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.

Floating through the jungle

Like a wave liberating stir-crazy sea creatures from an overcrowded tide pool, the bus with my group of friends and raft guides just departed the hostel for the San Jose airport. I was tempted to hop on and see them off at the terminal, but I have decided to stay here and let the profound peace of being solo penetrate my bones. It has been a fun sixteen days filled with eating , drinking, rafting some huge rivers, zip lining through the rainforest canopy and surfing and swimming at the beach. Nothing makes you feel more like an ugly American than traveling on a tour bus with a group from the States. In the past I would have been uncomfortable being part of a large group of American tourists, but this time I just embraced it and enjoyed the safety and security. I also enjoyed having someone else doing the thinking. Denielle did this masterfully, though judging by her demeanor this morning, she is at the end of her frayed rope. Fortunately for her, she and her boyfriend Peter the documentary film maker, will soon get their own vacation. I managed to avoid many of the challenges of foreign travel so far this trip, but the rivers we ran presented some of their own.

Day one of rafting was a gentle and pristine meander through the rainforest on the Pejibaye. The blue butterflies, giant spiders, and an array of tropical birds with colors so bright it looked like they were poured out of a box of Fruit Loops, made it feel like we were floating through a Walt Disney movie. When I took my turn guiding the boat the fun level greatly increased. I have noticed lately just how much us humans like to be in control. Where raft guides are concerned, I believe you can multiply this by ten. This being said, enter day two… Our little bus spent three hours corkscrewing its way up, around and down the forested spine of Costa Rican mountains looking for the guides and horses who were waiting for us at the beginning of the hike to the put-in. When we got to the trailhead, the horses were loaded with gear and we began a two and a half hour journey of hiking up and down the steep and muddy trail to the headwaters of the Rio Pacuare. The trail took us through dense forest, past waterfalls and through a homestead inhabited by local Indians. I was one of the last ones to arrive at the put-in due to the time I spent eating guava and raspberries along the trail. It had been decided that Ashley, another guide and I would R-2 (only two paddlers) “Captain America,” a tiny raft with two pontoons that looked like a catamaran. With the right duo, this style of paddling can be extremely fun. With Ashley and I, it was, well, let’s just say “extreme.” I could blame this on a number of things, but I’ll not dive into speculation. I will say that it felt like we were a dysfunctional ant couple using a breath mint to slide down a dragon’s back. It worked pretty well when we were riding up and down the giant wave trains, but when we found ourselves in the recirculating holes, the dragon’s mouth, there was no escape. The first time we managed to surf for quite a while, paddling in vein to escape, until I was thrown out and was able to push the raft with Ashley into the moving current. The second time we weren’t that lucky. We surfed and surfed until the hole swallowed us flipping the raft and sending Ashley one way and Captain America and I another. I swam for at least a half mile trying to mount the tiny raft, but the dragon smashed me into giant boulders taking my strength and my breath. Finally, thanks to the look of impending danger reflected in the safety kayaker’s eyes (the raft obscured my view of the river ahead), I mustered the strength to pull myself onto the capsized raft and made my way to an eddy. As I sat there exhausted and bruised, another raft pulled up with Ashley smiling safely inside. “I’m going to go in this raft,” she informed. Finally the rest of the rafts pulled up and asked me if I wanted to jump in a raft. “No, that’s ok,” I lied, knowing that if I chickened out now I would lose my nerve. At that point, Brian, a senior guide, said he’d join me, though it was clear that he didn’t really want to. I was relieved, but it was more the relief you would get if you were scared of heights and you were informed that they put a little padding on the handle of your parachute’s rip cord. Brian and I took our seats on the little raft and pushed strongly forward. It felt good to have a paddler with similar strength and size. Still, Brian shouting “This is fucked up, I can’t believe they gave us this shitty little raft,” didn’t do much to ease my anxiety. An hour later we pulled up to shore where we would be camping in the heavy rain. I put my tent up a few steps from food tent, stuffed as much food into my depleted body as possible, and retired with a bag of ice pressed against my bruised femur. The group partied like raft guides should that night. I laid there giving prayers of thanks for solid ground. That was the last time that trip that I set butt on Captain America. From then on I enjoyed the various rivers we ran from a seat in a regular raft. I managed to followed rule #1 the rest of the trip and stayed in the boat having a hell of a good time in the process. Now with my time traveling with a group finished, I am off to the Caribbean coast to unwind in the Rasta vibe.

Wandering toward the wormhole

Five days and counting until I leave the Land of Enchantment for the rainforests of Costa Rica. For years I have watched with envy as friends went south when the first flakes began falling. My ties to the newspaper always kept me chained to the mountains where frankly, life was pretty good. They say that Eskimos have over 400 words for snow (in fact they only have about a dozen). As a ski town writer I had to come up with what felt like 400 metaphors, similes and personifications for Jack Frost’s happy little dandruff all too regularly. Eventually, when a 20 inch powder day hardly made me want to get out of bed, I knew it was time to go. Well, Winter pulled a fast one last week catching me off guard and vexing me like Pop Rocks on a chicken pock. Thankfully, the wormhole to paradise is a few short steps away.

In the meantime I have enjoyed the last days of limbo before the journey. A road trip with Dad, hot springs and beautiful hikes have kept things fulfilling.

Here are a few photos from the last week, and here is a link to the group I will be joing in Costa Rica. www.costaricacurrents.com

Getting high for boosted clarity

Leadville, Colorado 10,152 feet

Riding a caffeine buzz in the corner of a Colorado Coffee shop has lead me to good things in the past. That’s where The Local was born, and as I sit here musing at the raiser sharp contrast between snow and rock on the surrounding peaks, I can’t help but feel the same sense of inspiration. This time I’m not feeling compelled to sit in one place and create, but rather head for the horizon with open heart and mind. First stop is in Costa Rica where a group of us from Los Rios, the rafting company I worked for this past summer will spend two weeks rafting different rivers around the country. Along with us raft guides will be a documentary film maker who will be telling the story of the rivers and the potential threat of dams that are being proposed. From there we’ll head to the ocean to do some surfing. The trip is 16 days, but I’m guessing I’ll call the airline and tell them that I won’t be on the return trip. I don’t know where I’m heading from there, but I’m guessing I won’t experience winter this year.

Preparing for Launch!

August is always my favorite time of summer. Base tan is established, the gardens and fruit trees are producing, and all of the muscles necessary for this summer’s outdoor activities are functioning at optimum levels. Some of the past year’s activities have been backpacking, mountain biking, rock climbing, motorcycling and horseback riding. This summer’s activity happens to be whitewater rafting. I have been doing so much rafting that when I close my eyes for even a few seconds I see moving water. The river has also become the metaphor that I use for virtually every philosophical conversation. With that said, I will go ahead and say that I have been swirling around in an eddy for about seven months now. An eddy is the part of a river, either along the shore or behind a rock where water gets pushed up stream. It is a great place to either rest or travel up stream to access a standing wave. Seven months ago I caught an eddy and settled into a house with a girlfriend in a new community. Three weeks ago I moved out of the house and began a house sitting gig which finishes tomorrow freeing me up to dive back into the moving water open to all of the rapids, waterfalls and slow moving water that life will put in my path. I’m really excited about this next few months. I’ll be going to the Black Rock Desert of Nevada to attend Burning Man next week, and then at the end of October I’ll fly to Costa Rica with a bunch of raft guides and a documentary film maker to run warm rivers in the tropical rain forest. After that I’m completely open. Perhaps I’ll go to the Hawaiian Islands and find work on a sailboat, or maybe I’ll come back to Taos and go back to school? In our safety talks we tell our guests that ropes and moving water don’t mix. Although sometimes they are necessary to save someone, usually they only snag and entangle. In these strange and unpredictable times, feel safe and confident untethered in the moving water reacting to the rocks and other obstacles as they come.

It’s 11:01, just about launch time.