In Panama, the Diablos Rojos are still roaring
The roar of an engine, closely followed by the speeding arrival of a brightly colored car: this is the scene that was repeated for decades on the roads crisscrossed by the Diablos Rojos [“Red Devils”]. These iconic buses didn't just transport passengers. They also carried beliefs, stories, idols, and emotions to every corner of Panama.
The phrases, portraits of celebrities and explosions of color that covered every inch of the bodywork made the Diablos Rojos true walking murals that tell Panamanian history.
Each of these buses is a work of art created by an artist with paint-stained hands, a proud gaze, and a heart for their neighborhood. This is particularly the case with Óscar Melgar and Rubén Lince, better known as “Chinoman.” These two Panamanian artists have made their street art a way of life and are fighting to preserve what it says about our identities.
Rubén has been pursuing his passion since he was 18, but his vocation was born long before that. “I was one of those children who, from a very young age, showed their drawings to their mother, and when I saw these adults painting, I immediately knew what I wanted to do.” The trigger was admiration. Seeing established artists making faces and landscapes appear on metal immediately made him say to himself: “I want to do the same.”
His career has been punctuated by many highlights, but the anecdote that has left the greatest impression on him was an unexpected event. “I finished a bus at the very moment [the United States] invaded us [to overthrow the dictatorship of General Manuel Antonio Noriega, in the winter of 1989-1990],” he recalls. Art then became a witness to national history, which left an indelible mark on his memory and on the vehicle he had just painted.
“Decorating these buses takes a lot of time and investment: it takes between a week and a month and a half,” explains Rubén. The difference lies in the use of the bus:
“If it's a disco bus, we take our time. If it's a public transport bus, we hurry a little more.”
But beyond time, it requires great attention to detail, meticulousness and a lot of adaptability.
Finally, painting these iconic buses requires a rigorous creative process. “They submit an idea to me, and I take care of bringing it to life.” For Rubén, the job takes on its full meaning by respecting the requests of the bus owner: while he adds his own personal touch, the bus is above all a reflection of its owner's wishes.
Rubén doesn't just do painting buses on a daily basis. He combines it with another of his passions: tattooing. “It's difficult,” he says with a laugh when asked how he manages to combine the two. But despite the workload, he insists that these two forms of artistic expression complement each other: one connects him to the street, the other to people's private lives.
The biggest challenge he faced was painting the Last Supper on the top of a bus, a painting that took him a whole month to complete. If he had to say one thing about this long-term project, it would definitely be this:
“'Satisfaction'. Because I never imagined I'd reach this level when I was little... Now I'm recognized all over the country and abroad.”
Like Rubén, Óscar has spent much of his life immortalizing Panamanian folk art on the bodywork of the Diablos Rojos. “It all started when I was 12: I loved drawing.” While he immediately knew his vocation was painting, he first took his first steps in music.
At 13, he started DJing, and it was in this environment that his love for painting gradually blossomed, while he was decorating sound boxes. The DJ who was giving him mixing lessons then said to him: “If you love painting as much as you love music, why don’t you go and paint buses?”
This advice led him to meet Andrés Salazar, one of the ambassadors of Panamanian folk art, with whom he initially worked before making a name for himself in the world of Diablos Rojos. After painting his first bus under the guidance of this mentor, he quickly developed his own style and gained widespread recognition in the world of urban art. Since then, he has decorated dozens of buses with portraits of artists, anime characters, reggaeton stars, or with popular expressions.
Although this profession now represents his whole life, certain situations had a profound impact on him during his early years: “Once, a [painting] competition was held with an exhibition at the end. Paintings by different aspiring artists, students of Fine Arts, were exhibited. My painting won second place, but one of the painting teachers said to me: ‘Oscar, do you know why you didn’t win?’ ‘Because I was supposed to win?’ I replied. ‘Yes, you were supposed to win, but when they found out you were decorating buses, they changed their minds and gave the prize to another artist.’ That made me very sad.”
However, Oscar managed to turn this huge disappointment into a source of motivation. This is how he was able to export his art to England, Portugal, Mexico, and the United States. “Sometimes they show me photos of buses that I've owned, but I don't even remember painting them. That gives you an idea of the great international value of these buses.”
For years, the fight to preserve this folk art kept it alive. Óscar seized every opportunity and opportunity to remind people of the importance of not letting what gave him a voice and identity die. “I try to make people understand that this art is an integral part of our culture. When you see images of Panama, there's always a photo of a Diablo Rojo. Always. And the same goes for postcards,” he emphasizes.
“When we talk about our country, we talk about the Panama Canal and the Red Devils.”
With the arrival of the metro [starting in 2014] and the modernization of the capital's transport system, the Diablos Rojos began to disappear from the urban landscape. Streets previously animated by the din and bright colors of these buses are now filled with gray, impersonal vehicles. The city has changed, and this change has affected those who color its public transport.
“I lost 70% of my income. But beyond the money, it's also an emotional blow. Those buses made me who I am. I still paint them out of attachment to what they represent,” adds Óscar. Rubén, for his part, has reinvented himself: “I work nationally and internationally,” he proudly replies.
Far from discouraging them, the disappearance of their city buses actually convinced them to do everything they could to preserve their art. Instead of moving on, they showed their work to the world. They exhibited it in galleries, hotels, international exhibitions, and on social media. They documented what they were doing, shared their techniques with each other, and passed their knowledge on to future generations. Because, in their eyes, it's not just a job. It's a lifelong struggle.
“For me, the most important thing is that people know what it feels like, as an artist, to be a Diablo Rojo. I am very touched by the situation and I can tell you that I will fight until the end so that these buses do not fall into oblivion,” says Oscar. Rubén assures him: “Today's young people love the Diablos Rojos.”
[Today], only 300 Diablos Rojos remain in circulation in the metropolitan area. Beyond their role as a means of transportation, they convey an authentic expression of Panamanian folk art. The visual tradition they represent, born in the hands of creative artists eager to convey a collective history, is also a form of cultural resistance to the modernization of the transportation network.
So, yes. Their roar may no longer echo as loudly along every avenue. Their silhouette may no longer be as omnipresent in the urban landscape. But thanks to artists like Rubén and Óscar, their roar has not died down. There are still stories to tell and hands to draw them. They continue to carry with them wherever they go these works of art, created on metal heated white-hot by the sun, which express the identity, colors, and pride of the country.
Because as long as someone can say “I painted it,” the Diablos Rojos will continue their path in Panamanian memory.
