Panama
By Mike McCaffrey
Judging by the number of little stories I’ve recently submitted, one would think I’d been around for 100 years. Not quite. 😬 I left out the five years Stateside as Branch Chief of SA-32, the Unclas operation of Diplomatic Pouch and Mail out here in a pleasant Virginia suburb. A challenging but pleasant tour of duty. But, at this point, let me wrap this all up with my two final submissions: PANAMA and BEIJING . . .
Sun, surf, tropical. Except for the atrocious humidity, it was being stationed at a ‘burb outside of Southern California. We had U.S. military bases with their PX’s, Commissaries, rec facilities, gas stations, and full-service mechanics on base. We lived in a 15th-floor apartment in a condo facing the ocean, with a large balcony for parties and just generally sitting out there at night with a glass of cold white wine and listening to Julio Eglacias on the stereo. I mean, who could ever complain about all this goodness, eh? But, as George Harrison wrote in a best-selling song: "All Things Must Pass."
Manuel Noriega, the strongman who ran Panama, was indicted by U.S. courts on drug charges and a slew of other crooked enterprises. At that point, everything down there went ballistic. There were riots in the streets by the local populace, both for/against Noriega and his rule. The Noriega military took on an aggressive stance against the U.S. and its interests down there. Driving in Panama was based on the “Macho Rule” … one hand dangling out the driver’s side with a cigarette … trying to look cool and “macho” … and ignoring the traffic around you. In other words: chaos. But with the riots, the traffic lights were pulled down all over the place, so a bad situation became a nightmare. And we in the Embassy were holding meetings, going over possible relocation of families back to the States, depending on the situation on the ground day/day. It was in this environment that we received a request from the Commanding General’s office at Fort Clayton for a delivery of highly classified material. I was told to pick someone from my office, get into the Embassy armored Cadillac, and proceed in the middle of the riots to deliver the requested material. ** This is NOT “hero stuff, folks ** But, in good conscience, I just could not let my hard-working staff potentially put their lives on the line, so I told upper management I would go. Carlos S., one of my Mailroom people, was selected as my driver, and we proceeded out of the Embassy compound gate, hung a left onto the main drag (Avenue Balboa), and sallied forth. We had the seawall and ocean to our immediate right, and a high divider separating the coming/going lanes on our left. In other words, not a heck of a lot of wiggle room should things suddenly get squirrely. As we proceeded down Balboa, there was an intersection coming up a short distance away where we’d have to hang a left in order to head in the direction of Fort Clayton … BUT: there were barriers all across our path, blocking that left turn … blocking EVERYTHING. We stopped a short distance from the barrier (large oil drums, boards, burning tires). There was a fairly huge crowd gathered around there. Many were carrying hefty poles and placards, with a few rifles visible. Man, what an absolute bummer! We both sat there for a minute, trying to take this all in, but the crowd, seeing the Dip plates and American flags on the fenders, closed in and began rocking the
darn vehicle back and forth. Some were pummeling the car with poles and fists, yelling/screaming. I honestly thought they’d turn us over and set the car … and Carlos and I … afire. Either accept that fate or DO SOMETHING! I told Carlos that I didn’t give a damn if he brushed people away, but to STOMP ON THE GAS AND MAKE THAT TURN and get the heck away from this!
We did indeed hit that barrier with malice aforethought. Stuff was flying all over the place, and people did scatter a short distance. We were turning a hard left ON TWO WHEELS. But … then … Carlos stopped the car! The crowd was once more coming our way. I asked what the heck he was doing. He told me we had one of the big oil drums under the car and we couldn’t advance. I told him to back up, ditch the barrel, and let’s get the heck out of there!!! He backed up, sans barrel, and then the car stalled … STALLED! My heart was absolutely in my throat; I could
barely breathe! Carlos kept trying to restart the car; sticks were beating against it again. KLICK … KLICK … and then it caught! We rammed the last of whatever was in front of us and FLEW down the long road heading to Fort Clayton. I truly thought that was my last day on this planet … Carlos included! I think I lost some years off my hoped-for longevity that day.
One would think the above would be the finishing touches on a tour that was coming to an end, calendar-wise, but PANAMA was not about to let me go just yet.
Just a day later, I left the Embassy to head home after work. Yup, I did have an orange Volvo. I found myself behind that truck full of what you see there: apparently not choir boys, all with guns, also heading in the direction of Punta Paitilla, where our condo was (re: tall buildings, upper right). They kept staring at me, and I had no choice but to stare back. Interesting drive. They pulled off to the side just before entering the area with the apartment buildings, and I passed them (gladly!) and entered our underground garage. I heard later that they drove all around that area, shooting at windows, but our building escaped that. It was a message from Noriega to residents of that area to cease going on balconies with pots and pans and making as much noise as possible, a form of protest widely recognized there. More? Yeah ……
I came back from the Embassy a day or so later and found this … a Huey (that WE provided Noriega!) hovering right off my balcony, just barely clearing enough space for its rotor blades … just hovering. They stared at me … I stared at them. Then they abruptly zoomed away, MESSAGE DELIVERED! More? …..
On our LAST DAY IN PANAMA, a Sunday, I received a call from the then DCM to come into the Embassy. I surmised it might have something to do with EERs, last-second signing, etc. It was yet another BS scheme they had concocted, and I didn’t feel like putting my life in danger … ON MY LAST DAY. I invited that deadly duo to find another sucker this time. Oh, the picture? While I was away at the Embassy, those two Noreiga goons rang the doorbell to our apartment. Luckily, Embassy personnel had iron doors for security. They asked for me; my wife told them I was not there. They departed, went to another apartment of a guy who taught Computer Science at the on-base Junior College, dragged him to the side of the building, and shot him dead. Things were getting damned hairy!
The next morning, we left that apartment for good, heading back to the Good Old USA! The Embassy driver looked VERY nervous that morning. He took us to the front door of the airport, dropped our bags on the ground, and PEELED RUBBER without even saying goodbye! I found out why when we went inside. All the regular ticket agents, etc., were replaced by Noriega’s army people. We walked up to the Departure counter. A Panamanian Captain took our tickets, looked me in the face for a minute, and said, “Have a good trip, Señor McCaffrey.” They knew who I was. I told my wife to just proceed to the gate and "don’t look back!"
Again: nothing about the above is a braggadocio/“hero” thing. Many of our OCers in many places have undergone something similar. But I can truly say that assignment weighed on me for a very long time afterward.