Conga Queen - revisited

The United States Government wanted to provide economic assistance to Panama after the fall of Manuel Noriega. A small part of that assistance was to send a National Guard Engineering Battalion to build a road between Nombre de Dios and another small village just south.

I have never been one to question the wisdom of the military so when I was assigned to a Military Police Company as a Major of Artillery in charge of security I took it in stride. I knew nothing about building roads, military policing actions, or security. I was sure that my three weeks in Panama were going to be a cross between SNAFU and FUBAR. Oddly enough things went smooth because I made a command decision and turned everything over to an MP Captain and stayed out of his way.

Having the captain run things allowed me to roam around the jungle area and visit those places that were off limits to the troops. Some one had to recon those areas to make sure those who were not supposed to be there were not. Might as well have been me. Apparently the GI’s were behaving themselves because I never did find anyone where they were not supposed to be.

My snooping took me into Nombre a lot. I made friends. So good of friends in fact that I would eat lunch and most of my dinner meals at what passed for an outdoor café.

To call Nombre a town would be giving it to much credit. It did have a school and a church with no pews, a clinic which I never saw open, an out door bar supported by telephone looking poles, and a combination grocery store and oriental restaurant, which to call it such is a stretch. But what made Nombre alluring were the many huts made from plywood, most resting on stilts surrounded by a beautiful bay with a black sand beach.

I quickly made friends with the town’s chief law enforcement officer and mayor. They introduced me to this old black lady whose house rested on stilts just off the lagoon part of the bay. I never really understood why she took a liking to me since we did not communicate very well. I spoke no Spanish and she spoke only a smidgen of English. But regardless I would sit on her porch in the evening, listening to the waves break upon the shore, watch the stars and moon glide across the Atlantic side of the Panamanian sky while drinking a beer perhaps, which cost twenty-five cents. She may have wanted me around because I would bring her fruit and MRE’s the soldiers did not want. It was a fare trade as far as I was concerned.

One evening while protecting my country from the onslaught of some creature from what I referred to privately as the Black Lagoon, I heard the faint sound of drums and beautiful voices in the distance. Through a communication system that the lady and I had developed she told me the people were practicing for the visit of the Conga Queen.

Two nights later I had organized a cook out for some of the neighbors. I had one of the guys go buy beer and steak to feed twenty or so and only insisted that the local yucca root be sliced like French fries and deep fried. This party cost me less than $20.

We were done with our meal when a delegation of sorts came to the party. They informed the gathering that the Conga Queen was about ready to begin but did not want to start until the American’s showed up. ( I did not mention that I needed help in my recon that evening so asked the Captain to come along.)

It seemed like the entire village was there waiting for us. The village people formed a large circle with the drums and singers I had heard two nights previously congregated at one arc. In the middle of the circle was this very tall black lady, wearing what reminded me of African dress and adorned with a large Carman Miranda headdress.

She swayed and back and forth looking as though she was in a trance but in reality just dancing and ignoring the crowd. Now and then a male would jump into the circle make stalking like moves towards her and she would still ignore the advances and when tired of her intruder she would just wave him off and then another would enter the arena. I got the impression that I was watching a mating dance or a ritual related to a hunt. I never did find out exactly what they were doing.

The Conga Queen eventually started undulating and swaying over to where I was standing and took my hand and led me to the center of the circle. I was supposed to do the same thing the other men had done, but could not really get into the ceremony. I just sort of stood there rocking back and forth feeling very awkward. I was finally waved away by the Queen to my great relief.

She took a short break and food was served along with some pretty good tasting stuff I was sure was loaded with alcohol.

She returned to the circle, the music began and everything started repeating itself, but this time the men who jumped in the circle were more aggressive and she just as aggressive would wave them off. It was like none were good enough for her.

Having been embolden by the beverage that I had grown very faun of I walked into the ring, took the Conga Queen in my arms looked up into her eyes and told her that she was going to dance the way I wanted to now. The crowd was very delighted.

We did a belly rub sort of dance to a slower beat than had been played and things were going along just fine. Then the music started getting faster and faster and all of a sudden the Queen grabbed my butt with both and hands and started humping me right there in front of everyone. I tried to extract myself from the embrace but to no avail. The crowd was cheering and whistling and creating all sorts of noise. Then with one final lunge to my mid section or there a bouts, the Conga Queen dropped to the ground and seemed to have fainted. Two men came out and led me away from the Queen and the crowd started clapping. The Congo Queen stood up bowed and the show was over.

One of the local villagers came up to me with the Conga Queen in tow and let me know that the Conga Queen wanted me. I was a little confused at first but eventually figured out what he meant and gracefully declined. I told the interpreter to inform the Queen that I was greatly honored but I felt that she was mistaken about my animal prowess and would be greatly disappointed with my real life performance.

The Shooting of Who?

by   Conley Stone McAnally

Big Bear picked us up promptly at noon Indian time, which meant 3 P.M.  We hopped aboard his customized three seat snowmobile and headed south.  The trip was about three hours long and went over ridges, through the woods, and wound through valleys.

Just as the sun was setting I heard in the distance what could only be described as merriment.  There was laughing and good natured shouting just above the roar of a piano playing a ragtime tune.  As we crested the top of the last crest I spied in the valley below the Malamute Saloon with blazing yellow rays of light piercing the darkness through the windows.

As we entered the place the first thing that struck me was how similar it looked to the old western bars I had seen in movies and the ones that were in Tombstone.  The next thing that struck me was that a lot of the men were whooping it up dancing to the kid in the corner playing the upright piano.  The men were dancing by themselves, laughing and just having good natured fun.

In one corner there was a blackjack dealer with a white shirt, black armbands, and steely gray eyes.  At the end of the bar stood a woman dressed as a dance hall girl, and behind the bar serving drinks was a guy dressed in a red and white stripped shirt with blue arm bands and matching bow tie.

As we seated ourselves the dance hall girl came to our table, introduced herself as Lou, the owner of the Malamute, turned to the bartender and yelled, "Put down your pad and pecil Bob and set'em up for my friends here, first one on the house."

We toasted each other, drank our shots of whiskey and another one was poured for the the three of us.  I told Lou to leave the bottle and I through away the cork.  I was determined to have fun and that this would be a night to remember.  Never a truer thought was 'thunk.'

We watched the men dancing and eventually one of them came over to me and asked very politely if he could ask Bev to dance.  I looked at Bev, she smiled and shrugged her shoulders.  I said yes.  For the next thirty minutes Bev was on the floor dancing her feet off.

While Bev was out on the floor I asked Big Bear who the menacing looking black jack dealer was.  He was, he told me, Lou's latest conquest.  Trouble is this guy it is said was the real jealous type and some considered him out right dangerous.  His name was McGrew, Dan McGrew.

Bev returned to the table while the boy on the piano took a break.  She said she had not danced that much since she left high school on the south side of Chicago or when she was a go go dancer with The Red Rubber Ball band.  No sooner had she said that than the door flew open and in stormed a wild looking guy with a beard to the middle of his chest and hair down to the middle of his back.  He looked like he was fresh from the mine fields or trap lines. He was dog dirty and ready for bear.  His parka was glazed with dirt and opened at the front to expose a buckskin shirt, it too looking somewhat dirty.

He marched to the middle of the empty dance floor raised his hand over his head holding a pouch bulging from its contents and said, "Joe, give my friends a drink on me, and don't stop till I tell you to.  I hit the mother load boys."   A cheer came from the crowd and everyone gathered round him.  Laughing, slapping him on the back, and congratulating him on his find.

I asked Big Bear who that guy was and Big Bear's only reply was that there is going to be some trouble and did not divert his eyes from the stranger.

During the celebration the stranger spotted the empty piano in the corner.  He walked over to it and began to play, my God how that man could play.  He didn't do ragtime or the popular tunes of the day, they were more of a classical bent.  Lou ventured over to him and placed her hand on his shoulder in what looked like to me a very familiar fashion.  I looked over to the blackjack table and old Dangerous Dan stiffened  and glared in the direction of the stranger and Lou.

The stranger was a true musician because he seemed to lose himself in the ivories and his music touched your insides.  The music eventually became haunting and thunderous and seemed to shout emotions that can only be described as having a touch of evil. 

With a loud last crash of his paws on the keyboard he stood up and said,"you all know who I am and how long it has been since I have been here.  You all respected my situation except for one of you.  One of you is a low down hound from hell, wife steeling, no good bastard that takes advantage of the poor, the elderly and lonely women.  That guy is Dan McGrew! 

With the word McGrew the lights went out, men began to shout and two shots rang out in the dark.  When the lights came back on Dangerous Dan McGrew was slumped over the blackjack table dead while the stranger lay beside the piano with his head resting in Lou's arms.

I was close enough to hear the stranger tell Lou, "See, I told you I would strike it rich and return to you."  With that the stranger closed his eyes and died.

We all had to wait there till the state troopers arrived and it was a little unsettling Bev said dancing around the dead bodies but the sheets put over each man helped.

We were the first to give our statements as to what we had seen and were allowed to leave.   On the way back to the cabin I asked Big Bear what was normally done in cases like this.  He said that the officials make a half hearted attempt to find the man's relatives and usually with no positive results.  Then the property goes to the state and then auctioned off.  I asked how much the state would get for a really great gold mine and how they figured the exchange rate of all the gold the stranger had with him.

"They don't usually buy gold minds because most like our dead friend here are broke and no one knows  where the strike was, it could have been any place.  The Malamute was his first stop so he had not registered a claim.  His 'mother load' will be like your Lost Dutchman Mine."  What about the pouch of gold he had with him.  "Well I am not as wise as a lot of the guys but I bet you that Lou has already ready provided that service."

Beverly Alana McAnally 1950-2017

It was on Dec 17 that Bev had a seizure of sorts.  She stumbled to our neighbors and I arrived home soon after.  We called 911 and took her to the emergency room.  They gave her a cat scan and came out to tell me she had a tumor on the brain.  They admitted her to the hospital and did an MRI to get the full extent of the problem.  The next morning the doctor came in and said she had cancer on the left side of her brain and it was working itself towards the rear and would eventually travel over to the right side.  He said he could operate but would not be able to remove it all.  He said she would buy her self perhaps 18 months, but inferred they would not be a good 18 months even if she survived the operation and the immediate recovery.  He said the the other option would be to do nothing.  Bev decided to do nothing and said she wanted to go home.  He said she had 3 to 6 months. 

    She did not want anyone to know before Christmas or have our planned trip to California disrupted.  The girls were going to be in a play and she did not want to mess that up.  Also she had been planning her mother's 90th birthday party and did not want to spoil that.  She also felt an obligation to finish the planning of a park event. 

     The first three weeks were like always, you could not tell anything was wrong.  One day I noticed she was limping and I needed to steady her.  Then she started trying to plan for the party and get it organized but it became more difficult.  The ladies in the park helped her.  He daughters came down at different times, and they did what they could.  They were a big help to me. She tried sleeping in our bed but that  was getting harder and harder.  Then she moved the chair and was there for awhile.  She managed to go out to the shed and sit and would be there for hours while I kept a watch on her.  Now and then we  managed to go outside where she would bundled up and sit in the son 

    Hospice provided a hospital bed which we put in the front from.  She stayed there most of the time but did get up to use the restroom and eat.  Eventually she could not walk to the restroom even if assisted and Hospice brought out a portapottie.

    There were a lot of little things that went on.  Her best friend from HS flew out to see her, her cousin Valarie, sister Sherry, and brother Fritz came to see her.  Cousin Jim had come earlier. They reminisced and laughed.  Eventually she grew more tired each day.  Her mother came by daily and when ever I was out of the house on a errand of sorts Bev would ask for me.  When told where I was and what I was doing she would say "good, he needs to get out more."  She had a few things she wanted to do before she passed and she accomplished all of them save one.  Then Saturday, the 4th of March, her oldest daughter's birth day, she received a phone call and even though Renee could not tell if Bev was awared of things at that time she put the phone on speaker phone and held it out to hear what the caller was saying.  The caller was the younger brother of Bob her first husband who died of his own hand.  He wanted to let Bev no that he nor anyone in the family blamed her.  I think Bev always felt guilty a little because she had filed for divorce.  Renee and I thought that was what she was wanting to hear. 

    I was giving her morphine every two hours later that evening.  Earlier that day the Hospice people said we ought to move her into the Hospice house.  They said she only had a day or two left.  I asked what could they do there that "I can't do her."  They said nothing, they were just thinking of me.
I chose to keep her at home. 

    I was going to give her morphine that night and Renee was going to do it the next night.  I was listening to her breathe while I watched TV and then realized I did not here anything.  I looked at her chest and could not tell  if she was breathing or not.  I went next door and the two retired Navy nurses came a listen for vital signs.  They said they did not hear any thing.  I called Hospice, they responded quickly and pronounced her gone at 1030 pm.  In fact she had died at 930 when it was just her and I.

  I had called Renee and she came over before Hospice arrived.  We both said our good-by's,  I told Bev I was only a whisper away and that I would see her "in the morning"   and kissed her on the cheek.

Bev never really complained, the only negative thing she said was the first day after given the diagnosis was, "this is not how it's supposed to be."  She was never in any significant amount of pain, and for the most part kept an upbeat attitude, I think more for my sake and her family.  She did not want any type of memorial service as such, but said people could do what they wanted.  She wanted to be cremated and her ashes divided between her daughters and I and we are to do with them what we wish.  I am not yet sure what I will do with them.  She told me she did not want me to be a hermit, that she knew she was going to heaven and see all the people that went before her.  She said she will be watching over my shoulder and said she would only be that whisper away and that she would definitely see me in the morning .

Just a Whisper Away.

You only think you will know how you feel when the person you love will pass on sooner than much later, but in reality you haven't  got a clue.  I cannot even fathom what I will feel like when it actually happens.  More later.

Panama 9, Last Journal Entry

Jan 20

Last night or rather yesterday morning we made our way back to Camp Rousseau.  Everything has gone as I suspected.  The lines, the waiting, the inspections.

If one has never gone through a military customs, one cannot appreciate what boredom and waiting in line is really like.

Last night they gave us a customs form to fill out.  On it we put down what we bought while in Panama.  The only thing I had to declare was a machete.  Later that night Jerry and a couple of others went to the local VFW down the road, drank, ate and watched the news.  We got plenty of each.

Before that however we were all herded into the "bubble."  The bubble is sort of like a Quonset hut but kept erect by blowing air inside it.  There we were instructed to dump our duffel bags on the floor and stand behind it.  Custom agents went through the baggage confiscating some objects or making sure other items were cleaned properly.  No amount of dirt or mud was allowed to be taken out of Panama.

At 9:30 we emptied our carry on bags on the cots we slept on and made to stand in line and they searched them and any carry on packages we might have had.  They then conducted a personal body search. 

We were taken to the plane, piled on and I went to sleep.  As I was drifting in and out of sleep I heard a bell go off.  I looked up and saw a sign that read, "fasten seat belt, Life vests under seat.  I thought we were going to crash because we started banking to the left at the same time.  I could not get the life vest free from under the seat and noticed that no one else seemed to be in a panic. I was puzzling what to do when the Captain of the plane came on and announced we were making or decent into Birmingham.  We landed with out trouble. 

Note: We flew from Birmingham to St. Louis, caught a truck and headed back to Independence.  The trip was over.   The adoption thing never happened.  I never got called up. 

Panama 8 continued

Panama 8 contiuned


......I felt it was time to go.  Our PNP escort accompanied us back to the Plaza.  The drummers were still there beating away.  The Queen was still there but another dancer had taken her place inside the circle.

I have found out you never go any where here with out stopping some where else.  As we watched the ritual one of the PNPs, the darkest one, jumped into the dance and he did well.  I've narrowed the dance down to this:  It is part of their African heritage and what they are doing has been done for years.  The dance is either a dance of the hunt or a mating dance or one depicting the normal hunt and court of women.  The woman acts oblivious to the man's aggression but when she is captured or allows herself to be swayed by the hunter or suitor she thrusts into the activity.  She sways her hips in his direction and then they dance closer and closer until the hips are joined and they are bumping and grinding.  At first this sound sort of hedonistic but before you pass judgement, how many bars have you gone to and watched or even participated in a similar ritual.  The men and women in the bar sit around and drink.  A man asks a lady to dance.  She refuses him but then finally the right guy comes along.  They have a regular dance, they go back to the table and drink some more (Conga dances all have a lot of alcohol also) and then a particular song come on and the mood is right and they go out and grind on the dance floor.  What sometimes follows is I am sure what follows in the Conga dance.  Places and times change but people are about the same all over.

We keep hearing rumors of activation.  I can't believe it, may be I wont allow myself to believe it.  If we do get activated I will go as a filler some where, but March seems to be the magic day.  If it goes on after that then perhaps, we shall see.

Panama 8

Jan 19, 1991

Last night the PNP (note: that is Panamanian National Police) and I went to Numbre.  The vehicle they drive is no good.  It starts easy enough but it quits a will.  Being a Major with the MP's and accompanied by the PNP I figured I would have no trouble getting out of the camp gate.  I usually just wave as I go by the guard.  This time however the PNP car, truck really, died in front of the gate.  Capt Johnson said he had it all worked out if there was a problem getting out and sure enough the gate guards were Engineers not MPs.  The MPs were having a party their last night in the field.  I knew this of course but never thought the MPs would turn the gate guard business over to Engineers.  They began questioning me as to why I was leaving.  After a few minutes of trying to contact the Provost Marshall word came down to let us pass.

The truck finally started and off we went.  As we turned by the store the truck died again.  Anderson, the PNP, could not get it started.  We sat there.  PNP King got in, did something and off we rode through the center of Numbre.  The starter was grinding still, the truck was back firing and the dogs, chickens, and people were scattering out of the way.  We eventually made are way to the little spot by the lagoon where we had been the night before.

There we drank beer, ate shark, yuka and steak.

It was Conga or Congo night in Numbre. (note: a description of this event can also be read on my first blog in October of 2010, there are some difference in what I wrote then and what I wrote later.)  I never did understand if it was Conga or Congo.   Nor was I sure of why the celebration was even taking place.)  Word came from the Plaza area though that they did not want to start the celebration or sing and dance until we showed up.  By this time Johnson, Fluer, and Hosenstine had joined me.  Before this I was the only non Spanish speaking person at the party and only one or two others spoke any English at all.

We all ventured up towards the Plaza.  There sat 3 drummers like you see in old jungle moves.  They began to beat a rhythm.  The women of the village began to sing and then the Queen of the Conga(o) appeared with a tall crown of jeweled and spangled material.  She began to dance and swaying rhythmically that looked like it was some sort of traditional African dance.  While she was swaying a man jumped out of the audience and began dancing also. She ignored him and as he approached her she dodged his aggression while keeping here rhythm going.  I realized that this was part of the dance.  He would accept his rejection and slink out of the circle that had gathered around the Queen and another man would jump in.

The little group we had stood out of course and apparently we were some kind of guest of honor.  I was the highest ranking officer there and the only one in uniform.  The Queen grabbed my hand and pulled me to the center of the circle.  The crowd cheered but none more than my friends who saw great sport in me being embarrassed.  I was no match for the natives, but with the natural rhythm I have I did not completely humiliate myself.  Each one of the Americans were eventually drug out in turn trying to do their interpretation of the dance.

We then returned to the lagoon area.  We drank beer and just kicked back.  All the American left except Johnson and I.  We just listened to everyone else talk, not understanding a word they said.

It was a mellow evening and it was made even more so when 3 guitar's players showed up.  They played Spanish music and one of the ladies began to sing.  Then each woman there took her turn singing making a strange lyrical sound.  While leaning against a palm tree listening and watching there was a power failure.  The music continued and to get more light another log was put on the camp fire and for a moment you forgot the war, forgot the deplorable living conditions that surround you and you were just absorbed in the moment.

Now I might add that all these women were over weight and basically ugly.  I say this so in the later years no one will think that there was anything going on more than there was.  In fact contrary to popular belief sorted behavior among NGs has not occurred often down here.  They talk a lot but do little.

Continued...........