The Mangrove Coast df-6

by Randy Wayne White

  I don’t know that I’d ever seen a Web page, but this one certainly seemed professionally done. What Merlot and company were offering was membership and time-share participation in a converted country club in an old Panama Canal Zone village, a tiny place called Gamboa. The locator map showed it to be about midway between the Pacific coast and the Caribbean coast, on a paw of jungle where the Chagres River entered the canal. The Isthmus of Panama, where the canal cuts through, is less than fifty miles ocean to ocean, so Gamboa was close enough to Panama City to make for easy access.

  But Merlot was offering more than just property.

  The home page headline read:

  Gamboa

  A Private, Protected Community for Fun-Loving People

  Then in smaller letters:

  Gamboa

  Finally! The Freedom to Live Our Dreams!

  Anything you want… because you’ve earned it.

  The script was backdropped by a stunning photograph of classic tropical homes overlooking the canal on a hillside of dense rain forest. There were flowers, gigantic luminous leaves, clapboard and wedges of bamboo fence showing through. The houses appeared to be from another time: wooden, perfectly maintained, elevated off the ground like tree houses.

  The jungle that dwarfed the houses implied components that jungle always implies: shadows, waterfalls, vines, earth as black and potent as gunpowder, wild parrots.

  I’d driven through Gamboa once years ago, but it was at night. Didn’t see much, but remembered the smell of the jungle there, and the solid look of the houses that drifted past in our Humvee’s headlights. Like most structures in the Zone, the houses had been built back in the 1920s and ‘30s by American shipwrights. The guy who’d been driving was an old hand from the Jungle Operations Training Base at nearby Fort Sherman, and I remember him telling me how the houses were built: redwood imported from California, hardwood floors, copper plumbing, even roofs layered with copper sheeting, for God’s sake, everything pegged and bolted and dovetailed solid as a ship, built for the long haul of colonialism. Only the best if the U.S. government was buying and building it. Also told me something about the work-hard-drink-hard locals… yes, he’d told me what they called themselves: Gambodians.

  Right… and I had certainly passed Gamboa while transiting the canal by ship or boat. I had a vague recollection of white houses on a hillside, a little working tugboat and dredge marina. But I had not realized what a truly lovely place it was.

  The Turk was clicking through a scrapbook of photos: houses, interiors and exteriors, swimming pool, tennis courts, a refurbished bar and restaurant on a high hill. “The Gamboa Country Club,” it was labeled.

  “Is it not beautifully done?” The Turk asked.

  “The Web page? First-class. Really nice.”

  Looking at the computer screen, reading the words, I felt a chill

  … the kind of chill that precedes nausea. It is always troubling when innocent words are used to mask a broader meaning: If the buyers Merlot wanted to attract were nothing more than fun-loving people, why did they need to be protected? If they had legitimate dreams, why was it so difficult to find a place where those dreams could be realized?

  The Turk wanted to ask us something, I could tell. But he was having difficulty finding the right approach. Finally:

  “You are men of the world, I take it.”

  “I’ve been around.”

  “Gawldamn right we have! I’d barely scratched the surface when I told you about that bawdy house in Tampico. Tampico, the best place in the world to buy hand-tooled boots. Also, maybe the toughest city in Mexico to leave without takin’ a case of the clap home as a souvenir. Lotta people don’t know that, either.”

  The Turk smiled indulgently. “So you appreciate the more pleasurable… the more sensual needs that all men of health and vitality share. Of course! Why else would two successful American men come to a place such as Cartagena.”

  Yeah, the sex trade. Why else would a Yankee come to Colombia?

  I nodded, hoping Tucker would keep his mouth shut for once, just let it happen.

  The Turk said, “Gentlemen, what we are offering for sale here are not simply beautiful time-share duplexes and homes in one of the most beautiful rain forests in the world. What we are offering is a private, a very private, members-only club where a man-or, yes, a woman-may come and indulge any… any appetite or fantasy they wish. Indeed, the management of Club Gamboa will… strive to provide whatever… whatever is required to make your fantasies a reality.”

  I wanted him to come out and say what he meant. “What you’re telling us is there’ll always be women available. So it’s like a whorehouse village. Or are there options?”

  The laugh, that sniff! “Gentlemen, why am I talking when our Web page is designed to show you? Here… please consider what we have to offer. This feature” — he was moving the cursor, closing windows, opening others-“it is called… it is a video, a QuickTime video. Watch and you’ll learn much of what I’m sure you want to know.”

  16

  First I had to sit through a little bit of history on the Panama Canal. I watched the video patiently, already convinced that Merlot and Gail were at Gamboa, but also knowing that my best approach to Merlot was probably as a potential buyer. I wouldn’t receive a very warm welcome if I just walked up and said, “Hey, that lady you’ve been blackmailing? I’ve come to take her home.”

  To convince Merlot that I was a legitimate buyer, I had to first convince the Turk.

  Tucker was still smoking… Christ, wobbling now and humming country-western songs to himself… moving back and forth between the hookah and the computer as I watched helicopter footage fly me over locks and down a straight brown conduit of water, jungle on both sides, as the Powerbook spoke to me as if it were guiding a tour of Disney World: “The independent nation of Panama is completing its takeover of the Panama Canal and the land that sides it. It is the world’s most lucrative shipping route! The United States opened the canal in 1914 and, over the years, built ten military bases and American-style villages in prime areas of the fifty-mile-long, ten-mile-wide Canal Zone. Those facilities will soon be abandoned by the U.S.! The Zone is so beautifully maintained that outsiders often compare it to a national park. It consists of 560 square miles of prime land, much of it uncut tropical rain forest… and one of the Zone’s most beautiful little tropical colonies, Gamboa. Gamboa’s rain forest is the richest on earth. That’s no exaggeration. Honest. Biologists have counted 184 varieties of tree per hector there, a world record! Tiny Gamboa also holds the world record for the most birds counted in a contained area-525 species! In and around Gamboa you can also find more than 120 kinds of orchids plus all kinds of wild fruit and flowers. But know what? You’ll probably be too busy having fun to spend much time outside.”

  The Turk interrupted, saying, “What it says next is important. Very important. As how you would say… background information that will make you feel secure about your investment.”

  That seemed to be the sole objective of the video: convincing potential members that Panama was a safe investment. “Want to know why investors like you and me are being offered this extraordinary opportunity? Here’s the fascinating story: In 1977, the Carter Administration agreed to gradually turn over the canal and the land to Panama by December 31,1999. It was also agreed that the so-called Zonies-mostly Americans from families who’d worked in the Zone for several generations-would be phased out Prior to the Carter treaty, there were nearly twenty thousand Americans, or Zonies, living and working in the Canal Zone. On the afternoon of the transfer, fewer than 800 remaining Zonies will finish their last day at work and leave for good. Why should that be of interest to people looking for a unique new vacation paradise? “Here’s why: The Panamanian government considers the beautiful housing and facilities long provided for the Zonies to be among Panama’s most valuable assets. The Authority for the Interoceanic Region is willing to make these facilities available to good people lik
e you and me at bargain prices… but only through select companies and individuals that they have chosen to administrate these properties… “

  Meaning Merlot. But why had the AIR chosen someone like him?

  As I started to ask, the Turk pressed an index finger to his lips

  … then went ahead and spoke anyway. “What comes next, it will explain more. Why you will have wonderful security and support in Gamboa.”

  The person doing the explaining was Club Gamboa’s founder and CEO, Jackie Merlot. Big smiling close-up of that hairless face and those BB-sized black eyes. How Merlot happened to be entrusted with control of a defunct golf club in a beautiful Panamanian village was not immediately spelled out. He was just there, a smiling giant, blond hair as if it were glued in place. The little video zapped through a montage of shots to keep it interesting- wildlife, hot springs, jungle rivers-while we were told that, in Panama, Mr. Merlot was a man who got things done…

  And then Merlot was on camera. He looked massive in a tent-sized beige guayabera, a style of four-pocket linen shirt that all fat men wear in Latin America. He was walking through the flowered streets of what I assumed was Gamboa, talking to the camera. He had a smoky, curiously high-pitched voice, in which he began by speaking about his connections with “many important” Asian businessmen.

  Strange. It seemed an odd choice of topics, but there it was. He had to be working some kind of angle.

  I stood and listened to him explain that his “connections” were instrumental in approving an ingenious plan: The virgin rain forest on the Gamboa property would be harvested and a portion of the income would become a financial asset to all members. The timber revenue would finance remodeling and maintenance for the whole project, plus create more room for construction.

  That, at least, made sense. Despoil a mountainside, despoil a human being. What was the difference?

  Then he said, “Our project will be of particular interest to my many good friends from Chinese Hong Kong and Taiwan. I have personal knowledge of the modem Far East’s high standards of service, whether it’s business or pleasure. We know quality. That much you can be sure of.”

  He didn’t seem nervous; was perfectly at ease, a man used to being in charge. No doubt about it, he was tailoring his sales pitch for Asians.

  Why? And what kind of connections could he have in Asia?

  I waited to find out as he told the camera that “Panama’s friendship with Asia has always been important. But now it’s more important than ever.” The reason? Huge smile. “Because there would be no Club Gamboa, — that’s why. Not if some of the most successful corporations in Hong Kong and Taiwan weren’t committed to playing major financial and organizational roles in the future of the New Panama Canal.”

  One of the Chinese companies involved, he said, was Panama Ports, a subsidiary of a major Hong Kong conglomerate. Panama Ports had been awarded control of Panama’s two most valuable properties-the ports on either end of the canal, Colon and Balboa-with a twenty-five-year contract. The company would pay $22.2 million a year, plus would invest many times that in improvements!

  Which was a big surprise to me-the Chinese were now in control of both ends of the Panama Canal?

  And maybe that’s why Merlot was targeting Asian clients… but, in a strange way, he also seemed to be using Asia’s participation as a bona fide for his own small project.

  Another very important addition to Panama, he said, was Evergreen, a Taiwanese shipping company that was beginning construction of a fifty-nine-acre terminal near the Colon Free Trade Zone. The project would cost about $100 million.

  A third Chinese company, Tainan Ltd., solely owned and controlled by one of Taiwan’s wealthiest families, had also received major concession contracts from the Panamanian government. Among them were several tracts of housing, including Gamboa.

  Merlot was grinning into the camera, as he said, “I spent my early years living with my mother in Taiwan, and I have known the fine people at Tainan all my life. They have my eternal respect… as do all the companies that are working hard to make the Panama Canal bigger and better than ever. In their free time?” His smile broadened. “I hope the honored workers of these fine companies will join us at Club Gamboa and let their fondest dreams come true. Just as I hope you will do the same. Our club motto is simple: Anything you want… because you’ve earned it.”

  There it was: Merlot was telling potential buyers that he had the political blessing of a major Taiwanese company. That was all the guarantee anyone needed. He had connections with Tainan, a corporation that was investing millions in Panama. Which was probably why he’d been awarded the Gamboa concession. Choose a reason: maybe he was old school buddies with a member of that powerful family… or maybe he had some kind of blackmail leverage… or maybe, just maybe, Amanda had been right when she guessed Merlot had a touch of Asiatic blood.

  It didn’t matter. He had this village and he apparently had the political juice to make it work.

  I placed my hand in front of the screen. “Look, you’re kind of wasting my time, Turk. I’m not here to listen to history and crap about the Chinese. All I want to know is exactly what Gamboa’s offering me and how much is it going to cost? You got something interesting to show me, show me now or I’m going back to the bar.”

  The Turk looked up at me and shrugged-Okay, tired of this screen? Let’s try something else. He was closing windows again, moving the show along as he said to me, “Some Yankees… forgive me, Americans, are easily offended. They have a very narrow view of what is improper or immoral when it comes to a man’s pleasure. Our chairman, Mr. Merlot, put it very well when he said that Americans are… what’s the word…?” The Turk was thinking hard, eyes wrinkled shut.

  “Prudes?”

  “Exactly! Prudes. That’s precisely the word. Are you and your old friend like most Americans? Or do you agree that we all have different

  … needs?”

  Tucker was now sitting on the couch, staring into the hookah’s smoky glass globe. He was still wearing his gray rodeo hat, white sports coat, ankles crossed showing his fancy boots. He stirred, looked around, finally found the Turk with his eyes. Said, “Old? Fuck you.”

  “A generous offer, but no thanks,” smiled the Turk. “Well… who the hell you callin’ old, boy? How’d you like to go home and tell your mama that some boy just spanked your… your… spanked your…” Tuck’s voice flattened and disappeared. He’d lost the thread… but he’d found the hookah again, something easy to look at, not loud, not penetrating.

  He sighed; folded his hands in his lap.

  I watched his head fall before I said, “I’ll look at anything you’ve got to show me. I’m wide open.”

  “Open to anything?”

  “You think I came to Colombia for the fishing?”

  The Turk’s laughter said okay, he was convinced. Sounded very enthusiastic as he said, “Then you will love Gamboa. Because in Gamboa, you can have anything you want.”

  “I know, the motto. Because I deserve it.” Like it was bullshit.

  “No, when I say anything, that’s exactly what I mean. The Chinese, the Japanese, they know how to relax. Gamboa is being created for them

  … and for Mr. Merlot’s own personal interests.”

  On the screen now, new images were appearing. I stepped back a little, watched.

  Felt that chill again. A swelling nausea…

  The Web page had a very complete catalogue of pornography, most of it shot at Gamboa, I was told, but a few things from Mr. Merlot’s own personal collection.

  The stuff from Merlot’s collection, I didn’t see till the very end…

  The way it worked, the Turk told me, was that he recruited “help” to work in Gamboa. In return, Mr. Merlot paid him a small finder’s fee, promised him a prime vacation time-share on the canal, plus allowed him to be Gamboa’s sole agent in Colombia. He got 10 percent of anything he could prove that he moved.

  “If I can sell a few of these ti
me-shares,” he said, “I can pay Mr. Garret enough to get the case out of the courts. I can save my yacht in this way.”

  I said, “So convince me. Make a good case for your project, and I’ll buy.”

  The shrug, the hands, the facial expression, all said no problem. “First thing, Colombia has the most beautiful women in the Americas, perhaps the world,” the Turk said. “If you sign the contract, purchase a time-share with us, what you do then is tell Mr. Merlot what you, want while you’re in Gamboa on vacation. Anything you want, I can find it for you. A beautiful Negro housemaid? A young Latina cook? Or perhaps… perhaps a teenage boy.” He held his palms up-whoa, he wasn’t judging, just giving an example. “You want all three at once… or five at once, you can have that, too. If we get your order in advance, I find what you want in Bogota or here, in the slums of Cartagena.” The palms again. “Poor, yes, but very clean and beautiful. You pay a small fee for each and they will do anything you wish them to do. Truly, Gamboa is the place to make your fondest dreams come true.”

  “So what happens if I happen to be visiting Panama, I’ve got some clients with me, but the time-share I bought is for a different time of the year?”

  “As a member of Club Gamboa, you may rent by the night, by the week, whatever you want. True… on such short notice, we may not be able to provide precisely what you want. But the club’s entire staff will be made up of very beautiful women and very willing boys and they are always at the members’ disposal. But here-let me show you the kind of pleasure we have to offer.” As the screen changed, he said, “Are you sure you would not like to smoke a bit while you watch?” A. minute or so later, he said, “You don’t mind if I do?”

  I wasn’t looking at the screen. Had long since turned my eyes away

  … not out of disgust, but out of… sadness? No, but an emotion that was close to it. More like a… hollowness.

  I did not look at the computer screen for the same reason that I do not go to topless bars or strip shows or watch pornographic films. Sex? Yeah, I love sex. Love the tender anything-to-bring-her-pleasure kind and the sweaty belly-slapping variety and anything, absolutely anything else, that will make me or my like-minded partner happy. But when the debasement of an individual is viewed as entertainment, we are all diminished… plus I am always, always perplexed by a very basic question: How does it come to pass that the lives of otherwise-healthy men and women are so tragically compromised?