Page 97 - Exile-ebook

96 AN EXILE OF THE MIND THE RIVER OF LANTERNS 97

The river of lanterns

Upside down view of Panama. A brothel of a boarding house.
Lost in the jungle. Face to face with a mountain lion.
Brother Leon’s tin drum. In the mud with the Premier.

oloured streamers parted as the Rangitoto pulled away from
CPrinces Wharf in Auckland with no one at the end of mine to
tug a teary farewell. Two weeks later a solitary figure walked down
the gangplank wearing a scout hat and a backpack displaying
‘New Zealand’ in several languages to let the world know from
where he hailed. Passengers stared from the decks above to watch
this lone traveller disappear into the restless city of Panama, the
former playground of Morgan the pirate.
Soldiers’ boots flashed sparks across the pavement as I viewed
the city from upside down. My cab was rocked and overturned by
student protestors when I was still inside it. Soldiers waved weapons
at the angry mob and I yelled the only Spanish I knew at the time:
“Yo no soy Americano.” (I’m not an American.) A phrase I would
use often in this part of the world. This little skirmish was to remind
Americans of a welcome outstayed. A torn flag had triggered a riot
causing several deaths in the Canal Zone the year before.
Panamanian hands reached down to yank me out of the
cab door to safety and flee out of harm’s way to the sanctity of
their studio. Two sculptors, hair peppered white with dust, had
watched the drama unfold from their window. Under the high
ceiling stood a large stone sculpture of Jesus, arms outstretched,
with the head not yet finished. My pale countenance was closely
scrutinized and the artists agreed that my blue eyes and fair

Sunset from a beach in the former British Honduras.