I wouldn’t wish you a Miramar Christmas

I spent a week in the little Caribbean village of Puerto Lindo talking to boat captains about working in return for free passage to Columbia. Going rate right now is almost $400, and though I could pay that, it hardly seems worth it. I learned a lot that week about owning a sail boat. Mainly, that they are bottomless labor and money pits. This put grease spots on the romantic vision I had about using the wind’s power to propel myself around the world for free. Besides that, having a boat anchored in the harbor makes you a target for theft. One middle aged couple had been boarded by thieves the previous night and had to chase them off with a machete. Just about the time I was ready to throw in the towel and head north, I got an offer to work on getting a wooden sailboat in working order in trade for passage to Columbia. We would be anchored in Puerto Lindo working until January 6, but first we had to go to Miramar to pick up the boat.

The captain (Captain J), the guy who was buying the boat (Guido) and I pulled up to the dock and were greeted with a cold indifference. Apparently the French guy who sold the boat was not liked by anyone in the town, because they didn’t want to let us use their power outlets or even the bathrooms, and these are Gringos I‘m talking about. We finally got them to let us use power for the welder with a promise that the quicker we got power the quicker we would be out of there. When the welding was finished Guido packed up the welder and said he’d be back in a day or two to pick us up. Captain J and I were left with a rundown boat and a marina where we weren’t welcome. When we walked into the town things got worse. We were looking for a meal, and whenever we would approach people happily chatting at various tables would stop chatting, frown and tell us that they had no food. This happened a few times and finally when we did find a place willing to take our money we were served haplessly. This was gong to be a long two days.

At the end of the second day Captain J hung up the phone with Guido, and happily informed me that we would be picked up tomorrow at 10am. “I bet you a dollar we won’t,” I replied, hating to deflate his happiness, but hoping to at least cash in a little on our misery. Today was Christmas Eve and tomorrow, Christmas. We hadn’t heard a single Christmas song . My spirits were pretty low, dampened by sweat , mold, and the oily rat dung and cockroach infested water I had been pumping and sponging up from the bilge all day. It hurt to look at my watch, because every time I did, less and less time would pass.

Our best friends in Miramar were the two narcotics police who seemed to be about as happy to be there as we were. They would start drinking at breakfast and by afternoon be happy to shoot a game of pool with us at the local open air bar. The strange thing about that town was that people had nice cars, satellite dishes on their roofs and gold capped teeth, but no one seemed to work. Captain J said this was the sign of a mafia town. We asked the owners of the dock about this and they agreed. They told us a story about this area and about a group of tourists who found a “package” that had washed up in the mangroves. Of the three of them, one went missing, one was hit by a car and the other was found with a Columbian necktie. If you’re wondering, like I was, what a Columbian necktie is, it’s when they cut your throat and pull your tongue out and down your chest. “That must take a lot of practice to do right,” Captain J mused after the description. I agreed.

On Christmas morning we didn’t even bother trying to find a place to eat. The previous day’s breakfast was humiliating. After ordering we watched about ten people show up, get served whole fish , and leave. We were the last to get served and all we got was some little fish tails and fried plantains with a single drop of tomato sauce. Instead we decided to go for a walk to the neighboring town.

The walk between the towns was beautiful. Sea to one side of the road and rolling hills with palm trees on the other. As we got closer to the next town we could see that people were gathered in the street. The closer we got the wilder the scene. The people were all drunk. It felt, as Captain J observed, like Dusk ‘til Dawn. We wanted to turn around, but at the same time we didn’t want to show fear. Fortunately, a guy ran up to us from a house at the edge of town and invited us in. It was our security guard from the dock who hadn’t shown up the night before. He was a kid in his upper teens or lower twenties, and when he got closer we saw that his normal smile was obscured by cuts and bruises. We couldn’t understand what he said had happened, but it was clear that they beat him up pretty bad. “Peligroso (danger).” was the one thing we did understand. We were thankful that it appeared that we had a reason for being there, and that we could go back the other way without losing face.

I cooked some spaghetti that I found in my pack that night. I was grateful that I had splurged for some parmesan the last time I went to the store. The generic brand parmesan cheese was the highlight of my Christmas.

Guido ended up showing up the next day with a big truck. He and Captain J took the boat back to Puerto Lindo, and I went with the truck driver. The driver stopped twice for beers during the two hour drive. When we got there I waited for the boat and then informed them that I really didn’t need a ride to Columbia anymore. During the four days over Christmas the boat began to feel more like a coffin than a seagoing vessel, and though Puerto Lindo was much nicer than Miramar, I was overtaken by the need to be free.

The experience in Miramar is disappearing from my memory much the same way you forget a zit as soon as it goes away even though while you had it, it was the only thing you saw when you looked in the mirror. I’m back in Panama City with all of the creature comforts I could ever want. It’s breakfast time. I think I’ll have eggs today.

Danger?

I stayed in Luna’s Castle during my week in Panama City. Luna’s sits right at the edge of the nice part of Casco Viejo, right across from the Presidential Palace and the ruins of a hotel and swimming pool where Manuel Noriega used to hang out. I spent most of my nights there sitting on the balcony overlooking the skyscrapers of the city and talking to various travelers as they pass through. I heard some amazing stories about various parts of the world and people’s experiences. The other night I sat talking to a German guy who was studying in Venezuela. I have heard mixed things about Venezuela and how accommodating they would be to someone from the United States. The German guy told me of armed robberies on the campus of the school where he was studying and of a guy who held a whole hostel at gun point for hours until everyone coughed up every credit card, iPod and every bit cash. He told me that a few weeks ago he was on the back of one of the motorcycle cabs that you can take when you want to arrive somewhere faster when the driver turned around, apologized and pulled out a gun. He pulled up to a car where a woman was using a Blackberry, put the gun in her window and took the phone. I won’t be going to Venezuela anytime soon. He did say that gasoline was cheaper than water. He said that people used gas to wash their cars. You can fill up your car for under a buck, but sometimes water only comes out of your tap a few hours a day.

Another day I was sitting and talking to someone wondering if all of the firecrackers I had heard the past few weeks were indeed firecrackers, and how many were actual gun shots? About ten minutes later I left to go for a walk. Joe, a chupakabra hunter who is parked in front of Luna’s Castle looked like he had just seen a ghost. “Me and Tarzan were just chillin’ in the Camper when a bullet came through the roof and grazed my arm.” Joe was still in a bit of shock. He showed me the bullet hole in the roof of the camper and the burnt scratch on his arm where the bullet brushed him… six inches from his heart.

Joe and Ben are making their way from Texas to the bottom of South America dong a documentary on the fabled Chupacabra (literally, blood sucking goat). They are planning on walking across the infamous Darian Gap between Panama and Columbia, something that is said to be dangerous to the point of suicide. When I asked Joe about how he felt about the near miss he replied, “That ain’t nothing. We’re walking the Darian.” I made sure to get a photo of the Chupakabra camper before leaving Panama City. Check out their website: Benandjoe.com.

During my last world travels back in ‘97 I probably would have taken my chances and walked the Darian, but I was much crazier back then. I have a feeling Ben and Joe will do just fine.

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

Diablo Rojos

My favorite things about Panama City are the busses known as Diablo Rojos, or “Red Devils.” Each of the busses belongs to a different person, and there seems to be a competition to see who can be the most conspicuous. As they approach, the first thing you notice is the front windshield, which has mirrored strips on the top and bottom with its destination and a name, and a narrow strip of clear glass in the middle for the driver to actually see the road, not that it really matters, because he is usually texting or dialing on his cell phone while changing the CD and honking a pretty girl outside. Next you notice the hood ornaments. It‘s not just one “Cadilac“ or “Mercedes,” symbol but up to twenty different figurines spread out like a battle of plastic army men.. Or Oscar trophies. On the hood there is a mural or maybe a face with worms crawling out of the eyes and mouth. On the roof of the bus there are sometimes shark fins and colored glass bubbles, I imagine, to help the bus out if the driver runs into the water because he wasn’t paying attention to the road. You don’t want anyone messing with your bus if you are on land, and you especially don’t want anyone messing with you if you are at sea! The sides of the bus are a collection of murals and random icons including: Crusaders with swords, Bart Simpson, Jesus Christ, the genie from Aladdin, Spiderman, Lisa Simpson, Mickey Mouse, Papa Smurf, Bob Marley, pot plants, Norse warriors and Betty Boop. Oh, and sometimes ninjas… and Muppets and the Statue of Liberty. The rear of the bus usually has two giant Harley Davidson sounding exhaust pipes that run up the left and right sides of the bus. These compete with their bumping stereo systems for attention. They are the ultimate hot rods! Between these giant “mufflers” there are typically two main pictures: On the little area where “school bus” used to be written, there is a mountain scene straight from an oil painted picture found in a 1970’s ski condo or the cover of a Field and Stream magazine. Below the rear window is typically a portrait of someone famous like Rambo, Will Smith, Shaggy, Jesus, Snoop Doggy Dog or members of the driver’s family. There’s also a bible verse or saying like, “There is no one greater than God,“ or “First God and then chicks.” The latter is usually personified by a small painting of a large breasted woman with a tiny bikini right below a much larger hapless Christ wearing a crown of thorns. And usually, Garfield or a Bart Simpson is snuck into the mix.

If you are lucky enough to actually ride one of the Diablos, you’re first greeted… or ignored by the aforementioned driver. He’s usually wearing dark glasses and lots of bling. This look is completed by dollar bills folded and sticking out from between his knuckels as if to tuck into a stripper’s g-string . Above the driver’s head are usually a row of fuzzy dice or a feather boa. If he’s lucky steering wheel will be wrapped in gold and leather and so will the pole that people grab onto when they get on the bus. On the walls, you guessed it, another bible verse or saying, an another Bob Marley smoking a joint or Che Guevara with a pot leaf painting. If you’re really lucky you have a strobe light that blinks to the beat of the bumping stereo.

The demise of the Diablo Rojos is close at hand. Apparently the profit margin is getting too small for them to spend money decorating the busses, and the new president doesn’t think they are good for Panama’s image. He wants to take them off the road by the end of 2010. This breaks my heart.

La Luna Amber

The bus to Panama City departed David at midnight. As soon as my seat belt was fastened, my passage to the dream world arrived via vibration from the engine and cool breeze from the air condition. It carried me away on silken wings. I was pulled from sleep twice that night. We stopped about half way for people to get out and use the facilities. I declined. The second time I could almost feel a hand softly touching my shoulder. A woman’s sultry voice sang the most beautiful song I had ever heard, and when I peeked past my eyelids to see if the voice belonged to an angel, I saw the amber moon looking at me with a peaceful yet sad look similar to the Virgin Mary’s in old paintings and statues holding her baby somehow knowing that he would someday be sacrificed. I met her gaze until the song was finished and went back to the land of dreams until we entered the City.

Oh Panama

The bus driver could see I was fidgeting, and in response he fired out a few sentences much the same way an automatic tennis ball server spits tennis balls… if it spit them out at 80 balls per minute. Fortunately, I was able to catch one, and remembered that amarillo meant “yellow.” I knew that my fidgeting had worked. The directions I had written down said: take the bus from David to Changuinola, and after about an hour you will see a toll booth. Wait about three minutes and look for a pile of yellow stones. Get off bus.” It has been a week since the bus dropped me off, and now I am sitting at the Lost and Found eco hostel trying desperately to purge some of the experiences from the past three weeks before setting off on tomorrow’s journey into the unknown.

After finishing my last blog entry I set off on a string of busses from San Jose to Puerto Viejo. Everything was going splendidly until I arrived in Puerto Limon at the exact time the last bus was leaving to Puerto Viejo. This would usually not be a problem, but the bus station at which I arrived was a fifteen minute walk from the one where the next one departed. My guide book said that this port town was similar to many: uninteresting and dangerous. The walk to the seedy hotel was much different than any I had experienced in Costa Rica. The people were mostly of African descent and there were street people and lame dogs, two things I hadn’t seen this trip. When I got to my hotel I decided to focus my attention on the tinyTV (as opposed to the stains that were the only decorations in the Spartan quarters) and enjoy my first bit of solo time in 16 days. Early the next morning I walked through the pouring rain and stopped for a breakfast of delicious and spicy Caribbean beef and instant coffee before getting on the bus to Puerto Viejo.

When the bus stopped at a random corner in Puerto Viejo, I got off and walked towards the beach. My friend Jonathan from Colorado was sitting and having a fresh juice . We greeted each other with knux (today’s most common hand shake which involves touching fists) and a nonchalant, “What’s happenin?” I had known Jonathan would be there, but I figured it would take a lot longer to find him. Jonathan had just got burned in a Costa Rican land deal, and we spent the next hour talking about it. That same hour we met two girls from Canada who ended up being our travel companions for the week. We all had a great week in Puerto Viejo taking advantage of decent surf and the abundance of down time that rainy season in the Caribbean offers. When Jonathan and the girls left I got on a bus heading to Panama. A new country awaited!

“Donde esta el bano?” I asked after getting my passport and Panamama visa back from the border officer. “Piss in bushes.” he said and pointed towards some buildings with a group of guys sitting out front. When I reached the guys they pointed to some grass between two buildings. I walked until the smell of urine hit my nose and then added my own Costa Rican’ variety. Now I was ready to face Panama!

My first impression of Panama included wood smoke, trash, and shiny clothes hanging on clotheslines in front of houses on stilts. I couldn’t help but smile. I was traveling again. Costa Rica is extremely beautiful, much the same way a national park is beautiful, but whenever I go there I feel more like I am on vacation than traveling. The bus dropped us off at a dock where we waited for the boat to take us thirty minutes to Isla de Calon, the main island in Bocas del Torro. As I waited I thought about my friend Christian, a Columbian I know from Steamboat Springs and the motorcycle trip that we had planned a year ago. If we had departed on our trip like we were supposed to we may have been here now. Christian had always reminded me of someone… Who was it? Oh yeah, it was Steve Scalfati, my best friend from the neighborhood in Seattle all those years ago. I wondered what had happened to Steve. Then one of the tourists pulled me away from my thoughts and told me that it was time to go.

The boat carried us past dugout canoes and palm covered islands. A silver fish jumped twenty feet into the air as if to say “welcome!” and once again I noticed my involuntary smile, this time splashed with warm salt water. In Costa Rica they say “pura vida.” The term seemed to cross the border into Panama. Thirty minutes later the boat dockedm and I entered the main street and to the left where I would be staying for the next week. It was almost dark, but not too dark to recognize the face of the male part of the couple passing in the opposite direction. “Steve Scalfati!” I looked him in the eyes and waited for his reply. I’ll never forget the look on his face.

Bocas is as laid back as Puerto Viejo, but in Bocas you go everywhere by small boat. Restaurants and bars are on the end of docks. One of them even had a lit shipwreck that you could actually plunge into the 88 degree water and see up close. I spent the week exploring the little islands around Bocas. Dolphins, a Thai restaurant, a chocolate farm and snorkeling with parrot fish were a few of the highlights. The best part, however, was hanging out and sharing childhood memories with Steve his girlfriend, Eli. We agreed that it is a good thing we never got caught for the stunts and pranks we used to pull. If Nietzsche is correct, that which doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger. So I guess we have that going for us. I stuck around Bocas until Steve’s sister Keri showed up, and after a long night of helping the bar owners of Bocas pay their rent and two hours of sleep, I took a bus across Panama to Boquete.

Boquete is the polar opposite of Bocas Del Toro. At roughly three thousand feet, it is cool, and unless it is their Independence Day, very quiet. It was very quiet for most of a week until bus loads of marching bands and other Panamanians from all over the country began filling up the town. Turns out it was Independence Day. It is more fair to say “Independence Day Weekend and the days surrounding it” because it lasts for about five days. I opted to stay away from the festivities until Saturday, but I had to at least check it out.

The cab driver who brought us from the hot springs to town was listening to a typical Panamanian radio station: a popular Panamanian pop song, with between one and three other popular pop songs playing over the top interrupted every six or seven seconds with a DJ saying something in a strong voice intermingled with a maniacal canned laugh, air horns and cell phone rings. I first hear the music on my bus ride from Bocas when I was delirious from sleep deprivation. I thought I was hallucinating. I wasn’t. At any rate, I wondered if this was what I would be hearing that night at the fiesta.

The cab dropped us off in the rain about three blocks from the town center. We squeezed through the crowd until we heard the beating of the drums. I felt a rush of excitement when I got to the front of the crowd. It felt more tribal than collegiate. My two Dutch friends and I exchanged “this ain’t too bad” looks. The Panamanian crowd looked way over it, but when I met their glances they would instantly rediscover their patriotism and smile and nod with pride. We were sorry when we realized that this was the last band… but not that sorry. After stopping for some pizza, we went back to the street where the scene resembled a high school football game. But the only ones left were the marching band, well, the trumpeters from the marching band, and their uniforms were disheveled, and they were drunk… and all playing different songs.

Across the river the scene was different. There were still a few marching band uniforms, but mostly hip drunk people. The crowded streets were lined with tiny cars with giant sub woofers, hot dog and hamburger stands and discos constructed with scaffolding and mesh. I was told that on the first day of the party, entrance and alcohol was free. On day three, Saturday, admission to the club we chose was five Balboas (actual U.S. Dollars {and also the name of their favorite beer}) and the drink was vodka. Each club had a different liquor. After about an hour the “real” DJ came on. It was the moment of truth, “I got a feeling,” the ubiquitous Central America club song began. Would they let it play, or would they do a Panamanian radio DJ number on it? As soon as the crowd started to get the rhythm, sure enough, the DJ stopped the music, spouted something random, and then started it again. I leaned over to Mitsy, the Panamanian girl on my right and whispered a question I had been pondering since that day in the cab, “Is Panamanian sex like Panamanian pop music?“ She looked at me for clarification. I elaborated, “Interrupted every few seconds by the telephone and the guy spouting random sentences?”

“Yeah,” she said, “it’s usually when his wife is calling.”

I beat the sunrise home that morning, though not by long. I was thankful that this was only day one of one for me and not day three of five. The Panamanian music may have started making sense.

　

My party night was an exception to most of the time I spent in Boquete. I spent the week taking Spanish lessons and volunteering with the monkeys at a wildlife refuge. I’m starting to think there’s a “do not enter” sign on my brain. I can still remember my seventh grade locker combination, but new Spanish words bounce off like rocks hitting a water tower. I felt at home with the monkeys.

This blog entry is starting to sound like a “What I did on my summer vacation” essay. If you’re still reading this you’re probably a family member, or you saw the word “sex” and thought there would be some. My apologies, but Don’t worry, it’s almost over…

I know I said that I was writing this from Lost and Found Eco Hostel, which is where I started it, but I’m now a day into the “unknown” in David waiting for a midnight bus to Panama City. I arrived yesterday and all night I heard what I though were gun shots. They continue as I write this. Today I was informed that it was Mother’s Day which completely brought things into perspective. After all, it is Tuesday and we all know how much mothers like firecrackers and M-80s.

I’m going to leave out the week I spent at Lost and Found , because I have a feeling I’ll be back to volunteer on my way back up to Costa Rica. I’m going to wrap this up because I hear my name being called. I think it’s coming from the fridge. It’s a Balboa, and in my pocket I have exactly enough to pay for it. One balboa. Coincidence? I think not.