Enrique was this cute little boy we met in Bocas Del Toro, Panama. Enrique’s family managed the hotel we stayed at, a hotel named “Pargo Rojo”, the “Red Snapper.” Enrique is 5 years old and a ball of energy. I tried to communicate with him with K’s Spanish phrase book as he stared at me with great amusement and laughed heartily at my poor pronunciations.
We came home one night with soggy fries and an order of grill cheese I had ordered at 8:00 in the morning. I brought it back to the hotel to feed the fish in the ocean underneath our deck, about 10 feet away from our door. When we got to our hotel, Enrique was there. He was all giggles and held his arms up high so that we’d pick him up like we did in the morning and play with him. T took out the grill cheese and asked him if he would like some. His eyes opened wide and took the plate of soggy fries to his family, and then he ate the grill cheese with glee. He marveled at the images on K’s digital camera and finished the sandwich with gusto. In the morning when we woke up Enrique wasn’t there to greet us like he did the previous days. I didn’t hear his playful stomps all around our room and he wasn’t there when we got back from town at night. Strange.
T speculated that perhaps his family didn't want him around things that he could never have and around people who lead lives that he will never know. The next morning T offered a pair of sandals he had bought for 2 dollars on the mainland to Enrique’s 80 year old grandfather. The sandals were a size too small for T. The grandfather’s eyes lit up and immediately placed the sandals on his feet. It was then we realized that he had been barefoot all this time not because he was carefree, but because he didn’t own any shoes.
The ex-pats on Bocas Del Toro are living the dream. A town built on water, unbeatable ocean views and jumping bars. The travelers on the island shell out 80 dollars for sushi and drink the night away, while the locals have their own dives and keep the foreigners out of it.
In the midst of the two worlds, no justifiable condemnation can rationally come of the travelers’ wealth, I suppose. But what’s left of me is a helplessness that the locals no doubt feel. Marx’s dream for the proletariat looms in my mind and I see clearly how the have-nots would be attracted to his manifesto. While communism is impractical and seem a failure in practice, I don’t see the people here benefiting from capitalism either.
Helplessness, it is the most frustrating emotion.
We came home one night with soggy fries and an order of grill cheese I had ordered at 8:00 in the morning. I brought it back to the hotel to feed the fish in the ocean underneath our deck, about 10 feet away from our door. When we got to our hotel, Enrique was there. He was all giggles and held his arms up high so that we’d pick him up like we did in the morning and play with him. T took out the grill cheese and asked him if he would like some. His eyes opened wide and took the plate of soggy fries to his family, and then he ate the grill cheese with glee. He marveled at the images on K’s digital camera and finished the sandwich with gusto. In the morning when we woke up Enrique wasn’t there to greet us like he did the previous days. I didn’t hear his playful stomps all around our room and he wasn’t there when we got back from town at night. Strange.
T speculated that perhaps his family didn't want him around things that he could never have and around people who lead lives that he will never know. The next morning T offered a pair of sandals he had bought for 2 dollars on the mainland to Enrique’s 80 year old grandfather. The sandals were a size too small for T. The grandfather’s eyes lit up and immediately placed the sandals on his feet. It was then we realized that he had been barefoot all this time not because he was carefree, but because he didn’t own any shoes.
The ex-pats on Bocas Del Toro are living the dream. A town built on water, unbeatable ocean views and jumping bars. The travelers on the island shell out 80 dollars for sushi and drink the night away, while the locals have their own dives and keep the foreigners out of it.
In the midst of the two worlds, no justifiable condemnation can rationally come of the travelers’ wealth, I suppose. But what’s left of me is a helplessness that the locals no doubt feel. Marx’s dream for the proletariat looms in my mind and I see clearly how the have-nots would be attracted to his manifesto. While communism is impractical and seem a failure in practice, I don’t see the people here benefiting from capitalism either.
Helplessness, it is the most frustrating emotion.
posted by J @ 11:26 PM
2 Comments:
At 10:23 AM,
Maria Elisa said…
Communism has never truly existed except perhaps in the most remote places. It was never intended to be a political movement, just a societal evolution. Maybe someday society will evolve to a place where competition is not the main paradigm and cooperation reigns supreme. You cannot force things, however.
Miss you J.
At 2:09 PM,
J said…
miss you too!
The thing is, I like capitalism. I think it does well at driving competition to benefit the consumers. But Bocas Del Toro almost seemed like a place where a whole new "class" is imported into their society without their permission. I don't see the locals benefitting from tourism, I would feel much better if they were. But it seems like the rich ex-pats and whatnot are keeping the rich amongst themselves. They are the ones with money to open up resturants and shops for tourists, so they are the ones benefitting from tourism, not the locals. Does that make sense? What's left is this stark disparity that left me very uncomfortable.
let's plan to get together soon!
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