Gringos extremos: Emerica in Central America

Thrasher Magazine, July, 2004 by Michael Burnett

Story #1 Panama City

WE KEPT BUMPING INTO MATTY AND CARL in the hotel lobby. Our skate shoes coupled with our obvious American-ness finally forced a connection, and the next thing you know we were on the business end of Matty's sales pitch. "Yeah bro! You guys are gonna trip on this!" he said as he made the circle of Naugahyde chairs, pumping our hands. "This shit is right up your guys' alley!"

It seems he and Cart were on a sales trip trying to hook up Central American distribution for their new type of wakeboard or wakeblade or something.

"You've heard of Biker Sherlock, right?" Matty kept asking. "Well he's totally reppin' our shit!" We all nodded enthusiastically, happy to be on the ground floor of a relationship promising so much comedic value.

THE DUO WERE in their mid-30s, badly sunburned and wearing denim shorts and flip-flops. Matty had on a backwards red baseball cap and a gold chain that followed the curve of his light blue O'Neill tank top. He spoke with the twitchy presence of the type of dude who tries to talk to you in the bar bathroom at 2:00am and had a large cyst on the white of one of his bloodshot eyes--a souvenir of a childhood spent in the surf. Carl seemed the classic stoner, save the presence of an ample WC Fields alcoholic's nose and a jock sensibility that barred the cultivation and maintenance of a proper ponytail. So set-in-stone was his sidekick status, Matty kept reintroducing him to us over and over again during our five-day stay in the hotel, "You guys met Carl yet?"

If you saw them from afar you'd think they were teenagers. But when sat side-by-side with Spanky, Herman and Leo (actual teens), Carl and Matty looked like what they were--the grown-up surf kids of rich Southern California beach families. Fuck-up retards bankrolled by weary dads in Hawaiian shirts. This was probably their fourth or fifth get-rich-quick Action Sports scheme, and we were taking the brunt of the full presentation.

"It pretty much has the speed of windsurfing, with the tricks of blading and boarding," Matty continued. A virtual demonstration of the wakeblade (complete with hip-swaying pantomime) followed with more wide-eyed nodding from us. Then, apparently exhausted from the fabulousness of the as-yet-unseen device, Matty sighed loudly and flopped into the middle of the couch. Though all eyes were still on him, he switched gears, lowered his voice and leaned in towards Spanky, who reacted by straightening up uncomfortably.

"So bro," he asked in a husky half whisper, "you had a chance to sample the fine poon-tang around here?" Carl, who had remained mute up to this point, coughed out a "Du-huh-huh."

We were eating in the hotel restaurant later that night when Matty and Car] spotted us and drug a neighboring wrought-iron table alongside ours. They appeared even redder than before and were totally blitzed.

"You guys catch any grinds today?" Matty asked. Before anyone could figure out how to answer such a question, he continued, "Yeah, we got some ladies coming by our rooms later--if you know what I mean! Sixty bucks gets you everything. Ever-y-thing! What rooms are you guys in? We'll send them over afterwards." He asked with the intensity of a quarterback in a huddle and again singled out Spanky for a confirmation of the game plan.

"That's all right," Spanky finally said.

"Oh, OK, you guys are married or whatever. Shit, you should have said something," he said, leaning back.

"They're not married," Heath offered. "They're, like, 17 years old."

"Well, that's cool, that's cool," Matty answered. "Actually, that's awesome. I can totally feel you on that."

Matty and Carl ordered two beers each and settled in.

Jet-lagged and eager to skate, we headed out later that night to see if downtown Panama City had anything to ride. After finding nothing we stopped to get some banana drinks at an all-night restaurant next to the casino. We were heading back to the hotel when we saw the flashing lights of a police car about a block up on our path. Like all the cop cars in Panama, the cruiser was completely civilian, save the flashing light with a cord snaking off the side of it stuck just above the driver's door. As we got closer we realized the cop had Matty and Carl up against a wall.

"Shit! Let's go around the block," Regan said. It was too late. Carl had spotted us.

"Dudes! Dudes!" he cried out. "These guys are with us! They'll explain!"

We walked up cautiously and saw that the guys had met their match in the arresting officer. He was roughly their age with a similarly spracked-out look in his eyes. He turned to us and started yelling in Spanish.

As had become the custom, we turned to Leo, our sole Spanish speaker who sheepishly tried to interpret but couldn't glean much more than the boys had been caught peeing in the street. "And this guy's a psycho!" he also noted.

Fed up, the officer turned to Regan, cocked his head like he was revving up for some profound statement and then finally blurted out, "Give me teep!"

"Give me teep!" he repeated, staring at Regan.