the delay, an old shaggy arm waving out of the window back at her.
Now everyone seemed to be hitting their horns, as if that would change anything.
The kids' faces were two distinct shapes, the same as in Colombia. Those of Spanish descent had wild, curly black hair and olive skin, while the straight black-haired Indians had more delicate features, slightly flatter faces, smaller eyes and a browner complexion. Aaron grinned as he watched the children cross, chattering to each other as if nothing was happening around them.
'You have kids, Nick?'
'No.' I shook my head. I didn't want to start getting into that sort of conversation. The less he knew about me the better. A proper operator wouldn't have asked, and it was strange being with someone who didn't know the score.
Besides, after next week I wouldn't have my child anyway Josh would.
'Oh.'
The kids were now being corralled by the teachers on the bay side of the road.
Two girls, still holding hands, were staring at him, or my sunglasses, I couldn't make out which. Aaron stuck his thumb to his nose and made a face. They cross-eyed and thumbed back, giggling together because they'd done it without the teachers seeing.
Aaron looked round at me.
'We have a girl, Luce. She'll be fifteen this November.'
'Oh, nice.' I just hoped he wasn't going to start getting photos out of his wallet then I'd have to say how pretty she was and all that stuff, even if she looked like she'd been given the good news with the flat of a shovel.
The traffic started moving once more. He waved at the kids as they stuck their thumbs in their ears and flapped their fingers.
We fought our way through the traffic along the boulevard. To the right was a run of large, Spanish colonial- type buildings that just had to be government property. Fronted by tall, decorative wrought-iron fencing, they were all immaculately painted, set back in acres of grass, waterfalls and flagpoles, all flying the red, white and blue squares and stars of the Panamanian flag. Laid out between the buildings were well-manicured public parks with neat bushes and paths, and larger-than-life statues of sixteenth-century Spanish guys in oval tin hats and pantaloons, pointing their swords heroically towards the sea.
Soon we were passing the equally impressive American and
British embassies. Inside each compound, the Stars and Stripes and Union Jack fluttered above the trees and high perimeter railings. The thickness of the window glass indicated it wasn't just for show.
As well as knowing what direction you needed to head out of a country when in the shit, it's also good to check on where your embassy is. I always liked to know there was somewhere to run to if the wheels fell off. Ambassadors don't take too kindly to deniable operators begging for help. I'd have to jump the fence; they didn't let people like me in through the front door. But once I was inside, it would take more than the security to get me back on to the street.
We reached the end of the bay and what was obviously the rougher side of town.
The buildings here had flaking, faded paint and some were derelict. None the less, there was still a touch of civic pride. A metre-high wall ran the length of the bay, more to stop people falling on to the beach than as a sea defence.
It was decorated with blue mosaic tiles, and a gang of about ten women in jeans and yellow T-shirts with 'Municipad' stamped on the back were busy scrubbing it with broom heads dipped in large buckets of soapy water. They were also pulling up all the green stuff that was fighting its way between the paving slabs. A couple of them seemed to be on their break, leaning against the wall drinking the milk from a coconut and pink liquid from a plastic bag with a straw.
Sticking out to sea for about a K in front of me was the peninsula on which perched the old Spanish colonial town, a mishmash of ancient terra cotta roofs huddled around the pristine white towers of a church. Aaron hung a right that took us away from the bay and into an even more run-down area. The road was bumpier and my headache worsened as the Mazda's suspension creaked and groaned.
The buildings were low-level, flat-roofed, decaying tenement blocks. Their once multicoloured facades had been bleached out by the sun, and the high humidity had given them dark stains. Big cracks in the plaster exposed the breeze blocks beneath.
The street narrowed and the traffic slowed. Pedestrians and scooters threaded their way between the vehicles, and Aaron seemed to need all his concentration to avoid hitting anyone. At least it shut him up for a while.
The sun was directly overhead now and seemed to push down on this part of town, keeping a lid on the heat and the exhaust fumes, which were much worse here than on the boulevard. Without circulating air I was leaking big-time and the back of my hair was soaking. The two of us were turning into the sweat-hog brothers.
I heard the roar of a bulldozer, and saw rusty metal grilles covering every conceivable entry point into the ramshackle buildings. Washing hung from the windows and balconies, kids shouted at each other across the street.
The road became so narrow that vehicles were forced right up to the kerb, their wing mirrors occasionally scraping pedestrians. Nobody seemed to care; the crowds were too busy gossiping and snacking on fried bananas or drinking beer.
It wasn't long before the traffic flow congealed and every driver immediately leant on his horn. I could smell strong, flowery perfume as women pushed past, and wafts of frying food from an open doorway. The whole place walls, doors, even adverts was a riot of red and yellow.
We nudged our way forward a bit, then stopped by two old women flicking their hips to blaring Caribbean music. Beyond them was a dimly lit shop, selling gas cookers, washing machines, canned food, aluminium pots and pans, from which a Latin samba spilled on to the street. I liked it: mini Manhattan did nothing for me; this was more my kind of town.
We passed through a street market and the traffic started to move a little more smoothly. This is El Chorrillo. Do you remember Just Cause you know, the invasion?'
I nodded.
'Well, this was ground zero when they we attacked the city. Noriega had his command centre here. It's an open space now. Bombed flat.'
'Oh, right.' I looked out at a row of old women sitting behind flat card tables, with what looked like lottery tickets laid out neatly on display. A muscle-bound bodybuilder, a black guy in a very tight Golds Gym vest and jeans, was buying some tickets from one of the tables, looking an absolute nugget with a City gent-style umbrella in his hand to keep the sun off.
We eventually squeezed out of the market area, hit a T-junction and stopped. The road in front of us was a busy main drag. From the little I'd seen, the law here seemed to be that if you were bigger than the vehicle you were heading towards, you didn't have to stop: you just hit the horn and put your foot down. The Mazda wasn't exactly the biggest toy in the shop, but Aaron didn't seem to realize it was still big enough to get out there.
To my right was a wooden drink shack. Pepsi had won the cola wars hands down in Panama: every other hoarding was covered with their ads, alongside stubble chinned cowboys welcoming us to Marlboro Country. Next to the shack, in the shade of a tree and leaning against the tailgate of a highly polished Ford Explorer, with sparkling chrome wheels and a Madonna hanging off the rear-view mirror, were five Latino guys, young men in their twenties.
