Bernardo’s Interesting Week

It all started with an email from a reader. In her message, she said that she had recently spent three years as a Peace Corps volunteer in the small town of Cuapa, Nicaragua, where much of Bernardo and the Virgen is set. She informed me that she was enjoying reading the novel, as the story has allowed her to feel close once again to the people and the pueblo she had grown to love. Learning that one’s work has so touched another person is enough to warm any writer’s heart.

But what really thrilled me about her message was the mention that she had learned about the book from Stephen Kinzer, who had “highly recommended” it.

That news alone was enough to make my week.

I’ve never met nor communicated with Stephen, but in the postscript to Bernardo and the Virgen, I acknowledge my novel's indebtedness to his book, The Blood of Brothers—which is about Nicaragua’s ten-year civil war. Stephen’s work helped me recreate those turbulent times. In particular, thanks to The Blood of Brothers I was able to fully grasp the thorny relationship that existed back then between the Catholic Church and the Sandinista government. As correspondent for The New York Times, Stephen spent the 1980s in Nicaragua, so he knows the country's history intimately. Thus, to have him recommend Bernardo is high praise indeed.

A couple of days later, I received an email from Padre Oscar Chavarría, Cuapa’s parish priest. When I conducted research for Bernardo, Padre Gregorio Raya was the town’s priest. An astonishing source of information, his collaboration proved essential in the writing of the novel. The reader will find Padre Raya’s name listed in the book’s acknowledgements. Since then, he has been transferred to a parish in Juigalpa, an hour away from Cuapa.

Again, I had never met nor communicated with Padre Chavarría, so I was surprised to receive a message from Cuapa’s new priest. He had written to introduce himself and to let me know that he has heard good things about Bernardo. He also mentions that he’s eager to have the novel translated into Spanish so that all the devotees of la Virgen de Cuapa can read it.

But the news that most astounded me, and that Padre Chavarría gave with great joy, was that the Vatican, after nearly twenty-five years of studying the case, has authorized the Council of Nicaraguan Bishops to proclaim the apparitions of the Virgin to Bernardo Martínez—which first started on May 8, 1980—as authentic.

This makes the honor of having been chosen to write this book—for that is how it feels to me—all the greater.

And then, over a month ago I was interviewed by Emiliano Chamorro, a reporter with the Religion and Faith section of La Prensa (Nicaragua’s leading newspaper), for an article he was writing on Bernardo and the Virgin.

This appeared last Sunday. There are a few inaccuracies, as often happens in the writing profession. (Upon reading that I was born in Granada, Nicaragua, as opposed to Los Angeles, California, my sisters have started to claim that it confirms what they have suspected all along: that I'm adopted.)

For those who read Spanish, the article goes as follows:

Publican libro sobre Bernardo y la Virgen

El libro Bernardo and the Virgin, publicado en inglés en Estados Unidos por un nicaragüense, ha tenido excelentes críticas de reconocidos escritores latinoamericanos.

Emiliano Chamorro
religionyfe@laprensa.com.ni

Bernardo and the Virgin (Bernardo y la Virgen) es el título del libro que el nicaragüense Silvio Sirias escribió en Estados Unidos, en el cual el autor relata la historia de la aparición de la Virgen, contada por el propio vidente y fallecido sacerdote Bernardo Martínez.

El libro, que ha tenido una excelente aceptación, fue publicado por Northwestern University Press, en Chicago, como parte de una colección que explora el creciente fenómeno de la literatura latino-estadounidense.

Según el escritor nicaragüense Silvio Sirias, el libro nace por inspiración en charlas sostenidas con el vidente, el campesino Bernardo Martínez, a quien la Virgen se le presentó el 8 de mayo de 1980, en el pequeño municipio de Cuapa, Chontales.

A criterio del escritor nicaragüense, nacido en Granada, la inspiración para escribir Bernardo and the Virgin surgió cuando conoció personalmente a Bernardo Martínez. “Pasé muchas horas charlando con él y la historia de la aparición me pareció sumamente novelesca. Como escritor, la experiencia de Bernardo sirvió como punto de partida para contar la historia de Nicaragua durante la segunda mitad del siglo XX y explorar la religiosidad y el misticismo del pueblo nicaragüense durante un período en nuestra historia que fue muy turbulento”, expone Sirias.

Los críticos norteamericanos han señalado que la novela, además de tener un carácter religioso, tiene un carácter político y cultural. Sin embargo, el autor expresa que “me esmeré por mantener un punto de vista objetivo, es decir, no busco condenar a ninguno de los rivales políticos de los años ochenta”.

Lugar de Inspiración

Según Sirias, quien reside actualmente en Panamá, para conocer los detalles de la aparición de la Virgen, viajó en varias ocasiones al municipio de Cuapa, para poder documentarse y escribir el libro, pero además se entrevistó con personas claves que conocieron a Bernardo y los detalles de la aparición.

En ese sentido, Sirias afirmó, “pasé, en total, tres semanas en el pueblo. Es un sitio inspirador, particularmente el potrero (hoy convertido en santuario) de las apariciones”.

El libro Bernardo and the Virgin salió a luz en julio de 2005 y fue publicado por la Editorial Northwestern University Press, como parte de su Latino Voices Series (Serie de Voces Latinas). La obra escrita por el nicaragüense ha tenido muy buenas críticas en la prensa estadounidense y las ventas han sido respetables, según confirmó a La Prensa el propio escritor.

La idea de Sirias es que la obra, escrita en inglés, pueda ser traducida al español. “Mi sueño es que algún día la novela sea traducida al español, para que todos los nicaragüenses puedan disfrutarla”, apuntó.

A criterio del escritor, quien con el libro Bernardo and the Virgin despuntó como novelista, su mayor satisfacción ha sido “poder dar inicio a mi carrera como novelista en los Estados Unidos”.

Sobre Bernardo

Recuerda a Bernardo como una persona sencilla y entregada a la fe.

“Para mí era como hablar con una persona cualquiera. Pero cuando hablábamos de las apariciones y de su relación con la Virgen, Bernardo se transfiguraba por completo. El rostro se le iluminaba y adquiría un aspecto casi angelical. En esas ocasiones, era fácil para mí creer que algo extraordinario le pasó en su potrero en las afueras de Cuapa, hace 25 años”, afirmó Sirias.

Por otro lado, el nicaragüense explicó que escribir Bernardo and the Virgin, en lo spiritual, ha sido la enseñanza más trascendental en su vida.

Interés de Traducirlo al Español

El párroco del municipio de Cuapa, el sacerdote Oscar Chavarría, expresó tener interés en que el libro Bernardo and the Virgin, pueda ser traducido al idioma español, para que los católicos nicaragüenses conozcan más los detalles de la aparición de la Virgen de Cuapa al fallecido sacerdote Bernardo Martínez.

Chavarría se ha estado comunicando con el escritor Silvio Sirias, autor de la obra, para dar los primeros pasos en la traducción de la obra.

Sobre el Autor y la Obra

Silvio Sirias es de origen nicaragüense. Vivió muchos años en Estados Unidos, donde estudió literatura. Bernardo and the Virgin es el cuarto libro que ha publicado; todos ellos en Estados Unidos. Sin embargo, es la primera novela.

Los demás son obras de crítica literaria, incluyendo un estudio de Tropical Town and Other Poems, la colección poética que Salomón de la Selva escribió en inglés. La contraportada de la novela tiene una breve presentación de Virgilio Suárez, un importante escritor cubano-americano.

Las personas que quieran adquirir el libro Bernardo and the Virgin o quieran conocer mas información sobre el autor, pueden visitar el sitio web www.silviosirias.com.

Una Canción por Amor

Esencialmente, el libro Bernardo and the Virgin, a criterio del autor “es una canción de amor dedicada a Nicaragua, y me encantaría que algún día todos los pinoleros pudieran leerla. Lo único que hace falta es que una casa editorial de habla hispana se interese en publicar la versión en español”, aseguró Sirias.

Three Paths to Martyrdom: Ambrose Bierce, Camilo Torres, and Héctor Gallego

Martyr, n. One who moves along the line of least reluctance to a desired death.
Ambrose Bierce, The Devil’s Dictionary

Todo cuanto constituya un obstáculo para la lucha revolucionaria—nuestros estudios, nuestro trabajo, nuestro bienestar, aun nuestra propia familia—es necesario abandonarlo para entregarnos de lleno a la lucha por la toma de poder hasta la muerte.
Camilo Torres

Si desaparezco, no pierdan el tiempo buscándome—sigan en la obra.
Héctor Gallego

It is the cause, not the death, which makes the martyr.
Napoleon Bonaparte



In 1913, at the age of 71, Ambrose Bierce, the notoriously cynical American writer and journalist, left the United States, crossing the border into Mexico to join Pancho Villa and his rebels. In a letter to his niece, Bierce wrote: "Goodbye. If you hear of my being stood up against a Mexican stone wall and shot to rags, please know that I think that a pretty good way to depart this life. It beats old age, disease, or falling down the cellar stairs. To be a gringo in Mexico—ah, that is euthanasia."

Bierce’s last correspondence was dated December 26, 1913. The envelope bore a postmark from Chihuahua. In that letter, Bierce stated that the next day he was leaving for Ojinaga to join Villa’s forces as they prepared to attack the city’s long besieged fortress.

That was the last anyone ever heard from him. One can only hope that in Ojinaga, Ambrose Bierce met the “desired death” he mentions in his definition of martyr, which appears in his best known work, The Devil's Dictionary.

Over half-a-century later, on February 15, 1966, Camilo Torres, one of the first to join Colombia’s Ejército de Liberación Nacional (ELN), was killed during a blotched guerilla ambush in the mountains of his native country. It was the first and last time he would see combat.

The death of this charismatic former Catholic priest was amply covered in the world press. Instantly, Camilo Torres became an international icon—a revolutionary cleric who sacrificed his life to bring about a just world. Torres’s martyrdom had a particularly big impact in Latin America. His prestige reached such heights that another renowned martyr, Victor Jara of Chile, composed one of his most memorable songs in his honor. And for a couple of decades Camilo Torres’s name would be mentioned in the same breath as Che Guevara’s—this before the world tired of Colombia’s seemingly never-ending armed conflict.

Only a few years after Torres’s death, on the night of June 9, 1971, Héctor Gallego, another Colombian priest, was kidnapped by members of Panama’s security forces. For three years he had served the people of Santa Fe as their parish priest. He was never seen or heard from again.

In life, as well as in death, Héctor Gallego has often been compared to Camilo Torres.

Indeed, the men had much in common. Both were Colombians and, as priests, they were greatly concerned about the plight of the poor. Moreover, they believed that the Catholic Church should be proactive with regard to social issues, particularly in helping to build a world in which wealth is more fairly distributed.

Still, in spite of these similarities, their differences are striking.

Camilo Torres came from a prominent family. He grew up among Bogotá’s upper class and had the privilege of a first-rate education. Immediately after being ordained, Torres left Colombia to attend the Catholic University of Louvain, in Belgium, where he earned a masters’ degree in sociology. Once back in his homeland, in addition to his ministry, he taught at the Universidad Nacional. Torres also served as a high-ranking member of several organizations that promoted land reform to benefit the rural poor.

But the Colombian priest quickly became exasperated by the ruling class’ ability to block or stall proposals of significance. An ardent admirer of Cuba’s swift social and economic transformation during the early years of La Revolución, he wished the same for his country. Stirred by the urgency with which he wanted to achieve this, his viewpoints grew increasingly radical.

Torres was close friends with Gustavo Gutiérrez—the Peruvian priest whose enormously influential book, La teología de la liberación, gave rise to the theory and practice of liberation theology in our hemisphere. But even Father Gutiérrez—whose notion’s about the Church’s role in alleviating the suffering of the poor were long ago declared to be in conflict with Catholic doctrine—found Camilo’s ideas too provocative, and he cautioned his colleague to adopt a more moderate stance.

But in spite of Gutiérrez’s counsel, Torres began to write articles and make public statements that, in essence, called upon the urban working class and the rural poor to rise up in arms. These pronouncements set him on a collision course with his superior, Cardinal Luis Concha Córdoba.

The priests went public with their dispute, engaging in a written debate on religious and social matters that appeared in Colombia’s leading newspapers. Through this exposure, Father Torres became the darling of his nation’s left. But the Cardinal soon tired of arguing with Torres and, in reprisal, gave him a socially irrelevant assignment. Saddened by what he perceived as the Church’s indifference to social justice, Camilo resigned from the priesthood.

Once freed of the restrictions imposed by the cloth, however, Torres started his own political party. He became a major figure in the Colombian presidential campaign of 1965, urging his compatriots to abstain from voting to show their dissatisfaction with the political system. But yet again, as had been the case throughout Torres’s entire life, impatience got the better of him, and he suddenly vanished, without a trace, from public view.

When he resurfaced, several months later, it was as a full-fledged member of the ELN—Colombia’s oldest guerrilla group. And not long after that, when Camilo died in combat, he immediately joined the pantheon of Latin America’s most noteworthy revolutionaries.

Unlike Camilo Torres, Héctor Gallego was of humble origins—an agriculturalist family from rural Antioquia. He was a simple man who immediately after his ordination left his loved ones and his country to become the first parish priest in the four-hundred year history of Santa Fe, a small town in the mountains of Veraguas, Panamá. As recently as the early 1970s, the trip from Santiago, the province’s capital city, to Santa Fe, took nine hours. Today one can make the journey in a little over an hour. Partly because of the lack of access roads, when Gallego arrived to his first assignment, the poor of Santa Fe lived in a feudal state, with the local caciques controlling many aspects of people's lives.

Although Héctor Gallego had come to tend to the spiritual needs of his parishioners, when he witnessed the exploitation the campesinos were subjected to, he realized that his first task would be to help set them free. It is here where the most important difference between the Colombians emerges: Gallego was a pacifist. Early in his ministry, in a monthly parish bulletin, Gallego wrote that his role models for transforming society were Jesus, Gandhi, and Martin Luther King.

With the support of the leadership of his diocese, Gallego urged the poor to pool their resources to form a cooperative—an institution that still survives, and very successfully, to this day. And the young priest worked tirelessly, with missionary zeal—walking countless miles along the mountain and jungle paths of Veraguas to tend to the physical, educational, and spiritual needs of the poor, the ignorant, and the sick.

Tragically, the success of his efforts placed him in grave personal danger—as in only a short time it had altered the social order of Veraguas’ mountain ranges to the detriment of the local caciques. In the end, although Gallego helped to liberate the poor from living as virtual slaves—by teaching the campesinos that there is strength in unity—the role he played in leading them to freedom cost him his life.

Because of the quiet, serene diligence of his ministry, Héctor Gallego’s death did not resound internationally, as did Camilo Torres’s. But today, in Santa Fe, many people believe that he was a prophet, and that he is a saint.

All three men—Bierce, Torres, and Gallego—took different paths to martyrdom. Ambrose Bierce, in an entirely selfish act, checked out of this world in a blaze of glory because he considered such a death far more respectable than succumbing to old age or disease. The mystery surrounding his end has become fodder for fiction, most notably for the Mexican author, Carlos Fuentes, who, in his novel Gringo Viejo, allows Bierce to meet his “desired death” before a Mexican firing squad.

Inspired by the Cuban Revolution, Camilo Torres attempted to change the face of Colombia. To do so, the former priest chose the path of armed insurrection, and in a statement divulged from his mountain hideout, he called upon others to follow his example. In a heartrending metaphor for the desired revolution that would remain forever beyond Torres’s grasp, he was killed while reaching out to strip a fallen soldier of his rifle.

Héctor Gallego died empty-handed, without so much as a rosary to give him comfort. In his final sermon, he reminded his parishioners that love always reigns over hate, peace over violence. What’s more, sensing the imminence of his death, he told the people of Santa Fe that if he disappeared, they should not waste their time looking for him; he believed it more important that they continue strengthening the community he had helped them build.

Unquestionably, the noblest martyrdom is that of Héctor Gallego. His sacrifice was never about becoming a myth or about altering the destiny of a nation: it was simply about bettering the lives of the impoverished men, women, and children of El Pueblo de Santa Fe.

The Children Who Stayed—Revisited

On January 9, 1964, the rising tension between a large segment of Panama’s population and the Zonians—US citizens who worked and resided in the Canal Zone—erupted into violence when a group Panamanian high schools students demanded that their nation’s flag be flown in front of the Zone’s Balboa High School, as required by an ordinance that President Kennedy had signed into effect shortly before his assasination.

A few Zonians, angered by what they considered an affront to the sovereignty of this “American Territory,” forcibly prevented Panama’s flag from sharing the mast with the Stars and Stripes. In the end, after several days of shootings and riots, twenty-two Panamanians and four American servicemen were dead.

This incident marked the beginning of the end of American control of the Panama Canal and the Canal Zone. And at present, Panamá solemnly commemorates January 9 as “El Día de los mártires,” a national day of observance.

Eventually, Panamanians and Zonians made peace , and although most Zonians have left Panamá, a few remained behind, choosing to make this nation their permanent home.

This article first appeared a little over two years ago, in slightly different form, in The Panama News, a local, English-language online publication.


The Children Who Stayed

Our eyes are on the rising, and not toward the setting sun.
James Fenimore Cooper, The Last of the Mohicans


Zonians. To be honest, before moving to Panama the thought of what happened to the Americans who used to live in the former Canal Zone—for several generations in some instances—never crossed my mind. But shortly after my arrival—in fact, the first day that I reported to work at Florida State University-Panama—I came face to face with the question.

"I'm a Zonian," Eric Holland, FSU-Panama’s Athletic Director, said to me during our first conversation.

"What do you mean by Zonian?" I asked.

"I grew up in the Zone. Except for four years in the United States, when I went away to college, I've lived my entire life in the Zone," Eric responded patiently, well accustomed to ignorance such as mine.

Over the past year and a half I have developed quite a curiosity about the Canal Zone, in particular about its culture. Sometimes, when I'm waiting for a taxi in the heart of Balboa, near the stately building that once housed the YMCA, I close my eyes and try to envision what the Zone must have been like forty years ago, when American colonists had control "in perpetuity" over the narrow ten-mile wide stretch of land that crosses the isthmus. My imagination invariably fails me; I see the buildings clearly, but in my mind's eye the people are always missing. I simply cannot conceive of how things must have been. I now understand that this is not unusual. What I've learned over time is that a person "has to have been there" to be able to grasp the concept of life in the Zone.

Zonian culture did not seep very deeply into Panamanian society. A number of wealthier Panamanian families did send their children to school in the Zone, and a few things like cayuco racing and American football have caught on with certain segments of isthmian society. However, the segregated Zonian existence assured that the traits and traditions established by the Americans who lived and worked here for nearly a century remained alien to outsiders. As a result, Zonian culture is destined to disappear. In fact, it's already becoming a historical footnote. In the end, only the great constructions, chief among them the Canal, will remain to attest that an extraordinary civilization once dwelled here.

On December 31, 1999, the United States turned the canal over to Panama. This included all operations, jobs, and properties. (Over a period of more than twenty years, American dominion had been gradually phased out.) As a consequence, straightforward economics forced the vast majority of Zonians to pack up their belongings and return to the States. This included many “Americans” who had lived their entire lives in the Zone.

There were, however, some who stayed.

Recently, I met with a few young Zonians, students who attend FSU-Panama, to discuss how the end of the American presence in the former Canal Zone has impacted their lives. In a classroom that looks out at both the Bridge of the Americas and the entrance to the canal, I chatted with Eric Holland, Stevie Bodden, Salvador Stabler, Olmedo Icaza, Angie Cruz-Segara, Krista Wiese, and Roy Dalton. Over slices of pepperoni pizza and cups of Pepsi "Blue," they answered my questions.

When asked to define a Zonian, they all agreed that a pure Zonian is "someone born in the former Zone before 1979," the year the Carter-Torrijos Treaty was signed. With the exception of Eric, all the informants were born in the mid-1980s.

"If we use that definition, then, that means that only Eric is a Zonian, the rest of you are not," I state, worried that they might be inadvertently excluding themselves from membership in this elite group.

"That's right. We're not Zonians. Our parents are Zonians, but we were born after the treaty. That makes us descendants of Zonians," said Stevie Bodden, who from the onset emerges as the group's primary spokesperson.

"Do you all agree with Stevie?" I ask.

In response, every young Zonian nods.

"But you all got to experience what life on the Zone was like, didn't you?" I ask.

Once again, they all assent by nodding.

"Describe that life to me, then. I want to understand it," I say.

The descendants of Zonians all jump in at once. What emerges is a picture of utopia: a perfect society of gainful, secure employment with housing and utilities provided free of charge; free, first rate medical and dental care; gardens and lawns that were immaculately kept by Panamanians gardeners contracted and paid for by the Panama Canal Commission (known in their parents' time as the Panama Canal Company); excellent public schools; pristine swimming pools; perfectly manicured baseball, softball, and football fields; spotless basketball and tennis courts; an infinite array of clubs and activities for young and old; and an extremely tight-knit community where a family felt absolutely safe, being able to leave their doors open at all hours without fear.

"We thought the entire world was like that," says Stevie. "There was never any reason for us to leave the Zone. In fact, I was 13 years old the first time I visited Panama City. I was so shocked to see how big it was. The only time we left the Zone was to cross over the bridge on our way to the interior. But we had everything we needed in the Zone. We did all our shopping in the PX and the Commissary, paying less for things than we would in the States. The Zone even had American fast food restaurants and several movie theaters. Therefore, going into Panama City was completely unnecessary."

"Was it like that for all of you?" I ask, still stunned by the revelation that anyone could be happy living enclosed in a narrow strip of land.

Again, every single member of the group nodded their assent—with the exception of Salvador Stabler, who was born in Colón and adopted years later by a Zonian family. Salvador had experienced life on the outside prior to moving to the Zone, and at times during our conversation he felt on the margin of the true descendants of Zonians.

"We had the best of both worlds: the discipline and order of US society, and for those of us who chose to venture out of the Zone, the relaxed lifestyle and standards of Latin America," adds Eric Holland.

"What is it that you miss the most about life in the Zone?" I ask the group.

"Our friends who left," everyone answers almost in unison. "Life became boring around here without them," adds Olmedo Icaza.

Expanding on what they missed the most, the "Post-Zonians" compile a long list of activities such as cheerleading, sport leagues, track and field competitions, alligator hunting in Gamboa, and so on.

"It makes me a little resentful when I start to think about all the fun things I had taken away from me," adds Angie Cruz-Segara. The group suddenly becomes silent, apparently pondering on their loss.

"Apart from having a way to support themselves, why did your families choose to remain in Panama?" I ask, cutting through their thoughts.

Their responses indicate three primary reasons their families chose to stay. First among them is that their parents do not like the pace of life of the United States. Then, every one in the group, with the exception of Roy Dalton, is of mixed-heritage; that is, one of their parents is Panamanian. And, finally, their families genuinely love Panama.

"Would you say that Zonian culture has died?" I ask.

Definitely not, according to the group. "The former Zone really comes to life again during the Christmas vacations and the US summers. That's when tons of Zonians who now live in the States come to visit. They miss Panama and feel the need to return. We have wonderful reunions during these times," says Stevie.

"Zonian culture is also alive in the States. Zonians are so close-knit that many decided to form 'Zonian' communities in Florida and Alabama," adds Eric Holland.

What I was astonished to discover during this part of the conversation was the emergence of a new fad among a some young Panamanians: to emulate Zonians.

"There are Panamanians out there who want to be just like us. They have adopted the way we speak, the way we look, and our attitudes, which are more liberal and adventurous than the average Panamanian. They want to hang out with us all the time. It's nice, but a little bewildering as well," says Stevie.

Regarding how they and their families first coped with the big change following the turnover of the Canal, they all expressed that initially there was a great sense of loss in their households—especially after the sudden, massive exodus of friends. However, all of them state that this has obligated them and their families to make Panamanian friends.

"The turnover of the Canal also forced us to begin going into Panama City to shop for everything. I've learned to enjoy that," Krista Wiese adds. And while these newfound friendships and discoveries have been a pleasant surprise, compared to glory days of the Zone, life is much quieter.

"How did you fit into Panamanian society prior to the turnover?" I ask.

"We didn't," answers Stevie. "We seldom left the Zone. When we did venture out into the city, like to eat at a restaurant or go to a movie, we always went in large groups.

"To be honest, I didn't start making Panamanian friends until after I returned from college," adds Eric. "Before that, it never occurred to me to have Panamanians on my list of friends."

"How do you fit into Panamanian society today?" I ask.

"We don't really fit in," answers Angie. "And it's tougher for the girls—Panamanian men accept us, but the Panamanian women don't want us around. Plus, many Panamanians tend to judge us through the stereotypes they have of Americans, and not as individuals."

"The funny thing is that we don't fit in when we go to the States either. My relatives over there see me as something strange, more Panamanian than American. I guess we don't really fit in anywhere except in the former Zone," adds Stevie as the others nod in agreement.

"People in the States seem cold, while here it's all abrazos y besos," says Roy.

"When I visit the States I am sad to see that people there don't realize what a wonderful place Panama is. They think we live in primitive conditions," adds Angie.

"I find that young people in the US don't even know much about their own state, let alone the rest of the world. Their ignorance depresses me," says Stevie.

At this point I proceed to ask each one where they envision themselves in the future. Eric and Stevie are adamant that they will remain in Panama. Angie and Krista don't know if their future lies here, but they are certain that they will live somewhere in Latin America rather than in the States. Roy and Salvador want to live in the US for a while, but eventually they plan on returning to Panama. Olmedo is the only one who says that his future is in the States.

"Are you sad the days of the Canal Zone have ended?" I ask as my final question.

"No. But then, we were aware that those days were coming to an end. What I do feel is grateful for having experienced a taste of what Zonian life was like. It must have been absolutely wonderful before the Treaty was signed," Angie answers.

"We got to experience three times the things people in the States experience in their lifetime," adds Stevie. "You can't beat that. Plus, we'll always have those great memories that will allow us think of the Zone as a magical place."

Niko’s Café - Calle 50

Appealing workplaces are to be avoided. One wants a room with no view, so imagination can meet memory in the dark.
Annie Dillard

From what I’ve observed, writers are particular, almost neurotically so, about their workspace. At home, my wife has set up a small office where I can invoke the muses in absolute silence while I suffer through the agony of sluggishly producing the first draft of a novel. I also require perfect stillness during the early stages of revision, when I trudge through six or seven drafts of each chapter on my computer screen. Finally, when I start playing cartwheels with the changes, I print up a hardcopy of the chapter.

Then comes the fun part—early the next morning, I head toward Niko’s Café, on Calle 50.

Decades ago, a Greek immigrant started selling gyros from a cart; from there he went on to create what has become one of Panamá’s most vital culinary institutions. At present, Niko’s Café is a prosperous business, with five locations. And I, as you can guess, frequent the one on Calle 50.

As soon as I arrive I claim ownership of one my favorite tables—any of the two that are located halfway along the row of huge picture windows that face the banking district. From there, during the idle moments, I discreetly observe the comings and goings of customers. I leave my backpack on an unoccupied table, indicating possession in the name of literary creativity, and then make my way down the cafeteria line to get my usual order—the first of several cups of coffee, and oatmeal. (If my favorite spots are taken, I’ll sit at a nearby table and wait—all the time glowering like a vulture—until one becomes vacant).

Many Panamanians favor Niko’s as a place to conduct business. At times, the restaurant acquires the feel of an informal conference room. (During my observations and, I confess, eavesdropping, I’ve discovered that the types of enterprises represented at Niko’s range from the lucrative and visionary, to the unquestionably flaky. And as far as illegal trade goes, shortly after I arrived in Panamá, a large number of pre-Columbian gold artifacts, that had been housed in the Museo Antropológico, were stolen. Soon after that, the media happily reported that several of the culprits, in a sting operation, were arrested at Niko’s Café-Calle 50 to the applause and cheers of the customers while attempting to fence the items to undercover police. In spite of this precedent, I can honestly state that I’ve not witnessed any law-breaking transactions taking place at Niko’s.)

And then there are the regular customers, average citizens whose daily, familiar presence gives me great comfort as it assures me that even the simplest of routines, when practiced with devotion, become rituals.

I can’t explain why my powers of concentration are at their sharpest when I work at Niko’s. I’ve tried revising in other places—local restaurants and coffee shops—but Niko’s, by far, inspires me the most. I estimate that, while there, I can accomplish in three hours what would take me six at home.

What is it about Niko’s Café that brings out the best in me during the revision stage? Is it the smell of the hojaldres and the salchichas guisadas? Is it the muffled conversations? Is it the occasional bursts of laughter as friends joke or greet each other? Is it the cooled light that shines through the picture windows? Is it the muted chimes of silverware and glasses? Is it the anonymity in which I am allowed to work: a place where I'm surrounded by gracious people but not obliged to greet them?

What I do know is that at Niko’s I can, for a few hours, squelch the inherent loneliness of being a writer.

During the height of the revision process, I average two or three visits to Niko’s per week. This is especially exciting because it means that a novel is nearing completion.

If I should ever leave Panamá, I’m sure to find another place that helps alleviate the demanding, lonesome, and yet singularly rewarding task of writing. Nevertheless, wherever I end up, there will always be a special place for Niko’s Café in my catalog of memories.