PANAMA The sun beat down on the deck. We swam to keep ourselves cool, we drank to keep ourselves cool and we talked and we argued to keep ourselves alive. Then we saw the Panama Canal. That day I saw before me a narrow stretch of water. On either side of this stretch of water was a wall of cliff. This little opening was made by man to shorten his journey around the world. Huge gates opened slowly to let the boat pass through. And the genius of man thrust itself upon you. For centuries the Panama must have lain like a waiting woman, and man said to himself, “I am master of all things. I will sever this woman's body, that we may pass through, that we may hold the world in our hands.” And they severed her body in twain. Her limbs they thrust up as cliffs of protective strength. But they gave her life in the trees that grow, in the houses and people that keep the traffic moving between her divided body. Here in the canal ten thousand people are employed to keep it in working order. Negroes drive the ‘donkeys’—engines which pull the boats through the locks. The officious American patrol officers in khaki proclaim their rank in the bulge of pistols from swaggering hip pockets, while the negroes, quiet and strong, work the machinery. You see the huge steel gates riveted to perfection, you see the little homes of these ten thousand people who help to keep the incessant flow of traffic through the Panama. Yes! It was good that man severed her body. It conquered distance. I felt I could stretch out my hand and touch the trees, the houses and the people. I could feel the pulse of human endeavour. But then my reflections were interrupted by the disembodied voice of an American announcer, who reminded you that Panama is a monument to the dollar. Never in my life did I hear so many superlatives and so many statistics! I was very pleased when the droning voice of the announcer was disconnected at the request of passengers who seemed to share my views. Cristobal-Colon was our next port of call. We knew it was custom free port so we were determined to spend our money. What an odd place it is. It is just a stretch of wharf about half a mile wide. A railway line separates one part of the town from the other. Do not be disappointed if you don't find genuine native ware. These little ports of call after the Panama are very cosmopolitan. They are dumping grounds for the products of the Western world. Here you can buy the latest, from a Phillips electric razor to a nylon waterproof, snowproof jacket, to a Rolleiflex camera. Look for a South American handbag, or shoe, or ornament, and you are disappointed. Everything disappointed me. I didn't want a camera. I didn't need a snowproof jacket. The Chinese, the Hindu, the Jews, the negro shop owners annoyed me as they stood and waited for customers. Perhaps I saw too many transistors. It may be that I was trying to recapture the mood of Tahiti….I don't know. Next day, we saw on the boat reminders of the latest shopping spree: transistors, transistors, transistors, nylon jackets and imitation-leather plastic handbags.

CURACAO A week passed by and we saw Curacao. Once you know it is a Dutch port, you expect of it two things. Firstly that it will be neat and tidy, and secondly, that business transactions will be efficient. Both expectations proved right. Orangeroofed white-washed two-storeyed houses line the waterfront and you feel you are seeing perhaps a little bit of Europe. Curacao looks very prosperous. Huge oil tanks give the clue to this prosperity. Once you are in the heart of the town, long American limousines obliterate your view of the shops on the opposite side of the street. At none of the preceding ports did I see such an evident sign of prosperity. The town was filled with these long, sleek, fast, flash American cars. They reared their ugly tails everywhere. Sometimes they crawled up on to the pavements, where you walked, to avoid collision with their passing brothers. Half of these vehicles were driven by negroes, arrogant, nonchalant, sometimes friendly—a refreshing change from the usual stories of the servile negro. On the same day of our visit an American luxury cruiser had berthed opposite our boat. Perhaps the Americans were spending the winter season away from home. They too toured the town. Most of the elderly American men wore Bermuda shorts, held up over their prosperous bellies with elastic braces. Their heads they kept cool with banded straw boaters. Some of them smoked the famous cigar. Their women walked beside them with bulging handbags. Whichever shop you walked into, you were obstructed by their haggling voices…. “Say, you got any of them brass candlesticks? Ooh, Edward I say. This is a honey!” I was quite keen to buy an Indian cotton jacket but was immediately discouraged at the sight of an American lady squeezing herself into one several sizes too small—“to take home as a souvenir for Alfie,” I guess. Of course in such ports the American tourist is extremely popular; he is a generous if rather vulgar spender. My husband and I shared a bottle of Dutch beer and returned to the boat rather tired from walking the hot, narrow pavements. We began to grow weary of boat-travel. As the journey nears its end you soon know everyone's business and everyone knows yours. You want to avoid people with whom you have talked and laughed. Instead of it you lose yourself in a game of chess or in a hand of cards. And time passes.