Rare was the land that had not sent representatives
to this great dirt-shoveling congress. A Syrian merchant gasped
for breath and fell over his counter in delight to find that I,
too, had been in his native Zakleh, five Punjabis all but died of
pleasure when I mispronounced three words of their tongue.
Occasionally there came startling contrast as I burst unexpectedly
into the ancestral home of some educated native family that had
withstood all the tides of time and change and still lived in the
beloved "Emperador" of their forefathers. Anger was usually near
the surface at my intrusion, but they quickly changed to their
ingrown politeness and chatty sociability when addressed in their
own tongue and treated in their own extravagant gestures. It was
almost sure to return again, however, at the question whether they
were Panamanians. Distinctly not! They were Colombians! There is
no such country as Panama.
Thus the enrolling of the faithful continued. Chinese laundrymen
divulged the secrets of their mysterious past between spurts of
water at steaming shirt-bosoms; Chinese merchants, of whom there
are hordes on the Zone, cueless, dressed and betailored till you
must look at them twice to tell them from "gold" employees, the
flag of the new republic flapping above their doors, the new
president in their lapels, left off selling crucifixes and
breastpin medallions of Christ to negro women, to answer my
questions.
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