Following Hemingway in the Panama wilds

Ernest Hemingway once said: “In order to write about life, first you must live it”. So live it I must, but I’ve decided I am going to have some fun along the way.

My artist wife has settled in for a long day of sketching which frees me to discover Panama’s more masculine pleasures.

Venturing forth from my secure, gated property, I enter an unknown jungle.

Strange animal sounds erupt, startled by my presence. The heat is intense. Huge black vultures circle ominously overhead. I am a stranger in a strange land.

Mano-a-mano, I will face the wilds of Panama.

To quench my raging thirst I stop at the local tienda and buy beer and a bottle of Ron Abuelo’s finest rum.

Hunger strikes hard. This is a hunger that will not be sated by mere food. What I need only comes raw.

I recall a secret place. The wise ones whisper its name: Parrillada Mindi.

I was taken there many moons ago in search of the perfect, succulent ceviche. My hunting instincts are finely honed, and I uncover my prey exactly one kilometer due south of the supermercado in Anton.

I enter this non-descript thatched-roof bar to find the grand master himself, Simon Soto stooped silently over his counter, preparing his addictive concoctions.

Three-time national champion this magician of lemon curing skillfully transforms simple shrimp into a medley of flavors that explodes in the mouth. Like an addict I devour my fix, and demanded a “to go” cup.

I press on to the outskirts of Penonome in quest of the manliest of all pleasures – the perfect cigar.

The pungent smell of tobacco wafts by as I enter Costa, home of the handmade Panamanian version of the Cuban cigar – identical, according to Martin Aparicio, Costa’s Cuban-born owner, to their outrageously expensive Cuban cousins.

The rolling process is reminiscent of a bygone era, which gives me a strange sense of comfort.

Legend has it that the originals from Cuba are rolled on the thighs of virgins.

Martin asserts that everyone involved in the rolling of these cigars was, at some point, a virgin.

Carefully placed in its form, a fine cigar is born.

A perfectly rolled cigar jauntily protruding from my jaw, I follow the balneario sign on Penonome’s main street down a paved road to the Rio Cocle del Sur, and rented a boat for five bucks.

I am floating peacefully down river, not a soul around as far as the eye could see.

Fishing rod in hand, cold beer and ceviche at my feet, I took a swig of fifteen-year-old rum and a puff on my fine Cuban cigar. I ponder my looming column deadline.

I have found my place.

My cell phone rings. Do I answer? What would Ernest have done? An exotic bird suddenly shrieks, a mocking commentary.

Papa Hemingway was wise. He didn’t own a cell phone.

Rob Brown, is known to friends and neighbors as Roberto Chocolate, and can be reached at roberto@retirementdetectives.com