Regis Hanna
Narrative Journalism
Prof. Marin Heinritz
4-22-09
Juega Vivo
There is an unofficial motto that circulates in Panama: “juega vivo”. It is their way of saying that life is a game and that if you can get away with something then why not do it? It is the part of the Panamanian spirit that makes them want to yell profanities as the referee of a soccer match, make a Panamanian cop accept a bribe instead of actually writing a speeding ticket, and for making them want to speed in the first place. This attitude is particularly harsh on foreigners because they are easy targets and last summer it a fresh reminder that no matter how much I want to believe it, I’m not very Panamanian.
I was at a local indoor soccer stadium that was popular amongst my friends to rent out and play in during the weekdays. As a teenager, I used to take a taxi there and then try to bum a ride back home afterwards. But on this occasion I was old enough to drive there in my parent’s car. I had grown up most of my life in Panama, and being back for the summer after a three-year absence, I was excited to see if anything changed. After parking the car outside, I nonchalantly put the keys and my wallet inside my backpack with my water and towel.
Fifteen people came to play and only ten fit on the court so we divided into teams of five and played for five-minute intervals or until a score of three goals. I was out of shape and needed someone to step in for me by the second game. The oppressive humidity didn’t help either. I was always out of my league there; some of these people worshipped soccer. But being the underdog didn’t matter t compared to seeing old friends, getting some exercise and getting out of the house. Life was good.
I walked back to the bleachers to get my water from my backpack and with a slice of sudden alertness realized that it was not where I had left it. Like a flood, instinct and suspicion came over me, and I scrambled over to see if it might just be covered by someone else’s stuff. Realizing that it wasn’t, a happiness wrenching thought flashed in my mind “oh no the car”.
The juega vivo mentality is something I had grown used to going to high school in panama. It was the life spring of countless practical jokes and scandals. That sixth-sense of extra-alertness that I had adopted while living in Panama had worn off in the three years since I had left. It was that little voice that warned you by saying things like “check to make sure you still have your wallet”, “don’t trust the crazy drivers around you” and “keep an eye on the luis (a friend of mine), he has a telling mischievous smile on his face.”

Now there was the slight chance that the supposed criminal I believed at this point existed had missed the car keys that were in my backpack and stole just my wallet with 40 dollars in it. But as I ran to where I had left the car my hopes became as empty as the parking space I was staring at. My intestines started to squirm; I hate being the bringer of misfortune. The police arrived quickly and were on the hunt for the thief practically seconds after their arrival, but their search was practically useless. The car was found abandoned a few months later in a different province of the country and by then the insurance agency owned it.
That same week a high school friend of mine threw a birthday party at her house in the city. Once there I related to my very humored friends that someone had stolen my parent’s car from me. Amongst their many reactions the most notable was a sort of condescending consensus that I was a gringo, an American, and that by simple deduction you could conclude that I simply did not understand how not to be taken advantage of in Panama. I brushed it off as a joke, but shortly thereafter something happened that forced me to reconsider their theory.
I left there that night at about 2:30am with a beer safely locked in my hand for the journey and confident that I could manage Panama’s trickery with a newfound alertness. I walked down to the main road and waited patiently for a taxi. It took me about 20 minutes before I hailed one down that already had two people in it. I always try to be friendly to taxi drivers, but when I’ve had a few drinks I act like we are already best friends. I chatted freely with the taxi driver about how I was just visiting from the U.S. but lived there for nine years. Secretly, I was hoping to emphasize how local I was so that I would not be expected to pay more for the ride.
We dropped off one passenger and I told the driver to head to Albrook, the name of the area I lived in. It was a pleasant drive until the taxi pulled into a desolate road on the left, stopped in the middle of it and pulled out a gun. The charade was up. The driver and passenger stole the money out my wallet, this one with about 45$ in it, and told me to get out, walk away with my hands up and not to look back. I stepped out of the cab and said “Thanks for the ride”, as sarcastically as you can to a make with a gun in your face. Resolute about the fate of my situation and temporarily dumbfounded by the proximity of these two misfortunate robberies I heard the taxi call out, “Hey!” I turned around and watched as three single dollar bills floated out of the car window; “For a cab home” he called out.
The taxi sped off and I eventually brokered a ride back home with the police. Even without the money I had lost that week, I still survived fine enough and my parents collected insurance for the car. So little harm was done. But more importantly I came to accept that I was maybe more foreign to the country than I was proud to accept.


Outline
Complication: Regis becomes naïve.
Development: a) Regis’ car robed
b) Regis tells friends
c) Taxi robs Regis
Resolution: Regis accepts identity.