Further on, down at the old harbor,
lingers a hint of the picturesqueness of Panama in pre-canal days.
Clumsy boats, empty, or deep-laden with fruit from, or freight to,
the several islands that sprinkle the bay, splash and bump against
the little cement wharf. Aged wooden "windjammers" doze at their
moorings, everywhere are jabbering natives with that shifty half-
cast eye and frequent evidence of deep-rooted disease. Almost
every known race mingles in Panama city, even to Chinese coolies
in their umbrella hats and rolled up cotton trousers, delving in
rich market gardens on the edges of the town or dog-trotting
through the streets under two baskets dancing on the ends of a
bamboo pole, till one fancies oneself at times in Singapore or
Shanghai. The black Zone laborer, too, often prefers to live in
Panama for the greater freedom it affords--there he doesn't have
to clean his sink so often, marry his "wife," or banish his
chickens from the bedroom. Policemen with their clubs swarm
everywhere, for no particular reason than that the little republic
is forbidden to play at army, and with the presidential election
approaching political henchmen must be kept good-humored. Not a
few of these officers are West Indians who speak not a word of
Spanish--nor any other tongue, strictly speaking.
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