2-6-10 Boquete, Panama part two

After having a few beers with Paul, Adam and I returned to our hostel where we met one of the owners, Miguel, who insisted on taking us out to a little pub with live music.  A round of tequila soon showed up on account of my Mexican accent.  Also out with us was Claudia, Adam's Bolivian girlfriend he'd picked up while in Bolivia.  Adam's 26, she's 32 which he told me while nodding and shooting me a wink.

After the bar we decided to indulge in some Totinos pizzas we'd found at a little market on the way home, they were delicious.  While eating them I met Stuart from Tasmania, the other owner of the 'Mamallena Hostel'.  Stuart asked Adam and I if we wanted to go see something that he described as being a 'brilliant spectacle' which wasn't a question at all in our books as we couldn't decline such an offer.

It was now 2am and the three of us headed out for a brief walk then rounded a corner into an alley where a single light illuminated a small crowd of guys. Upon getting closer we saw that it was a fight that had everyone's attention.  The two fighters boxed properly, no kicking, biting or hitting on the ground.  The opponents held their fists unusually high so that their upper arm was parallel with the dirt, kinda resembling a kangaroo.  They threw few jabs but used more of a vertical stabbing motion which did a good job of bloodying both men.

Inside the bar was interesting to say the least.  I've seen some pretty shady establishments including some with troughs between the stools and the bar intended to allow patrons to relieve themselves conveniently without leaving their perch.  This place had no troughs but could have used them as it wreaked of piss.  I counted six bodies slumped on the floor and found number seven when I kicked him in the chest accidentally on my way to the bar to order a round of 60 cent beers. I'm pretty sure he didn't feel a thing.

The bar scene was comprised entirely of local indigenous guys, but not all of them were dressed as guys.  We were propositioned for a dance by some cheeky chaps and we graciously declined.  The three of us were each a foot taller than everyone else in the room though we were never stared at or treated any differently from the others which was nice.  Often times in situations like this the foreigners will be given a lot of personal space, but here we seemed to blend in with the crowd. Then again, maybe they were too drunk to look up and see our white faces.

While standing around chatting three fights broke out, two of which were moved outside where they fought properly, the third fizzled after a good slap.

During one of the outdoor matches everyone stopped what they were doing and ran into the bar. The cops had showed up.  Stuart, Adam and I stayed outside and greeted the cops who went indoors, made a round then left.  Less than a minute after the cops departure the fists were flying again.

It was a Saturday night in Boquete and apparently this is what the local indigenous guys do every weekend.  The previous Saturday ended with four stabbings outside the bar.

We made it back to the hostel a few hours before sunrise exhausted but elated that it had been an excellent day.  The hostel was dark so I staggered off towards my dorm room, opened the door quietly and crawled up the little ladder and was soon asleep in my bunk.  For some reason I wasn't worried about the fact that none of my gear was on my bed where I'd left it.  The 60 cent beers might have had something to do with this, then again, maybe not.  Upon waking up the next morning I came to find that I was not in a room with a few Canadians as I had thought the night before, instead I was in a dorm room of Israeli girls. "Morning, ladies" I looked at the door which said Dorm 2,  the key  in my pocket said Dorm 1.