I told him about Jesse Ventura. He knew that Ronald Reagan had been an actor. He seemed to be looking out the window more and not so much at me.

"Perrada!" he exclaimed.

The bus came to a stop. The ruins were ahead of us. On the way to the ruined city we stopped for some homemade ice cream. Omar was proud that he could pay for my coconut ice cream cone and that a fellow Panamanian had made it and wheel-barrowed it out here for us.

Panama Viejo, the old city, wasn't much. The cathedral tower stood, even after the city was sacked and burned by the pirate Henry Morgan in the 1600s. I made sure to take a picture of Omar, to verify the events of the day. Omar told me that Panamanians were taking more pride in their heritage. They were protecting more sights like this one. This attitude had come back with students who had gone to foreign universities, especially in the US. What about the garbage? I thought, as I looked out on a rotting lounge chair in the harbor.

We walked to the end of the ruined city, along a road that paralleled the bay. The city rose in the near distance, with its tall, gleaming, glass skyscrapers. We caught another bus to the Vatican embassy, the site of Noriega's last stand and the last stop on the day's schedule. But would there be something unscheduled after that?

The Vatican embassy was an unassuming beige building with walls maybe seven feet high and really no defenses, except for the bits of sharp glass vertically planted on the top part of the wall. I had walked by before and it I didn't even catch my eye.

Omar and I walked around it and looked in as best we could. I wanted to match up what I could remember from the news broadcasts over a decade before. I remembered a time when the American military had Manuel Noriega surrounded. Of course there were no troops today, no armored vehicles, no immense speakers blaring rock music in a curious attempt to break the will of Noriega.

Omar confirmed what I had heard. The bishops had told Noriega that the US army could not seize him, they were bound by international law. The Panamanians however had gathered around the embassy would most likely come over the walls and drag him out. This was what scared him into the Americans' hands.

"They would have torn him into strips," asserted Omar, making the appropriate hand motions.

It was becoming clearer as we talked a little more about Noriega that one of those uncomfortable silences was coming up. Seconds passed. There wasn't much more to be said about the embassy or Noriega. I wanted my day with Omar to be over now. The tension of not knowing what would happen any given moment had made me tired and anxious to end it. He looked around uncomfortably, possibly for something else to tell me. I needed to know what he wanted from me. I knew someone had to break the silence. I let him do it.

"You have my number and you can call me if you have any trouble," he said, breaking the lull.

"I can't thank you enough Omar."

"Well this is the way I try to live my life as a Jehovah's Witness: living the way the bible tells us to live," he replied. So that was it! I never occurred to me that this tour could have a religious motivation or that it could be motivated by goodwill. That just wasn't in my mental rolodex of possibilities. Yet I had met and spoke with young American Mormons on a small Caribbean island just days earlier. They weren't as polished or genuine as Omar. I certainly knew that I wouldn't get off scot-free, but this was something I hadn't been prepared for.

Bald, brainwashed Californian kids in an airport flashed through my mind. No, that was the Hare Krishnas. What really was a Jehovah's Witness? Immediately I suspected that he would now preach to me. I was in no mood to hear it. I was automatically weary of letting myself believe there could be other religious paths for a lifetime Catholic like me.

I didn’t know what would come next, but Omar looked as if he were reflecting on what to say next. His hands began making those preliminary circular motions that might prompt something philosophical.

Instead of having him reel off a spiel, I jumped in with questions. That way I could dictate the pace and flow. Omar too had been Catholic once. For him it was the inconsistency between the Catholic Church's teaching and the world outside its door. He went to a priest with questions but the answers led him to conclude that Catholicism wasn't right for him. I sympathized with him. Although I've had questions about my religion, they have never been strong enough to make me want a new one. Getting me to think about the changing the status quo was almost a threat.

Omar told me that drinking and Christmas were not part of a Jehovah's life. Loosing those two things was inconceivable to me and any openness I might have had to his religion had just about evaporated. Nevertheless I had to be polite and, to some extent, let things run their course, i.e., let Omar run out of gas.

Omar assured me that he could send me any book the Witnesses published, no pressure, no cost. He told me about the website. He seemed so genuinely interested in telling me about being a Jehovah's Witness. He seemed relieved to get his word out, if even just a little. I think he really thought he was doing me a favor. In a sense, maybe he was.

I thought more about what he was saying, it seemed like he was trying to make a change in his life and maybe the small world around him. Witnesses, if they were like Omar, must not be so pushy and preachy. Witnesses wanted to let one think, take time and think about what they had to say, or so Omar told me.

He mentioned his email address again and told me more about the website but I could sense the end was nearing. I was tired and he must have noticed.

We parted and took separate taxis. I never looked back. Why was I so tired? Was it the sun, the walking? Perhaps I was tired of the waiting for the catch, the catch that never really came. Several days later, back at the airport, I bought a Rubèn Blades CD. That much, I felt I owed to Omar.