For over five hundred years Panama has been fought over, its culture destroyed, only to be rebuilt, forged and hardened, like the best steel, by the fires of greed and cruelty. Geographically, it’s the crossroads of the world. Conquistadors like Captain Pedro Arias de Avila, was largely responsible for stopping the worship of Paquo Meecho, a jungle god, and building the first major city in Panama. Arias destroyed a village and alter used to worship Paquo Meecho, and he killed the High Priest. Legends say that from that point on, nothing could ever be built on that piece of real estate and last. But Arias tried. He built a village, this one made of stone and Panama City was born. Decades later, this “jewel of Spain” was destroyed by the Buccaneer Henry Morgan, and the village was moved several miles down the coast. For centuries the remnants of what then became known as Panama Viejo has withstood Pacific rain and tropical sun. It was still there in 1989 when a modern day pirate by the name of General Antonio Noriega built an army outpost that was destroyed during a US invasion.

     You can walk among these very ruins and see the old cathedral, the Bishop’s house, plazas, and storage areas for food and gold. Even to this day, if you visit the old ruins and walk among its ramparts, the locals will tell you they can hear hushed voices speaking in the ancient tongue of the jungle people saying, “Paquo Meecho has spoken.” As they stand on the hill by the old cathedral and face the ocean, they see the palm trees once more dancing in the soft embrace of the Trade Winds and they feel that the Bush People are near, looking out across the Bay of Many Fish. When you’re in that exact spot yourself, it’s hard not to feel something.

     My first trip to the Isthmus was when I was assigned to the US Army Airborne Rangers. I viewed the jungle from 1200 feet as I prepared for a parachute jump from a C-141 jet. The thick trees looked like broccoli stalks bunched together and covered with a layer of steam. We passed over what looked like a field and I was given the command to jump. As I floated down under my large canopy, I remember seeing other rangers disappear into the tall elephant grass and wondered, What’s in there? I soon found out. It was the rainy season and there was water—a lot of water—and thick, sucking mud. Three short weeks of jungle training and a visit to Colon and Panama City was just enough to get me hooked on Panamanian culture. The entire country seemed to pulse erotically, loud with danger, wild and tropical.

     Now I had returned to Colon, this time as a tourist. Although there were changes, the feel of the city was very much the same. Rule number one: Don’t roam around Colon. Rule number two: Don’t roan around Colon. The city was an old colonial town built on a swamp that had been built up over the years and connected to the mainland. It’s a port of entry for thousands of ships annually with sailors from every country running through its bars and brothels. Colon was promised a lot over the years, and at one time the tree-lined boulevards and the mixture of Spanish and Caribbean architecture was the envy of Panama. But after years of neglect, it became a mere shadow of what it once was. As a result, some of the locals began looking for other ways to make ends meet. They might find a wayward sailor meandering down an alley. Or a tourist. The city had definitely withdrawn into itself.

     This was also where there was a large “Free Zone,” controlled mainly by Venezuela. As I approached Colon along the littered highway, it exploded with hundreds of billboards advertising every product imaginable. The local government did not advertise Colon at all. They preferred the tourists to go to the much nicer western highlands. It was the shipping traffic they were after, and a ship didn’t need a billboard or a flashing neon light to show them where Colon was.

     Products oozed out of cargo holds from around the world, mainly Asia. By then, they had been relabeled so many times it was impossible to tell what was the original country of origin. Most of the products shipped to the Third World were then sent up north to the First World, where they were wrapped in pretty, eye-catching packages. Plastic dolls made with child labor for thirty cents were sold for thirty dollars. The leftovers were shipped back to the Third World.

     The Free Zone was the beginning—and the end, of the international economic circle known as “free trade.” I sat on a white-painted bench just outside the gated and well-guarded Free Zone, watching it in action. A packaging plant there would have made too much sense. After all, shipping costs needed to be covered and profits made for the benefit of a few.

     The sun began to settle, casting long shadows across Manzanillo Bay. I glanced out past the entrance to Gatun Locks and the Atlantic where dozens of ships were queued. As night fell across the Canal, free trading continued away from the prying eyes of any government.