The local fish market finally had fresh fish today. I bought all the snapper and stocked up on kingfish. The locals had never heard of the trick of freezing fish in water. You can freeze fish indefinitely in water, the ice prevents freezer burns. I bought a lot of fish; I’m not running out again.

Burundanga

The word this week is burundanga, which is Panamanian slang for “sweet”. It can be applied to candy but is now frequently employed to refer to a particularly attractive woman.

I bought a couple of Eskimo pies for a couple of the local woman, one of the them said “Gracias pora el Burundanga.” Ice cream is helado. “What is Burundanga?” Before Nikelda could say junk food, one of my running mates spied a pair of lovelies coming our way. “That is Burndanga!” I was the only one not laughing.

Burundanga is a kind of voodoo powder obtained from a Colombian local
plant of the nightshade family, a shrub called barrachera, or “drunken
binge”. Used for hundreds of years by Natie Americans in religious ceremonies,
the powder when ingested causes victims to lose their will and memory, sometimes
for days. (This drug is also known as Nightshade or “CIA drug”).

When refined the powder yields scopolamine, a well-know drug with
legitimate uses as a sedative and to combat motion sickness. (Mengele of
Nazi fame also had and experimented with scopolamine as a truth serum).
But in Colombia, the drug’s most avid fans are street criminals. Crooks
mix the powder with sedatives and feed the Burundanga cocktail to unsuspecting
victims whom they then proceed to rob – or worse.

Doctors here estimate that Colombian hustlers slip the odorless,
colorless and soluble Burundanga (pronounced boor-oon-DAN-ga) in food or
drink to about 500 unwitting victims in the city each month. About half of
the city’s total emergency room admissions for poison are Burundanga
victims.

Off to the Smithsonian Tropical Research Institute

Hot and not a lot to see this time other than a lot of iguanas and a caiman.

While we were there our guide expressed the fact that we might be able to bother one of the researchers. Spanish is a limited language. Bother, annoy, pester and many other words translate to molestar. I entered the research room, a graduate student was preparing anemone for DNA testing. “The guide seems to think it’s ok if we molest you.” The German student had a sufficient command of Spanish and English to understand the attempt at humor.

It seems two different species will interbreed, produce fertile off spring both the genomes propagate in an interesting manner and one form will revert to a state in several generations such that all of the foreign DNA is no longer present. “You do PCR and sequencing work here?” He looked at me quizzically, “No we send it off to Panama for that.”

We checked out the poison arrow frogs, green, orange, yellow, red, blue, purple, spotted. I covered this a long time ago. Nobody knows why these frogs of the same species exhibit different colors in close isolated proximaty on the various islands of this archipelago.

Back to town, more mingling, we had our fish fried and baked, teased the burundanga and generally had a low key evening.

Stephen called, he was ready to take the behemoth out again. Why not? I gathered my gear and headed down to his house. The boat was truly banana republic worthy. The massive outboard had strained the transom so a plank had been mounted, some holes drilled, random twistings of ropes in Stephen’s inimitable knot tying style. In the two years I’ve known Stephen he has never abused a rope in the same way twice. Up, around the pilot house, back down the other side, a come along holding the stern on. Yup, this is an adventure in the making. Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea.

We headed out, half way to Almirante and he realized that he had left his boat box with cell phone and camera on the dock so we headed back with the stern still affixed.

A little hanging around and a guy named Julian was soliciting people for a trip to Portobello for $60. From there, across the country the first quarter of the trip is on a chicken bus, then an express bus. If all goes well one would be in Panama City in three or four hours. Later he told me he had an overnight trip to Bastimentos. Hell, $20 tour, food and a night’s sleep on the water, why not?

I walked him to the other end of town, he was exhausted by the time we got there, not much more than a kilometer. I guess years on a sailboat is not the path to cardiovascular fitness. There was no fresh fish available but I secured four pounds of some unidentified white fish. Julian showed me his dinghy. My bathtub at the last house I owned was literally over twice the size of this craft. Ayaaah, a bag full of electronics on a rubber balloon with an outboard. A two mill trash bag served to provide a small measure of protection from very minor mishaps. Two hundred meters later we boarded his 50′ sailing boat. Aboard was a guy in his mid twenties from Denver, a fiftyish economist from Central London, a British waif who hangs at the hostel and our British captain. All aboard were advanced divers or better.

We set sail to Bastimentos. Julian was intent to travel to Wizard beach, I suggested that Red Frog is much nicer. Despite all his charts and electronics he had no idea where it was. From about two miles away I pointed out the marina getting a little closer I indicated the cut in the Mangroves to get to the dock. Then I described the walk over the island. By this time it was after five. “We can’t do this today, the last water taxis depart around six and you have a meter and half of draft, can’t take this boat and that dinghy is, well, not up to the task.”

So we sat and watched the sunset, shot the shit, cooked dinner (thank god we had the fish or dinner would have been nothing but a small salad and a couple of boiled eggs). Nick, the Coloradan retired to read a book about Mumbai, recalling his visit there last year. We spend a lot of time talking about craziness in our respective travels to Asia and then Julian put on “The Proposal” which had the most obvious plot line ever thrust upon the public.

When it was time to retire, Julian indicated that the pilot house was his turf and requested that I move into a berth in the galley. The beds were six feet long and narrower than the width of my shoulders. I grabbed a few cushions and assumed a spot on the foredeck. A clear starry night, a slight breeze, all was good until it started to drizzle.

I moved into the cabin, but slept fitfully. In the morning, Melissa needed to head out. I gave Julian directions and he took his dinghy over to the docks at Red Frog and retained a water taxi, one of Chuck’s from JanPan. Twelve minutes later I was back in town. “Where is Walter?” “He is at Red Frog.” Of course.

So now I sit here and watch the “sober captain” slap around his notebook, which is giving him trouble for some reason. “Can you fix it for me?” Sure, let me go home and jam an ice pick in my eye.

Well I guess I’ll try to contact a welder in town and turn my future concrete block laundry room into a walk-in vault then head out to Panama City, take care of a bunch of stuff, meet some friends then slowly make my way back to Bocas.

I’ve got some friends on the Pacific I haven’t seen in a while and of course, I have to see Santa Fe. Maybe I can make it to Rio Luis, but that’s a bit arduous of an initial trek during my recovery. David, a little shopping and dating. Back to the mountains and back home to close on my house.

I’ll head out in about a week.

Something that is difficult in Panama is described as being “like trying to put a saddle on a vulture.”

Damn that vulture. The waste of flesh that is the “house sitter” for the house I am trying to acquire has told the current home owner that he needs another couple of weeks. I could pack the worthless bastard in about an hour. Hell, he moved in from his tiny sailboat. They appear to have nothing more than some clothes that would readily fit in a 30 liter backpack. So now I have to figure out where I am going to stay now that I have given my landlord notice.

The boat builder I was referred to in Panama City does not consider replying to emails on sales inquiries part of the sales cycle and doesn’t understand what I am saying on the phone.

Another boat builder replied to a sixty line email outlining my requirements with “I have a mold for a 22 foot panga.” That was it, the message in its entirety. Thank you for not exhausting me with superfluous information such as features, function, weight, cost, delivery time or engine rating.

The administrator of a local crime watch site, who pulled two of my crime reports because the thief named in one of them wrote and said, “No, it’s my computer, it was a gift.” Gift my ass. I reported a different theft of a camera, a kindle and a flashlight. “The person identified alleges that she was out of the country at the time of the theft.” The person identified is bat shit crazy and told the sheriff that I was in jail for assaulting somebody with a machete in the central park while trying to gain access to my apartment. She told my landlord the same thing. Everybody knew I was in Panama City, in the hospital.

My landlord says that only he, she and I had keys. I don’t know when the camera and related thefts occurred, I reported a time window, between July 4 and July 14th. The thief of my computer was posting messages on a local yahoo group during that time period stating that she was in Bocas. The moderator of that site also moderates http://bocas.crowdmap.com.

The only crime that was left posted on the site was one in which somebody broke into my apartment and stole two computers, which were subsequently returned. This entry was marked as “Verified”, the moderator assumed some level of authority. Despite repeated requests to just delete the entry as the moderator refused to do so and ignored all of my emails. Funny, one of the criminals makes a request and gets immediate compliance and the victim can’t even get a response. When I posted an inquiry on the local yahoo group asking what was meant by “verified” I received the following response.

“Verified” is a subjective term. It means that the information is reliable,
because it comes from someone with personal knowledge or has been confirmed in
some manner. In some cases, a post will be left as “unverified” until I can
contact the original poster to get clarification on certain details. I am the
administrator and I have to make that call. In your case, when your original
post was made, I marked it as “verified” because you were the (alleged) victim
and you were reporting as of your own knowledge. I will not make that mistake
again.

On the local group board somebody posted Just to reinforce this message, we had a flier up about a boat for sale and were approached by a local who said he could sell it for us. He seemed like a nice guy and could keep the boat in his yard where it would be more visible. So we put the boat there with our phone number to call if someone was interested. We would pay him a commission if it sold. Soon he said the boat was sold, it was gone and the money was in his account and “not available yet.” After much help by the police we located the boat and got our money back. He had sold it for quite a bit more than he said and I doubt we ever would have gotten anything without the police assistance. So just be very careful. And the moderator threw out, Was the guy who “brokered” the boat deal a guy who goes by the moniker “Robinson” by any chance? implicating someone with absolutely no evidence. So much for her sense of fair play.

Now the crazy woman who stole my MacBook is threatening to post on the web the details of my arrest. “There was no arrest, you have no documents. Why do you keep sending me crazy emails?“.

Do I sound just a little frustrated?

Busy? Well everything is relative. I’ve been directed 10 different directions for powerboats and a couple dozen sailboats. I need one of each.

Need? Well, at least I need a power boat, to get home.

I have to follow up with my dentist in Panama City to get a sleep apnea appliance, go to the U.S. embassy, pick up some supplies and a couple of kayaks, deal with the house closing and apply for residency.

Frittered away the morning readily after a late awakening and headed out in search of ways to kill time. The weather was wonderful, in the low eighties, slightly overcast with a a slight breeze. The mile walk to town was punctuated by brief chats with the usual suspects. I stopped by Stephens to inspect my latest package. This turned out to be the camera mount for my spotting scope. One more piece and the scope and I’ll have a little fun, but in the mean time, Stephen can I store it here? Sure.

Over to Casa Verde, a little time on the dock catching up on news, wrapping up some email and surfing. Roxie showed up sporting a T shirt promoting a competitive hostel. “Roxie, you need to go home and change that shirt, or just take it off. I’m in favor of your just taking it off.” It’s different down here. I said that in front of three woman and they all laughed especially Roxie.

Julio dropped by and he gave me commentary on various sailboats I was inspecting on the web. “No, that’s the wrong kind of keel for here, too many reefs, that is a bad hull design, that’s overpriced.” Carolina graced us with her presence. Black lycra pants never looked so good. The look on her face indicated that I was about to be saddled with another thankless task. “I locked myself out of room number seven.” “You don’t have any keys for room number seven.” “That’s why I’m locked out.” “Who locked the door?” “Well, I was testing if it worked, so I turned the button on the inside and closed the door.” “So the lock works, you locked yourself out knowing you don’t have the key.” She gave a sheepish grin. “Interesting story, Carolina. How do you test hand grenades?”

“Sure, I’ll come by tomorrow morning.” “We’re busy tomorrow.” “I’m going to Panama on Monday.” “Can you do it now?” “I should drop all the rest of my pressing affairs and devote my attention to you?” I guess Frank Zappa wasn’t a formative influence in her youth in Quito, Equcador. We had a brief stare down. “Carolina.” “Jim.” “Carolina.” “Please?” “Ahh, WTF? Let’s go grab a cab.” “I rode my bike.” “I’m not sitting on the handlebars.” “You can use the Casa Verde bike.” We went out front, Carolina asked the receptionist, “Where is the Casa Verde bike?” “Nikelda is out on it.” “Here, you can use this one.”

The bike was black, the handlebars askew, the drive set was comprised of three sprockets but was absent a derailleur. The rear derailleur was missing, the tires were half inflated. It was a sad state of affairs, what a bike would look like if it took to using meth. “It has no brakes.”

Laden with my body mass the tires were on the verge of being pointless. We rode for a few blocks and stopped at Nikelda’s house where here brother topped off my tires, asking for the princely some of $1 upon completion of the 20 seconds of labor about four times the going rate.

We rode the side streets. “Carolina, pay close attention to my boots.” “Why?” “Well, when I fly through the windshield of a taxi the only thing that will be sticking out will be my feet. I want you to recognize me.” I got cut off a few times, swerved and tried to brake with my feet. Everybody seemed to have pushed erratic behavior to the limit just to test me.

Eight blocks from my house Carolina’s left pedal fell off the bike. I returned to find her trying to rethread it into the hole. “It’s a left hand thread, you have to turn it the other, oh, just give me the peddle.” I threaded it in as best as I could but it was obvious that the lack of lubrication would ensure that this would not stay in place long. Two blocks from my house the peddle fell off again. I instructed her to walk it the rest of the way, dropped of my bikes and secured such tools as I had that would facilitate execution of the task at hand. After exiting I walked next door to look for my neighbor and knocked on his door. Grant repairs bicycles as a means of subsistence augmented by other activities. I found a 9/16″ open end wrench in a five gallon bucket and snugged the pedal to the crank.

We took off again and she stopped in front of the graveyard. “Do you want to take a shortcut through the graveyard?” Thanks for the notice. A couple of hundred feet later I came to a stop, turned around and followed her. “Carolina, if you stop suddenly with me behind you we are going to find just how far up your ass this bike is going to go.” Past the above ground graves we exhausted the planned section onto a trail that wound its way through a haphazard collection of resting places exiting directly in front of the gates of the hostel.

“Ricki doesn’t know I locked the door, don’t tell him.” “Sure, no problem, I’ll just take you upstairs to a private room and he won’t raise an eyebrow.” Sure enough that’s how things turned out. I picked the lock clockwise but couldn’t get it to turn counter clockwise, the door was not reverse hung so the pins for the hinges were on the inside. I asked her for a piece of flexible metal. She returned with a massive stiff block laying trowel. Good thing she’s a hell of a bookkeeper. I dispatched her again and she returned with a putty knife. I inspected it, turned around and said, please get that screwdriver, to divert her, popped the latch, by the time she turned around, about a second later the door was ajar.

I snapped off the rod that is activated by the internal knob to preclude locking this lock and obviating a return trip for this particular door. Oops, I should have put it in the unlocked position. I walked over to the pagoda. “Ricki, do you have a pair of needle nosed pliers?” He offered some wire strippers. “Ricki, these were wire strippers yesterday, they are wire strippers today. Do yourself a favor, find everything that looks like a tool, put it in a big box put a padlock on it for which you have no key and store it away.” He gave me a good natured laugh and offered me a ratchet. Damn, I’m glad I raised my kids to be self sufficient.

One of the two machine screws that hold the lockset in the door was not in evidence. “What are you looking for?” “A two inch #8-32 round head brass plated machine screw.” I was offered a nail, a 1 1/2 blued sheet rock screw, a pan head half inch #10 sheet metal screw, everything but a rock.

I managed to get the lockset in the unlocked position with an improvised tool and reinstalled it in the door. Next, lubricate the pedal.

Do you have any grease? A can of WD-40 was promptly located and copious quantities were sprayed into the pedal, dissolving the heavy axle grease flushing the useful lubricant and signing a death warrant for this pedal. “WD-40 este malo. Malo! Malo! Necessito grisa, no aciete!”

Back to the other end of town to resume my activities. A cute young woman asked if the seat next to me was available. Well, of course. She ordered a chicken dinner to go. “You are going to leave this beautiful waterfront locale and eat this elsewhere?” “Yes.” “Where would you go that is better than this?” “Where I am staying.” “Where is that?” I don’t remember the name, I know where it is though.” “Sorry, I’m not trying to stalk you.” She flushed when her game was up. “I don’t tell people where I stay.” Turns out she lives “here” if you call Isla Popa here. “Isla Popa? You don’t get to town much do you?” Turns out she lives in a hut without electricity. “How long have you been with the peace corp?” This was not a brilliant deduction. She warmed up we chatted until her meal was ready, she took it to go, I packed my stuff and headed towards the exit, running into Nikelda.

I started recounting the story of Carolina. Nikelda was in peels of laughter, she knows these people, she knows the bike. I didn’t have to say much, she could visualize everything. The day I was masterkeying the locks she was pulling the locksets and calculating the tumblers and reassembling the locks. The mechanical ineptitude of our mutual friends was a source of great amusement though little surprise.

I stopped by the pharmacy to buy a piece of crap pellet rifle as the one I had ordered from Amazon would not be forwarded by Mail Boxes Etc. from the Miami drop box. Three weeks later they still had no pellets for the gun. No, I don’t want the gun without ammo.

Further down the street I ran into Chris and told him I was headed out to Panama to attend to several matters including buying a boat. “Why are you buying a boat?” “Because I don’t have one.” “Why do you need a boat?” “I am buying a house on another island, I scuba dive, I fish, I snorkel. To get a boatload of women one should have a boat.” Chris told me that Maria’s father was a boat maker. I continued down the street to Tropical Markets and spied Maria entering the area behind the bar and locking up. The place was empty. I walked through the kitchen. “Hey Maria!” “Hi, Jim.” “Rumor has it your father is a boat builder.” “Third generation, my grandfather was a pioneer in building fiberglass boats.” I got her email address, phone number, her fathers website and headed off to the chino to buy some chicken and potatoes for dinner, cooking as I detail yet another day of unscheduled activities.

A friend of mine reports that he was paid $1.20 in interest for one month on a balance of 1,445.74 on a savings account at Banco Nacional Panama in September, 2011.

That works out to .83 percent per month.

A(t) = (1 + r/n) ^ nt

t = Total time in years
n = Number of compounding periods per year (note that the total number of compounding periods )
r = Nominal annual interest rate expressed as a decimal. e.g.: 6% = 0.06

A(t) = ( 1 + (.0083)) ^ 12

After one year each dollar is worth 1.1042 dollars for an effective compounded yield of 10.42% about 100 times what Chase Bank is offering.

Caught on on my email, read the news, made a pot or three of coffee and the phone rang.

“Jim, I accidentally picked up your telescope and GPS, can you come down to the office and get them? I am getting ready to head out to David.”

Great, more stuff to lug on my back until I close on the house.

My realtor called and promised that the house sitter from hell would be out of my future abode in nine days and that every thing else would be tended to within eleven. I wouldn’t bet on a dropped spoon hitting the floor around here.

On my way out the door I ran into my landlord, who is also a builder and made inquiries about building some cabinas over the water on the shore of my soon to be abode. We talked about whether floating houses had a future in Bocas and I expressed my concerns and reservations.

Stopping by the hardware store I picked up a 28″ high carbon steel El Salvadoran machete and a leather sheath for a guy stateside. The machete was priced $5.50, a bit steep, as it was worth about $4, but everything is overpriced on this island. The sheath was priced at $9.95. I paid $12.50 for the pair. Everything is negotiable.

Down to the real estate office. “Hi, Carolina, buenes Josephina, c’mon give up a smile. Yo Walter, como esta Flaco, hola Tino.” Walter handed me a box that appeared as though it had been used to get traction under the rear wheels of a dual axle delivery truck. Shit! I opened it up. Ah, good, the tripod, not the spotting scope.

“Hey Carolina, my landlord has three used locksets he’ll sell you.” She wants me to masterkey the hostel she is managing, but I can only do so much. If the key doesn’t fit in the hole, a compatible lock has to be found. The poor dear has spent so much money fixing up the place she is running cash is getting very low.

The Garmin 76CSx box was next. No external abuse was evident. I opened the box and was pleased to find a very solid plastic GPS with a large transflexive display. I always carry a spare set of 2900 mah NiMH AA batteries in my fanny pack, so I popped them into the unit, powered it on and was amazed that it acquired 11 satellites in less than 10 seconds. The software has the same functionality as the 65 but far fewer limitations, 10000 point track log, 1000 waypoints, 50 routes. It claims 18 hours on a set of batteries and 30 hours in battery saver mode.

Off to Casa Verde to play with my toy, hang out with my crew and check out the next wave of tourists coming into town. A Spanish boat captain from Madrid expressed interest in my GPS, I showed him how to use it and he was quite impressed. He captains charters on a 42′ catamaran around Bocas, but does not own the boat. I asked his opinion on a couple of 30-35′ boats I was evaluating and he mentioned that his boat was for sale. He also mentioned that he needed to fill the water tank but that he was no longer able to top off at the fire department as someone had reported this activity and it was deemed not a service offered by the city.

I looked at his tiny Boston Whaler, with eight inches of water in it, my backpack filled with electronics that I dared not leave at home, gave a look of consternation and he suggested we take a water taxi. Three hundred meters later we secured a forty five second ride to the sailboat. People moor their boats off shore and take dinghys in. The annual fee for doing so is $193 a year, versus about $9/ft per month in a marina.

My first impression was that the hull needed new gelcoat and the deck needed to be refinished. Entering the cabin, the heavy smell of diesel did not impart a great allure. The cabin was a filthy, with the excuse offered that being out of water there was no way to clean. I looked at the controls, the electrical panel gave off bad vibes. Julio removed the ladder from the bracket that allowed one to ascend from the cabin to the deck, exposing the three cylinder 60 hp diesel engine, took out some jumper cables and made the connections to heat the glow coils. He admitted that a whole lot of things needed to be fixed on the boat.

After starting the engine, we pulled anchor and set sail. I was informed that the boat readily sailed at seven knots under power. At full speed I pointed out that we were travelling 3.5 MPH per my GPS, about 3 knots. I called Nikelda and asked the cost of 75 gallons of water. This was not a service Casa Verde offered. But, it has been raining a lot so the water catchment takes must be filled to capacity. The docking process was nothing like that two which I am accustomed. I pulled my 36′ twin engine into a slip with two feet to spare on either side first time every time. This was a drop anchor, back throw line to shore, WTF effort.

I had to go down the street to borrow an extra hose to pull the job off but the tank was filled. Julio took the boat back and said he would return to go to dinner if I cared to do so. Sure, why not? Nice enough guy.

Nikelda approached me and told me that a room was locked, all the keys were gone and the air conditioner maintenance men needed access to the room to effect a repair. Could I get them in? I had no tools with me. I surveyed the door. “I need a sixteen ounce claw hammer, a 10 penny galvanized nail, a 5/16″ flat bladed screwdriver with a square shaft, some WD-40, three feet of yellow yarn, a coat hanger, a hacksaw and a large sheet of plastic.” “Como?” “A hammer, a nail and a screwdriver.” I drove the hinge pins out on the reverse swing door, lower one first, of course, removed the door and headed out to dinner with Julio and Stephen, down to Ultimate Refugio. “Let me know if these boneheads can’t rehang the door.”

As I was finishing off my peanut satay pork tenderloin, mashed potatoes and mixed vegetables I got a phone call from Carolina. She was at her hostel, outside of town in a neighborhood known as “Saigon”, locked out of her room. Could I let her in? “Let me finish my dinner, grab some tools and I’ll be over.” I rapidly finished my meal, got another call “are you on your way?” Yes, I am on my f…ing way. I grabbed a taxi, stopped by my apartment and secured some implements specifically designed for the manipulation of lock tumblers returned to the taxi and rode out of town.

Carolina was standing in front waiting for me. I looked at the lock. “Which way do you turn this to unlock it? Are you sure? Are you positive?” After 5 minutes of trying to get the cylinder to turn I inspected the hinges. These were very high quality european style, with cap screws on both ends and bearings. I asked if she had a set of pliers or vice grips and was offered an adjustable crescent wrench. No this won’t do. I couldn’t jimmy the latch with the stubby screwdriver, too big to fit in the gap. Finally I tried turning the cylinder clockwise, 10 seconds later I had the door unlocked.

After receiving many thanks I headed out the gate stopped by a store to buy some nuts, headed down the street, found my way back at the hostel, turned around, stopped at another store, bought a water, headed out, walked down the street, found myself back at the hostel. Dammit.

I called Nikelda. “Did you get the door hung?” “Yes but they didn’t lock it.” Jesus, how dumb can you be. I walked from Saigon to my apartment, dropped off a bunch of stuff and with my daypack full of electronics headed back to Casa Verde. Nikelda escorted me up the stairs. By the time we got to the room the door was shut and locked. The two Swedish women answered the door, Nikelda apologized for the door having been unlocked, they admitted no difficulty. Nathan the cook came up to see the activity. “Are you going to break into that room?” “Not this minute, but I’m thinking about it.” Nikelda, said, “what?”. “Nathan do you know who is in that room?” “Why do you think I came up here?” A half soda water, half cranberry juice for my effort I walked back home.

As I was walking down to Lilly’s to meet with David, composting toilet guy I ran into Mark, my real estate agent. We ambled down the main street and arrived in front of Lilly’s cafe with a minute to spare. At precisely nine Morgan, the boat operator showed up. Four minutes later Mark called David who appeared from his office above Lilly’s.

David secured some legally required life jackets and we headed out to the house, arriving in ten minutes. We climbed about 90 of the steps, 10 short of the deck, exited through a gate and walked around the side of the elevated house.

Twenty feet from the composting tank David uttered, “Here we go again!” The handle on the side of the tank for agitating the contents was not in the operating position. Vile brown fluid flowed down the front of the unit and across the concrete platform. A plastic bag filled with wet sawdust gave silent testimony to the source of the problem. “I’ve told him, every time I’ve come out here to fix this that he has to use wood chips, not sawdust.” A voice came from the deck above use, Jeff the tenant from hell, “I’ve done everything you told me to do, I have been using wood chips.” We looked at each other in utter disbelief.

David said that the pvc needs to be rerun and the system cleaned out. We left while Jeff muttered about the miserable system. David said “I have four such units under my hotel, we have eight double occupancy rooms and we have had no problems in ten years.” Oh well, no point shouting down a well.

I asked David when he could fix it. “No point in fixing it until Jeff is out of there.” Mark asked me when I was prepared to close. “When everything is fixed and all documents are in order. Nobody is waiting on me. In answer to the unasked question, no I won’t close, assume occupancy and then have the system fixed, get Jeff the hell out of there.”

Now Mark had the unenviable task of asking the house owner to evict his house sitter. To the rational house owner this is a no brainer, the guy is more trouble than he is worth.

I paid David his $50 fee and told Morgan I’d see him around. “Speaking of Morgan, did you hear they found Henry Morgan’s ship?”

http://www.walesonline.co.uk/news/wales-news/2011/08/11/rum-remains-of-captain-morgan-s-ship-finally-found-91466-29215933/

http://abcnews.go.com/International/captain-morgans-long-lost-pirate-ship-unearthed/story?id=14261866

Clean Water Compost
A Division of Clean Water Construction
Eco – friendly water and waste systems
Desing and sales with Sun – Mar composting systems

David B. Miner
Bocas Cell: 6688-6446
U.S. Phone 719 266-2359
cwccompost @ comcast.net
http://www.cwc-compost.com

After ten days of trying to get somebody to inspect by electrical system I was notified that the system would be inspected “sometime Tuesday.” This morning I received a phone call around ten o’clock from the person who installed the system. He informed me that he was in Almirante, en route to the house. That is about a twenty five minute trip. I called Mark, my realtor and told him I would be right over.

A boat operator solicited us and offered to take us over for $20 per half hour. This was quickly negotiated down to $12.50. Ten minutes later we were at the property. Victor was running the gas powered generator and testing the charging amperage which checked out at between 78 and 80 amps. He reported that there were four batteries and that they were in a 20% discharged state. Shortly thereafter he reported that a pair of solar panels was missing from the root.

Mark called Jeff, the house sitter who claimed that he had checked the panels the night before, an extremely unlikely claim. I paid Victor the $150 fee and we headed back to Bocas Town and paid the boat operator $30 for the 67 minutes.

Returning to town I checked my email to find that two of the postings on theft from my house had been deleted from the site. One of them specifically mentioned Becca Wrenn Thompson and her theft of my MacBook pro, which I purchased in May at Albrook mall for $1,455.20, and registered in my name, serial number SC02FN6TYDH2G. The other recounted an incident in which a Kindle, a Canon camera and a flashlight were stolen from my apartment.

I received another email from Becca in which she claimed to be in possession of documents that don’t exist. I have urged her to post these police records she claims to have in her possession and that she constantly threatens me with. My favorite is her account of my being arrested in the park in Bocas for assault with a machete. On the day in question I was was in Panama City, 310 km away.