I’ve realized that in most of Latin America, anyone with the slightest hint of an epicanthal fold  will be probably be referred to as “chino;” a little blond on the noggin might get someone pegged “gringuito;”and an extra roll of fat will certainly inspire the nickname “guatón.” Fine. But I went to Oberlin, where safe spaces probably exist for half-Balinese half-Nigerian transgender kickboxing fanatics, and I just can’t participate in such un-PC branding. The words stick in my throat. Especially when it comes to “negrito,” which I know is really not a pejorative, but which I am completely incapable of saying to anyone anyway.

In June, I hired a driver to schlep volunteers around in Panama City. His last name was Moreno, and he was very moreno. His nickname was Negrito, though: he introduced himself as Negrito, my excellent predecessor called him Negrito, and I just couldn’t do it. I called him alternately by his first name and “Mr. Moreno” (which already sounded wrong to me). But I started to feel sillier and sillier with each phone call he began by saying “Hey, it’s Negrito” — so I decided to get over myself and just spit it out. I practiced referring to him as Negrito with my colleague when he wasn’t around, and managed to do that without stammering a few times, but when it came to staring at a big friendly Panamanian dude and calling him Negrito to his face: nope. Impossible! I gave up, calling him “Mr. Moreno Sir” for the duration of our professional relationship. White guilt is strong with me, I suppose.

So it doesn’t help that little corner stores in Panama, of which there are many, are referred to as a chinos. Honestly, I can’t believe that this is true. Sure, there are a lot of Asians who own corner stores, but come on: I can’t just call it a tienda or an almacén, as I might have in Chile, or a bodega, as I would in NY? No. It doesn’t compute. Chino. The only other term that’s worked is “Mini-super” (with Spanish vowels, please), which I think sounds silly….sigh. It doesn’t matter whether it is Oberlinian squeamishness, or real consideration. I can’t say chino!

Nereida Heller just started a new gig in Santiago de Veraguas, Panamá, with WorldTeach. For more about her experiences, check out her blog.

Certainly in terms of convenience, Panama, my new country, has been a lot easier than Patagonia. Most essential items are available in Santiago, my new home, and Panama City — the Miami of Central America — is only a nine dollar, three hour bus ride away. Plus, the level of English is higher, the roads are paved, the internet is faster, and the presence of foreigners is a commonplace. But there are plenty of directions in which Panama has not developed — and consequently,  a whole collection of new challenges.

For instance, bugs. Disease-ridden mosquitos were not something I ever had to worry about in Patagonia, because any mosquito that found its way to Coyhaique would be unpleasantly surprised by the inhospitably low temperatures. And Patagónes don’t have to worry about microbes living on fruits and vegetables, like most of Latin America, where it may be necessary to peel, boil, or bleach-rinse everything consumed.

The Escuela Normal in Santiago de Veraguas, Panama.

Having blithely ignored such things as water purifiers, mosquito nets, yellow fever shots, and even sunblock for so long, it has been quite an adventure adjusting to this new set of inequalities. I am flummoxed by the contrast between morbid warnings on the CDC website and modern amenities everywhere. Santiago de Panama has a movie theater, but can I sip a glass of tap water while I’m watching? There are Chinese restaurants, but can I eat there without worrying about food poisoning? Should I make a salad with the lettuce from the supermarket? Can I go to bed without taking precautions against malaria-bearing mosquitoes?

Of course, Panamenians do, and so do most expats. But I find myself inspecting my fruit suspiciously. Empty bottles of store-bought water line up by my garbage can; I refuse to leave the apartment at night without DEET on my ankles. I don’t know: am I a scrupulous traveler, or a spoiled-squeamish first-worlder?

Nereida Heller just started a new gig in Santiago de Veraguas, Panamá, with WorldTeach. For more about her experiences, check out her blog.

A passerby stares as one of Panama City's colorful diablo rojo buses zips by

A rarely heard utterance: “My favorite thing about the city was the buses.”

A Dutch traveler said it to me about Panama City before I left. I inwardly scoffed; she must just think that because they use bikes so much in the Netherlands.

But then I got there, and she’d nailed it. Sorry, Karlijn.

Calling the buses diablos rojos is only partly accurate. Some of these second-hand U.S. school buses are red, sure, but they are also green and purple and pink. They have murals of castles or churches on the front and back. You’ll see paintings of world luminaries ranging from Jesus to Hugo Chavez, with accent designs featuring unicorns playing guitars.

Go inside, and it can be like a dance club or lounge. Samba or reggaeton will pound out of a custom stereo, while red or purple lights set the mood. Streamers are optional but encouraged.

I don’t know if each driver has his own bus customized, a la goalie masks in the NHL, or if they drive whatever bus they get that day. (Drivers aren’t the chatty sort, and it’s tough to find out if a bus is going close to your hostel, let alone delve into its aesthetics and iconography.)

Panama City can stagger the brain of a Latin American traveler. Restaurants touting Lebanese, French, and Thai food can be seen on one city block. Rush-hour traffic jams are choked with luxury cars, and rush hour itself was a concept I’d forgotten. Skyscrapers soar overheard, and where there’s not a skyscraper, there’s probably a crane building one.

In a city that is so developed and modern, it was a relief to see some of the flair and slapdash magic that has given this corner of the world so much of its charm for me.

Kent most recently left his post as an English teacher in Puerto Jimenez, Costa Rica and is currently traveling. To see what he’s up to, check out his blog or follow him on Twitter. For more on transportation in Latin America, check out “Day in the Life: Morning Commute“; “An Adventurous Routine“; “Where to Get Off the Bus?“; “Good Travel Karma“; “Traffic Circle from Hell!” and “All-Female Transport in Mexico.”

The shelves towered over my head. The aisles extended half a football field into the store. Endless varieties of products created a hall-of-mirrors effect down the shelves. I’d gone to supermercados in Costa Rica, but they were relatively small. This was different; it was American.

God help me when I step into a Costco.

The place was the Super 99 in David, Panama, a common stopover city to more popular destinations. I was heading to Boquete that morning and just wanted to grab food for the road, not be overwhelmed by capitalism.

This was portrayed well near the end of the movie The Hurt Locker. I can relate, although of course, the main character’s adjustment was much more severe. I’m not exactly sure what the sensation I’m relating to is. Shocked by choice? Stunned by the complexity of a mundane task? Surprised by the sheer volume of stuff, knowing that back home, these are replicated multiple times, town after town?

Maybe it’s good to jaunt through more-developed places before I go back to the States. After six months in Puerto Jimenez, jumping straight back to Chicago would have jarred me like a polar bear swim. I wouldn’t have adjusted well.

Of course, what’s to say that I will? A friend who taught English in Taiwan wrote me, asking “Do you think this is turning into a life change?”

It is, but I don’t know to what extent. I won’t know until I get back. But after being paralyzed in a supermarket, I do know that I’m scared of it.

Kent most recently left his post as an English teacher in Puerto Jimenez, Costa Rica and is currently traveling. To see what he’s up to, check out his blog or follow him on Twitter. For more on adjustment post-experience, check out “Homecoming” by Lizzie LaCroix and “Living a Double Life” by Emily Mew.

Everyone sounded shocked. They thought it was dangerous, that the people weren’t nice, and there always seemed to be a story about dangerous dogs. Then, when I was in Nicaragua, I met some Nicaraguans who slagged on Costa Ricans, calling them uncultured and never able to get to the point when talking.

Now, I’m headed to Panama. And when I’ve told many Ticos that, they all asked the same question: Why?

The knock there is Panamanians have a poor Spanish accent (the degree of agreement on this has been astounding) and that they are too brusque, not as friendly and open as Costa Ricans.

Almost everywhere seems to have somewhere else to rag on. When I studied in England, no one had nice things to say about France. The United States has Canada (good natured) and Mexico (with more ire). In Chicago, we’ve got Wisconsin. Costa Rica, home to some of the most fantastic and happy people in the world, shares this tendency for bias. I can’t set myself apart, either. After losing a girlfriend to a guy from Bangladesh, I had trouble with Southeast Asians, and when I was in high school, I had a bias against Latinos — oh life, you lover of irony.

They were both unreasonable, but the latter case is the one I’m pondering: Plain old bias, with no discernible point of origin. Is it because we don’t know the people we’re biased toward? Is it because we want to set ourselves on a higher plane, in a perverted version of patriotism?

Every time I’ve gone to a place I’ve heard people slam, I’ve found people to be interesting, unique, and at least somewhat kind. So the next time you or I find ourselves bashing a group of people or a place for no apparent reason, let’s agree to ask ourselves the same question: Why?

Kent most recently left his post as an English teacher in Puerto Jimenez, Costa Rica and is currently traveling. To see what he’s up to, check out his blog or follow him on Twitter. For more on confronting bias, check out Tom Hemingway’s post, “Seeing the World in New Ways.”