Panamá for Sale—Or, the Danger of Calling it Paradise

They called it paradise,
I don’t know why.
You call someplace paradise,
Kiss it goodbye.
The Eagles, “The Last Resort”


During the three years my wife and I lived in Nicaragua, we came to believe that that country was the best kept secret in the region.

Shortly after moving to Panamá, however, we changed our minds.

I still believe that Nicaragua’s geography—with its imposing chain of volcanoes and dazzling strings of lakes—is slightly more stunning than Panamá’s. But the beauty of Panamá is far more accessible—easier to get to and enjoy.

And with regard to material comforts, there’s no contest. When it comes to goods and services—particularly medical care—Nicaragua is a good thirty years behind.

What’s more, Nicaragua’s poverty is oppressing. Whenever I mention this to Panamanians, they assure me that the poor of Panamá also lead difficult lives. I don’t dispute this. I’m only saying that, personally, I’d much prefer to be working class in Panamá than in Nicaragua. Simply put, Panamá offers more opportunities to improve the quality of one’s life.

Prior to coming here, I knew little about this nation. Like most people throughout the world, other than the famed transit route between the seas, I believed there wasn’t much to Panamá. And having attended grammar school in the States—back in the early 1960s—it was drilled into me that the isthmus was really a colony of ours, and that the Stars and Stripes was destined to fly over the American Canal Zone forever.

And while it’s true that my father spent his adolescence and part of his young adulthood here, the stories I heard from him about Panamá—always lovingly tinted through the fond lens of nostalgia—were pale imprints of his past, impossible to grasp with clarity until I moved here and was able to appreciate, although only in small measure, his former world with my own eyes.

Thus, with that scant knowledge, when my wife and I came to Panamá—following the trail of gainful employment—the charm and eye-opening diversity of its people, as well as its natural beauty, took us completely by surprise. These features, plus the startling modernity of the nation, soon led us to conclude that we had indeed found a treasure; and we were thrilled that Panamanians were happy to share it with us.

In the last two or three years, however, in both the local and international English-speaking media, there has been a boisterous advertising blitz that proclaims Panamá to be “Paradise.”

I find this alarming.

If this heavily used marketing leitmotif were directed solely at tourists—saying, “Come, experience Paradise, spend your money, and then have a safe trip back home”—I could easily live with it. But what’s worrisome is that the real estate industry—in a campaign largely fueled by greed—is trying to convince retired American baby boomers and other independently wealthy foreigners to purchase property in Panamá.

Real estate is a finite resource. Plus, is it really desirable to invite hundreds of thousands of outsiders to move here? When my wife and I resided in Nicaragua, there were few foreigners—ourselves included. As a result, we were able to blend into the local culture, rather than impose our ways upon it. Still, in spite of there being relatively few foreigners—in comparison to Panamá—the wealthy immigrants have changed things, and often not for the better, as has happened with the city of Granada, where I spent my adolescence. The presence of foreign capital has raised real estate prices to outrageous levels, to the point where locals, who earn córdobas, as opposed to dollars or euros, can no longer afford to buy property.

And I can now see that Panamanians, who at first were ready to welcome everyone with open arms, are having second thoughts about the growing waves of foreigners who are arriving with money in hand ready to buy a piece of “Paradise.” Most of my neighbors and acquaintances are now gazing with alarm at the capital’s ever-changing skyline. Invariably, they tell me that the construction boom is out of control. And even the experts agree, as stated in interviews published in the nation’s leading papers, that Panamá city doesn’t have the infrastructure—with regard to dealing with the increased vehicular traffic, the dwindling water supply, and the spiraling demand for electricity—to accommodate the unprecedented growth spurt.

And today, as opposed to five years ago, when my wife and I moved here, residents of the capital are starting to take to the streets in protest of the absolute lack of urban planning.

As I watch the sale of Paradise with growing concern, hoping that the government intervenes, perhaps by calling a moratorium on new construction, I can hear Don Henley’s voice in the background, singing “The Last Resort” with heartrending melancholy. This song—the closing track on the Eagles' classic album, Hotel California—speaks specifically to the dilapidation of my beloved Golden State. But as I listen to it today, it’s a warning that if we keep on calling Panamá “Paradise,” we may soon have to kiss the charmed life we’ve led goodbye.