Stopped at the Light

The air outside my car registers a scorching 91 degrees. Nevertheless, there is a team of performers and street vendors standing at the intersection of Via Espana and the little street with no name that is a short cut to Calle Samuel Lewis. It is 12:00 noon and they are all trying to make a buck.

Waves of heat rise from the asphalt as the three-lanes of this short block fills with the exhaust of about thirty cars, dump trucks and motorcycles, many with no mufflers. Diesel smoke, billows into the air carpeting cars and people with a fine layer of black soot that dulls clothes.

The air and heat deters no one. The trio effortlessly meanders through the mix of taxis and trucks with windows wide open, and cars with their darkly tinted windows shut tight.

Inside my car it is a very pleasant eighty-two, just enough air so that upon opening my door I won’t swoon from the slap of stifling air against my face.

Rolling my window down to hear better I reflexively reach into my purse never taking my eyes off the light. The great part about keeping a soft cotton purse is that everything falls to the bottom. It’s a colorful sack, with a traditional textile called a Mola. I feel around for my wallet, finding the hard, chiseled edges of my keys first. Then my fingers become entangled with several receipts I intend to throw away. Finally, I retrieve my coin purse and pull out a handful of one dollar coins called Martinelli’s and place them on the smooth plastic console.

I wonder aloud, “how can they stand the heat, hour after hour,?” I know they will all be there until they have nothing left to sell or lack the strength to play another note. Just the thought of it makes me perspire and I redirect the vent’s airstream towards me.

Horripilation heaven. I love the chills I get when my damp skin reacts to the sensation of cool air across it. However, goosebumps can reach a point where the reaction almost hurts. When that threshold is approaching, I turn the fan back from five to two.

Today, a bandoneon player is serenading me. Anyone looking at the instrument would assume that it is an accordion. Actually, it’s a lighter weight cousin that has a hard grill, making it durable even in Panama’s humid climate. The exteriors are smooth and as highly polished as a prized bowling ball.

The hot air around us seems to cause notes to hang in the air longer, like it was playing tag with the next musical phrase trying to catch it.

Based on the ballad he was playing, I would guess his family came from the mountains in the Interior, about a two-hour drive west of the city. The people who created this music peppered it with shouts and whistles that could be heard from one valley to the next. It makes the composition sound like a marvelous combination of yodeling mixed, with rueful tales of bravery and sweet talking apologies for misbehavior. It is all set to a toe-tapping rhythm.

Initially the chords and the vocals seem at odds with one another. Then the lyric reveals a conversation between a husband and his exasperated wife.

He asks, “how can the queen of my home not forgive the man who fought the very devil to keep her safe?” The wife responds, “oh, is that why you’ve been gone for three days and smell like rum?”

When the chorus explodes, I watch the crowd. Everyone within ear shot, mouths the last line and smiles. “Will she forgive him? Oh please, yes. Because without her, he’s a sad, sorry mess.”

The sounds emanating from the combination of baffles and buttons are made possible by five fingers frolicking along the forty-one black and white keys. The other hand manages buttons that look to be mother of pearl from where I sit. They serve as a lovely contrast to the young musician’s perfectly polished black nails.

My busker is wearing a real Panama hat, a Pintado. The clean razor cut tells me he was recently at a barber. His sleeveless muscle shirt fit loosely over his lanky, copper body that had yet to fully fill out. On his shoulder and forearm is a tattoo of three gigantic rubber trees I’ve driven past on the way to the grocery store.

He slowly makes his way towards me with his companions in tow. My fellow drivers and I are being beckoned to buy plastic trash bags, five-in-a-pack, for a dollar from a man whose income is solely based on what he sells daily. I buy a pack remembering I’m down to my last twenty-two bags. Rolling down my window enough to stick out my hand, I signal and he scurries over.

According to the paper insert with blue praying hands and red lettering, his work is supported by the Catholic Church where he goes to pick up his daily supply. “Bendiciones, Señora,” he says handing me the one pack of bags in exchange for my Martinelli.

I respond automatically, in Spanish, “blessings to you, Sir and have a good day.” Greeting people civilly has become a habit since I moved here four years ago.

Behind him is a lady selling mangos marinaded in hot sauce, salt, and lime. She is reliably at this corner most days wearing a traditional Guna blouse, skirt, and headscarf, making her tribal identity clear.

I happily buy a bag. She recognizes me and her heart shaped face lights up. She isn’t sweating or showing any signs of being over-heated. I think to myself, how can she do that? Amazing.

The sealed bags of crunchy mangos have been soaking in lime juice, salt and chili sauce that wakes up your mouth, nose, and tongue the moment it’s opened.

“Bendiciones, Señora.” We say to one another as we trade mangos for money. My eyes follow the pattern of the deeply etched lines that cover her face as a result of living under the tropical sun. She blinks slowly and smiles one last time before moving on.

I tear open my treat and put a couple of slices of mango in my mouth and let them sit there. The hot sauce this particular woman makes has a slow burn that warms the throat without scorching it. As the sensation begins to fade, I reach for the next bite. The aromatics are subtle like cumin and cardamom and the pepper is smoky like an ancho chili. My gums act like fountains sending down saliva that’s free of any viscosity. The fruit cleanses my vocal cords of any thickness and I know my voice will be clear and breath fresh for the rest of the day.

As I am congratulating myself for getting so much done at the light, the serenade comes to a crescendo. The change in volume jolts me out of my reverie and I look up and see fingers moving so fast they are a blur. He lifts his bandoneon above his head, the red bellows stretched out to make the final note last, and bows.

Skirting through the rows of cars he collects his well-earned reward. I give him two Martinelli’s. “Bendiciones, Señora,” he said.

I respond in Spanish. “Thank you. Your music is my blessing.” His black eyes shine with appreciation and makes it through the next three rows of cars. Before the light turns green he runs back to his post at the intersection of Via Espana and the little street with no name that is a short cut to Calle Samuel Lewis.