Holidays in Hell: In Which Our Intrepid Reporter Travels to the World's Worst Places and Asks, "What's Funny About This" by P. J. O’Rourke Page B
Authors: P. J. O’Rourke
Ads: Link
Soviet air force pilots sneeze like the dickens.
Three thousand words here and it seems I still haven't answered the question, "What's happening in Panama?" Darn these
Apple Its anyway. Where's the BRIEF INSIGHTFUL SUMMARY key on
this thing?
The rabe blancos are acting like wimps. When the government
moved on Diaz Herrera and simultaneously closed all the opposi tion newspapers, opposition leaders responded by hiding. ProNoriega salsa bands took over the streets. On July 26, after nearly
two months of agita, somebody finally got killed-a quiet, well-
bahaved business-administration student named Eduardo Enrique
Carrera. Eduardo and some friends apparently yelled, "Down with
the Pineapple," at a police cruiser, and the police shot him. Not a
single major opposition leader showed at the funeral.
As for the rabe blanco demonstrations, I was talking to a
senior official in the Panamanian Foreign Ministry, a black guy
whose grandparents came from Jamaica. He just laughed. "Man, I
went to the toughest high school in Panama City," he said. "We
knew how to riot. Oh, these people should check the confetti in
Beirut."
On the other side, the government hacks are acting like
morons. They're swamped with debt but spending millions on pep
rallies and early bonuses for public employees. Reuters correspondent Tom Brown, the only U.S. reporter based full-time in Panama,
was expelled for reporting a Civilian Crusade general strike as 85
percent effective. "You have twenty-four hours to leave the country
voluntarily," Brown was told. And on June 30 the government
launched what might be the lamest ever "spontaneous' attack on an
American embassy. Five thousand government workers were required to participate in the demonstration in order to receive their
paychecks. These not-very-enthusiastic anti-imperialists were
bused to the embassy compound where cheerleaders led them in
dispirited chants while thirty hoodlums threw rocks at the building. Washington presented a bill for $106,000 in damages to the
Panamanian government, which promptly apologized and paid up.
Meanwhile, the economy of Panama goes to hell. It's not like
they make or grow anything. The whole country is based on
international banking and a canal the United States can take back
any time it wants with one troop of Boy Scouts. Right now the
contents of Panama's banks are on a greenback-salmon run to
Luxembourg, the Bahamas and the Cayman Islands.
Noriega's getting to be more trouble than he's worth to the
other corrupt military officers. He'll probably "retire" in favor of
some more acceptable general. Or maybe he'll hang on. The
opposition might even win, and its hundred factions will squabble merrily until the next coup. People knowledgeable in Panamanian
political affairs ask themselves, "Who gives a shit?"
The night before I left, I watched an NBC producer who'd
been in the country for two months sit on the floor of his hotel room
drunk, swaying and keening to himself over and over again, ". .
the rumors, the honking, the confetti, the tear gas, the rumors, the
honking, the confetti, the tear gas . . ." Panama can drive you
around the bend. Believe me, I know. I went back to my room and
put on my best Central Intelligence Agency seersucker jacket and
rep tie. Then I went down to the hotel bar to leave the Panamanians
with a little of their own radio bemba, a sort of going-away present.
"Buenos noches, Ramon," I said, speaking to the unctuous bartender in a stentorian American voice. "Looks like those rich rabe
blancos are too scared to get their own hands dirty."
"Si, comb no," Ramon agreed.
"You know, I was up at Southern Command today," I said,
looking around as though we might be overheard. "I hear the rabes
are hiring some out-of-work death-squad guys from Argentina." I
leaned over and whispered loudly to Ramon, "And they're getting
help from the Mossad, M15 and the KGB." Then I downed my
drink and smiled, knowing the
Three thousand words here and it seems I still haven't answered the question, "What's happening in Panama?" Darn these
Apple Its anyway. Where's the BRIEF INSIGHTFUL SUMMARY key on
this thing?
The rabe blancos are acting like wimps. When the government
moved on Diaz Herrera and simultaneously closed all the opposi tion newspapers, opposition leaders responded by hiding. ProNoriega salsa bands took over the streets. On July 26, after nearly
two months of agita, somebody finally got killed-a quiet, well-
bahaved business-administration student named Eduardo Enrique
Carrera. Eduardo and some friends apparently yelled, "Down with
the Pineapple," at a police cruiser, and the police shot him. Not a
single major opposition leader showed at the funeral.
As for the rabe blanco demonstrations, I was talking to a
senior official in the Panamanian Foreign Ministry, a black guy
whose grandparents came from Jamaica. He just laughed. "Man, I
went to the toughest high school in Panama City," he said. "We
knew how to riot. Oh, these people should check the confetti in
Beirut."
On the other side, the government hacks are acting like
morons. They're swamped with debt but spending millions on pep
rallies and early bonuses for public employees. Reuters correspondent Tom Brown, the only U.S. reporter based full-time in Panama,
was expelled for reporting a Civilian Crusade general strike as 85
percent effective. "You have twenty-four hours to leave the country
voluntarily," Brown was told. And on June 30 the government
launched what might be the lamest ever "spontaneous' attack on an
American embassy. Five thousand government workers were required to participate in the demonstration in order to receive their
paychecks. These not-very-enthusiastic anti-imperialists were
bused to the embassy compound where cheerleaders led them in
dispirited chants while thirty hoodlums threw rocks at the building. Washington presented a bill for $106,000 in damages to the
Panamanian government, which promptly apologized and paid up.
Meanwhile, the economy of Panama goes to hell. It's not like
they make or grow anything. The whole country is based on
international banking and a canal the United States can take back
any time it wants with one troop of Boy Scouts. Right now the
contents of Panama's banks are on a greenback-salmon run to
Luxembourg, the Bahamas and the Cayman Islands.
Noriega's getting to be more trouble than he's worth to the
other corrupt military officers. He'll probably "retire" in favor of
some more acceptable general. Or maybe he'll hang on. The
opposition might even win, and its hundred factions will squabble merrily until the next coup. People knowledgeable in Panamanian
political affairs ask themselves, "Who gives a shit?"
The night before I left, I watched an NBC producer who'd
been in the country for two months sit on the floor of his hotel room
drunk, swaying and keening to himself over and over again, ". .
the rumors, the honking, the confetti, the tear gas, the rumors, the
honking, the confetti, the tear gas . . ." Panama can drive you
around the bend. Believe me, I know. I went back to my room and
put on my best Central Intelligence Agency seersucker jacket and
rep tie. Then I went down to the hotel bar to leave the Panamanians
with a little of their own radio bemba, a sort of going-away present.
"Buenos noches, Ramon," I said, speaking to the unctuous bartender in a stentorian American voice. "Looks like those rich rabe
blancos are too scared to get their own hands dirty."
"Si, comb no," Ramon agreed.
"You know, I was up at Southern Command today," I said,
looking around as though we might be overheard. "I hear the rabes
are hiring some out-of-work death-squad guys from Argentina." I
leaned over and whispered loudly to Ramon, "And they're getting
help from the Mossad, M15 and the KGB." Then I downed my
drink and smiled, knowing the
Similar Books
