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.