July 6th, 2011 10:30am—Pepper Sprayed in Bocas

Back to coke. It wasn't unusual to emerge from my dorm room in the morning to see someone of our orgy and drug cartel doing lines off one of the long wooden tables usually meant for more civilized things, like breakfast, dinner, or drinking games. However, it was more common to cram seven people into a one-person bathroom and take turns doing lines off of the toilet. Three people would wait in the shower, and when the time came to alternate position, it was like being a part of a mentally disabled circus act. At one point, a guy was on a girl's shoulders while someone cried in the fetal position on the floor. 
During the day, we'd snorkel, take a water taxi over to Red Frog Beach or Wizard Beach, play card games, and drink or do illegal substances. During the night, we'd drink and do illegal substances.
One night, most of the group headed over to La Iguana again, while I decided to stay with Dat, Seanog, Ed, the giant leprechaun, and a few others to get more debilitated at Aqua Lounge off the card game Fuck the Dealer before going across the water. I almost fell into the Caribbean three times. Once when getting into the boat, once when exiting, and once while sitting down. The ocean wasn't rough. There weren't waves. I'd been drinking heavily for four hours and the dribbling and slobbering was setting in more quickly than if a horse tranquilizer had been shot directly into my blood stream. 
As I walked gingerly into the bar, I told myself to hold it together and try not to fall over. The year before, I had lost half of my front tooth by falling over in New Zealand under similar circumstances. I counted my steps and internally chanted encouragement and praise to myself. I just needed to get inside the bar where I could sit down. 
And then someone knocked me over. A crazy girl came tearing out of the bar, crying hysterically, screaming, and holding her face in her hands. One second I was concentrating on the ground and my feet, congratulating myself on walking with the grace of a celestial being. The next second the girl bumped into and ricocheted off of me. I crashed into the ground while she continued on, holding her face, yelling, and crying. 
It was Stacey, one of the Canadian girls. This girl ran marathons. She had been drunk, haggling with a drug dealer in the bar. Sober people bargain over drugs in somewhat discreet places, like sidewalks or the corners of rooms. Stacey had been negotiating in the exact middle of the bar. Normal people agree over the price in a civilized manner. She had yelled at him that he was overcharging and she would never pay that much. Cops entered and pepper-sprayed both the drug dealer and the Canadian. They threw the dealer in jail overnight, and Stacey sprinted from the bar like a crazy person.
A half hour later she returned. 
"You know it's a good night when you get pepper-sprayed by a cop while bargaining with a drug dealer in Panama, eh?"
"Standard. But we're going to have to teach you how not to yell for drugs in the middle of a public place," the Aussie told Stacey.
The next night was a cocktail of coke, dancing, drinking, and midnight swimming. By midnight swimming, I mean being shoved off of Aqua Lounge's deck thirteen times, sometimes by people we didn't know. And by midnight swimming, I mean closer to four in the morning. I put myself to bed at 6am by falling asleep in a hammock. I woke up at 7am to hear the Aussie screaming for more coke.
I rolled out of the hammock and onto the deck, smacking my forehead into the wood. The sun was coming up, I was squinting, and, lying there, all I saw were empty plastic cups and beer cans strewn in a wake of destructive awesomeness everywhere I looked. Playing cards were scattered around. A few shirts, a hat, and a pair of shorts, all wet from the ocean, lay in piles on the deck. A man sat at one of the tables, head in his hands. I assumed he was asleep and not dead.
I rolled over again and sat up. My mouth tasted like a rat had died in it. I shielded my eyes from the sun with my hand. I wore a bathing suit top, underwear, and a wet shirt. Gonzales slept in another hammock. And all I heard was the Aussie. 
"I need more coke! Where are you goddamn drug dealers? I need coke. This is Central America. Where's the coke? Drug dealers, unite. Now!"
I followed her voice. She, Seanog, and a Brit named John sat in a circle on Aqua Lounge's deck. Nobody else was up. They chain-smoked cigarettes and sipped on alcohol, watching the sun come up in the hazy pink sky. Music played softly on a set of portable speakers. The Aussie's screaming drowned it out entirely. I walked over to them, sat down, then laid on my back. I looked at Seanog.
"How long's she been screaming?"
"Ah, the bloody cunt's been screaming for like sixteen fucking minutes now."
"Coke! A mountain of it! Will somebody be a good man and get me some goddamn coke?" she continued.
"We haven't even been out of coke that bloody long," John said, "It's probably not the best move screaming it out in bloody public."
"A mountain of it! Drug dealers! Now! I have money, I know someone can hear me."
After yelling for twenty-seven minutes, a dealer turned up with coke. He walked across Aqua Lounge's deck towards us. 
"There is a God!" the Aussie screamed while he was still ten feet away.
The Aussie, Seanog, and John were awake for the next forty-eight hours. Their speech capabilities got more incoherent and creative. At one point, seven of us sat at a table playing cards. The Aussie was in the circle, but she stared unblinking at the table, her eyes glossed over. Her make-up from three days before was smudged all over her face. She looked like the goth girl at my elementary school who painted black circles around her eyes. When I told the Aussie that she looked like hell and should go to bed, she pointed to her face, and said, "What, me? Standard!" 

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