Senor Nice: Straight Life From Wales to South America

by Howard Marks

  ‘Have you ever tried marijuana from Panama? I can get you a little if you want.’

  ‘I would love some.’

  ‘Then let’s go and see my friend Living Stone. He lives nearby. You will love him, I know.’

  Rosa and I took a boat to town. Apart from a few female Scandinavian backpackers and a couple of Canadian surfers abiding by their international dress code, the streets were full of locals. Everything and everyone seemed festive. Bocas del Toro is Panama’s rainiest province, accounting for its massive production of bananas – ‘green gold’ – and the consequent presence of Chiquita Brands International Inc., the United States’s giant banana corporation. West Indians migrated here to work on banana plantations; Graham Greene referred to it as ‘an island of prosperity in a sea of poverty’.

  We walked along the beach to where an enormous black man was sleeping in a hammock. Although the ends of the hammock were strong and high enough to keep the man’s head and feet off the ground, the middle was no match for his weight. Most of him lay on the ground.

  ‘That’s Living Stone,’ said Rosa, seeing the smile on my face. ‘He loves it here. He is an extremely rich man who could have his holidays in any part of the world in a five-star hotel, but he prefers here.’

  Living Stone woke up, rubbed his face and broke into a smile.

  ‘Hello, Rosa and Rosa’s friend. I am Living Stone.’

  Rosa explained who I was and what I was doing in Panama. They spoke in the local dialect, Guari-Guari, Jamaican patois embellished with Spanish and indigenous Indian words. I went to get some drinks from a kiosk.

  ‘Hey, Howard, you look like Henry Morgan; no wonder you’re researching him. Are you going to look for his treasure? You might find you have a rightful claim. Let’s go for a walk.’

  Henry Morgan’s next project after Portbelo was to sack Old Panama. The Spanish-controlled Pacific Ocean on one side and the fortifications and flooded plains dissuaded any wouldbe attackers who managed to cut their way through the thick jungle of the isthmus that separated the city from the Atlantic coast. It was considered impregnable; no sane man could even dream of the conquest of Old Panama.

  Nevertheless, Henry Morgan’s messengers spread the word of potential riches: there would be gold, jewels, food, wine and women. Too shrewd to mention Old Panama for fear of alerting the Spanish, Henry Morgan asked those interested to assemble on the Île de la Tortue. Forty ships carrying 3,000 reckless men of all nationalities swarmed to the island rendezvous. European pirates and escaped slaves then waited along the coast in palm-thatched huts, canvas shelters and dingy tents waiting for their orders.

  The route was via Santa Catalina and Providencia, Spanish-owned islands 500 miles to the north of the Colombian coast. Although originally colonized in the seventeenth century by English Puritans and Jamaican woodcutters, the islands now belong to Colombia and are a favoured intermediate point for cocaine smuggling from there to Jamaica.

  Arriving on the isthmus, resistance to Morgan’s attack was initially negligible. He now planned to row up the Rio Chagres in small boats and then march overland using Indian trails to Old Panama. The Chagres is a river which displays no respect for the regular business of rivers – that of getting to the ocean with as little bother as possible. Although its source is just a few miles from the Pacific Ocean, it meanders about and avoids any chance of a short cut. Thick jungle rolls to the river’s edge and suddenly stops like a frozen green wave. Both river and overland trips would be taxing and hazardous.

  The buccaneers learned by interrogating prisoners that the Spaniards had known for three weeks about their imminent arrival. Ambushes lined the proposed route to Old Panama, and a formidable army was waiting for them outside the city.

  Expecting to live off the country through which they would pass, Morgan and his men took no supplies and crowded into the inadequate number of canoes and rowing boats brought by the fleet. The trip was a nightmare of discouragement and hardship. The river was full of rapids, whirlpools and hidden sandbanks, which meant the overloaded boats were in constant danger of capsizing in the alligator-infested water. All day under the tropical sun the men cursed and sweated at their oars, tormented by hunger. Spotted giant cats watched the men with curiosity. Great snakes floated in the water, wary of the convoy, while clans of chattering monkeys dashed through the vines and treetops. The few villages they passed were desolate and empty; the Spaniards had burned or destroyed everything when they fled before the buccaneers’ approach and had cut trees and set them in the river to impede progress. Deserted farms and empty granaries taunted the starving buccaneers and Indian bowmen lay in ambush.

  Occasionally, the buccaneers left their boats and slashed their way through the jungle, dragging their cannon and heavy equipment. Fighting for breath in the stifling heat and constantly tormented by swarms of stinging insects, they struggled forward until the swamps forced them back into the river. Gnawing twigs and leaves, they frantically turned over stones, tore bark from rotting logs, and dug into heaps of natural compost, looking for grubs and worms to eat. They caught and roasted stray dogs, monkeys, snakes. At one of the deserted settlements they found a few leather bags, which they beat with stones, cut into strips and chewed. Finally, the buccaneers abandoned their boats for the mule trail, which led over the continental divide and down the Pacific slope.

  After nine days the pirates staggered to the top of a small hill and saw the Pacific gleaming in the distance. Below them lay rolling expanse of fertile farmland where fat cattle grazed in the lush grass. Hacking chunks from the cattle, the buccaneers ate the raw meat like famished wolves. Bestial, filthy but content, they slept like tired dogs with the tower of the cathedral of Old Panama silhouetted against the moonlit shimmering bay.

  The next day the Spanish infantry, cavalry and artillery waited confidently. They gathered 2,000 wild bulls to drive at the buccaneers and trample them to death. Stampeded by shouting, yelling cowboys, the bulls came bellowing across the field towards the pirates. Morgan’s expert shooters knelt and fired quickly. Those bulls not killed or crippled smelt the blood and stampeded back into the Spanish ranks. The buccaneers charged in the wake of the bulls. The battle turned into a shambles of yelling, cursing and dying men. The Spaniards finally threw away their weapons and scattered into the jungle, where they hid until found and tortured.

  Henry Morgan, once described as a pox-ridden bundle of vices, had terrorised the conquistadores. With a mere handful of desperadoes as his army, Henry had taken the main Spanish Caribbean ports, crossed the isthmus to the Pacific, sacked Old Panama and cut the main trade route between Spain and her American colonies. He had damaged the prestige of Spain, the richest and most powerful country in the world, to such an extent that it soon faded as a global power. Spain went into mourning, and the queen regent spent hours on her knees praying to the Virgin to send a thunderbolt to strike down Henry Morgan. Unwittingly, he had pioneered the finest form of British imperialism, buccaneering, the seed of the British empire.

  Leaving Rosa at the hammock, Living Stone and I walked to an empty stretch of the beach. He pulled out a joint and handed it to me.

  ‘It’s not the best, Howard, but it will work.’

  It did.

  ‘So are you really looking for Morgan’s treasure, or have you come to do some business. Rosa seemed confused when she talked to me about you.’

  ‘I just wanted some weed to smoke, Living Stone. I don’t smuggle dope any longer. It’s not that I have reformed; I’m just too well known to risk getting back into that game. And I’ve never thought of looking for anyone’s buried treasure, to be honest. But if you know of any, I’ll smuggle it to Europe for you.’

  Living Stone laughed.

  ‘I’m just so used to smugglers in the Caribbean pretending to be looking for treasure ships. I see them all come through here. I jump to conclusions. I’m sorry. My family come from Darien, where everyone is either a smuggler or a liar.’

  Bordering Colo
mbia, the Panamanian province of Darien is one of the wildest, least-known parts of the planet. Its population is descended from bands of renegade African slaves – cimarrónes, later called Maroons – pirates and independent indigenous Indian tribes and currently comprises Colombian Marxist guerrillas, paramilitary bandits, abducted missionaries and cocaine traffickers. The hundred-mile Darien Gap is the only break in the otherwise continuous Pan-American Highway stretching 20,000 miles from Circle, Alaska to the southernmost tip of Chile. It is thought that completing the road link would facilitate the spread of drugs and disease from Colombia.

  ‘But I can get you some weed, no problem. Have this on me.’

  Living Stone produced a matchbox full of small bright-rusty-coloured buds with a strong aroma of fresh-tilled earth combined with red clay, a strong hashish smell.

  ‘Is this Panama Red?’

  ‘It is. It’s grown in the mountains just here, and it’s the best. You’ll enjoy it. Anyway, Henry Morgan’s treasure won’t be in Panama; it will be on some remote island. Panama held bad memories for him.’

  To deprive Morgan of his loot, its Spanish defenders had set fire to Old Panama. Morgan lost not only the valuable contents and fittings of its wealthy homes, but also the advantage of being able to threaten to torch the city if ransoms were not paid. Even worse, Morgan learned from prisoners that a galleon had left Old Panama for Peru carrying half of Old Panama’s wealth, including a pure gold crucifix that weighed more than a ton, as well as members of its richest families. Portobelo had yielded 250,000 dollars in plundered goods alone. Old Panama would have produced a dozen times that much had it not been for the disasters of the ship escaping and the fire. Now it had yielded less.

  A caravan of underladen pack mules and sullen buccaneers accompanied Morgan on the gruelling march back across the isthmus. Morgan was not to blame but he was increasingly met with sullen looks, neglect of discipline and outright defiance. Although each of his men had sought him out, begged him for employment and offered undying loyalty, and although Morgan had led them to inconceivable riches, been scrupulously fair in his payments and had several times risked his life and freedom to save theirs, their fantasies had not been realised.

  When Morgan discovered that some of the men were plotting his death, he called a secret meeting of the small group who remained loyal to him. Delaying dividing the loot, he appointed his cronies to sort and classify the spoils and quietly prepared three of his most seaworthy ships for departure. The next day Morgan announced the loot would be divided the following morning and that this night would be a grand celebration. Morgan opened the first keg and proposed a toast to the spoils of Old Panama and to their next adventure. The buccaneers drank themselves unconscious, and the chests of jewels, coins and bullion were quietly got aboard the ships. As soon as the cargo was safely loaded, the vessels were cut loose, the sails unfurled, and the trade winds speeded the ships to Port Royal, Jamaica. Morgan neither knew nor cared what happened to the men left behind. From now on he would devote his life to hedonism, his faith in human nature wrecked beyond repair. His buccaneering days were over. The brave beautiful boastful Welsh child had died.

  ‘You must be referring to when he lost the loyalty of his men?’

  ‘No,’ said Living Stone, ‘I mean when he lost the only woman he loved. Haven’t you read about her?’

  ‘I haven’t yet. There’s still a lot for me to find out.’

  ‘You will. Then you’ll see what I mean.’

  We walked back to the hammock where Rosa was sunbathing. She and I said goodbye to Living Stone and caught a boat back to the Punta Caracol. We arranged to meet in a couple of hours at the bar to have a drink. In my room I looked through my bag of books and pamphlets on Henry Morgan.

  We arrived at the bar at precisely the same time. Rosa, now wearing a flimsy, flowery black and white dress, noticed my book.

  ‘Great! You’re a John Steinbeck fan. I think The Grapes of Wrath is the best book ever written. I did a course on him at university. What’s that one?

  ‘It’s called Cup of Gold.’

  ‘Must have missed it.’

  ‘It’s the first book he wrote.’

  ‘You’re kidding! Was it published under another name?’

  ‘No, but it was originally subtitled, A Life of Sir Henry Morgan, Buccaneer, with Occasional Reference to History. It’s really interesting. Steinbeck had the inspiration to write it after he visited Panama, but it was a failure when it came out. Later, he claimed to be embarrassed by its immaturity.’

  ‘I’ve brought my interesting book, too.’

  Rosa pulled her copy of Mr Nice out of her handbag. She opened it, looking at me, pretending to be shy. I opened my Steinbeck, pretending to read it, looking at her. I watched intently as her seductive eyes moved left and right across the pages and occasionally up at me. A nearby electric fan blew her hair in all directions. Rosa reached for her handbag, took out her pirate scarf and tied it around her head. She caught me looking at her legs and smiled.

  ‘Shall we have a drink, Howard? I need a stiff one.’

  I called the waiter and asked for two extra-strong Mojitos. Rosa resumed reading Mr Nice; I monitored every reaction and fantasised. The waiter brought the drinks. Rosa and I sucked our straws.

  ‘I can see why you are obsessed with Henry Morgan, Howard; he was probably one of your previous lives, no? I feel I’m reading about him, not you.’

  The rum kicked in, and I tried to work out how I could stop Rosa reading my fucking book and get her to come to my room. I became conscious I was leering at her so started reading about Henry Morgan, thinking I was reading about myself.

  Henry Morgan shagged thousands of women. Rather than pledge himself to a jealous tropical beauty who might cramp his style, Henry married his cousin, whom he had known since childhood, and carried on with his promiscuity. At the time reputedly the most beautiful woman in the world lived in Old Panama. Steinbeck gives her name as Ysobel, but historical sources name her as Maria Eleanora Lopez y Ganero. The Brethren of the Coast were well aware of Maria’s existence but had never seen her. She was the object of everyone’s desire, the delirium in every buccaneer’s mind.

  After the sack of the city Morgan’s men captured Maria and brought her to him. He had expected a young woman with pink skin and angelic blue eyes which would drop under his stare, but Maria’s skin was as white as snow, and her eyes just laughed at him, making light of the situation. He shut his eyes and once more saw the young woman of his preconceptions. He had come here because he was sure he would love her; he must continue to love her. Henry banished his wife from his mind and asked Maria to marry him. Maria said she was already married, as was he. Henry persevered as black sparks of ridicule lurked under her eyelids.

  ‘So you’re a family man, Howard,’ said Rosa with a hint of mockery. ‘I would never have guessed. I like the good life far too much to get married again.’

  ‘Well, so do I really. I live alone, but I have quite a few children,’ I said lamely.

  ‘So I can see. There’s a photograph here of you cutting a birthday cake. You’re wearing a paper hat. That’s so cute.’

  Slightly embarrassed, I went back to Steinbeck.

  Maria launched into Henry and told him his chat-up lines were worse than the Spaniards’, who at least had the suave gestures to accompany their words. She said how much she had been looking forward to meeting him, how she had thought he was the only realist in a world of dreamers, a dark and bold force, how she had lusted after his brutal sexuality, the crush of his hard muscles, the delicious pain of little hurts.

  ‘I don’t believe this. You worked for the British secret service? MI6. Is that the same one James Bond worked for?’

  ‘Yes, it is, but I didn’t have a licence to kill, and I never drink Martinis.’

  ‘Did you make love to beautiful foreign spies? I bet you did.’ Rosa put down her copy of Mr Nice and moved closer. Her breath smelt sweet.

  ‘They d
id once ask me to seduce a Czechoslovakian secretary whom they suspected of working for the KGB, but nothing came of it. MI6 is not as glamorous as it’s made out.’

  ‘How long did you work for them?’

  ‘Less than a year. They realised they had made a stupid choice.’

  Rosa resumed reading. So did I.

  But now, Maria explained, she could see Henry in his true light. He was a clumsy babbler, a bungling romancer, a bitter disappointment. Henry offered her money. She said she was an heiress and didn’t need any. Henry threatened to take her by force. She said he didn’t have the guts; his attempt would make her laugh. Everyone knew Henry Morgan disapproved of rape and public lovemaking; he preferred to seduce in private. Henry called his men to take Maria away.

  ‘What’s a Welsh wanker, for Christ’s sake?’ asked Rosa.

  ‘Wanking means jacking off.’

  ‘So why is this Irish guy McCann calling you that? You’ve got children.’

  ‘ “Wanker” is a general insult. Actually, it comes from the Spanish name Juan Carlos. When England was at war with Spain, anyone deserving criticism was a Juan Carlos, a wanker.’

  ‘Did I tell you I had Spanish blood?’

  ‘No, you just said you had mixed blood.’

  ‘You’ve really got a hang-up about the Spanish, haven’t you? Is it because they arrested you and handed you over to the gringos? Are you getting your own back by pretending to be Henry Morgan?’

  I knew then I had blown my chances.

  ‘No, Rosa, I like the Spanish, I promise you. I lived in Spain for years.’

  ‘Well, I’m exhausted, and my eyes are shutting. I’m off to bed. Can I hold on to the book a little longer? I’ll finish it soon.’

  ‘Of course. You can keep it if you want. Goodnight, Rosa.’

  Henry was filled with shame. How could he face his men after this humiliation, this rejection, this slur on his manhood? He paced the room for an age before sending scouts to find Maria’s husband. They soon returned with him. Henry released him from his chains, took him to Maria’s cell and let them spend the night together. The next day Henry demanded an enormous ransom from the husband for the release of them both, which was duly paid. The buccaneers assumed that Henry had made love to her and decided to exchange her for some more loot. Henry had kept his face but not his pride. Never again would he allow himself to be in thrall to a woman; he would carry on being unfaithful to his wife.