PANAMANIA!
Saturday November 15, 2008
Chapter 1: In transit
My journey into Panama began with a cup of delicious medium roast coffee at Caribeans in Puerto Viejo, Costa Rica. I shouldered my pack and succumbed to the beads, no rivers of sweat that began to immediately pour down the centre of my chest and the entirety of my backpack as the caffeine increased my pulse and the 32 degrees Celsius weather with a million percent humidity exacted its revenge. Maybe Al Gore is right, maybe it’s just the Caribbean, I can’t be sure.
The bus ride to the Panamanian frontier was relatively short and uneventful. Barnes and I chose to stand the whole way because the seats were too close together for either one of us to sit facing straight forward (and we had to since the bus was full) and also because sometimes when you have a sweat stain the size of the African continent on your back you just want to stand and ride it out, feel me?
Our destination: Bocas del Toro. However, we were not fated to reach it in a single day. As the crow flies the distance could not have been more than a hundred kilometres but the journey included the bus to the border, a border crossing over a river on a bridge that was shared by foot passengers and semi trucks alike, then a 25 minute taxi ride to a pier and a 45 minute plancha ride down the estuaries and out into the Caribbean archipelago knows as Bocas.
After bartering for a taxi ride to the docks from the border we got in the yellow pickup with a chequered flag pin striping, dice in the mirror vying for space with a rosary and two Panama flags protruding from the immaculate yet adged dash. Well you can bet your ass we unrolled those windows and started singing or maybe shouting Van Halen’s PANAMA at the top of our lungs until the driver caught wind of the tune and reached across me to the glove box where he pulled out the cassette and threw in a pirated copy of the famous song that gave the nation its name (or something like that). I dutifully rewound the 3 minute and 42 second song every 3 minutes and 42 seconds for the whole drive until we got to the small town with the dock.
Upon arriving I was struck by the amount of other backpackers milling around the plancha waiting to take their seats. “Is full” we were told by a frowning attendant who must have thought we didn’t understand judging by the silly smirk that must have been plastered across my face over a smattering of other emotions like a billboard sign layered on top of countless others. HOT DAMN I’M IN PANAMA! Is what I was thinking and the small obstacle of a full boat was not about to dampen anyone’s spirits least of all my own.
As it turned out the panga was indeed bursting full and riding so low in the water that I was sure they would be capsized should a hungry croc that inhabited the river get up the nerve to rush the boat. Barnes and I, the merry travelers that we are just smiled and waved to the passengers as they took off and then prepared ourselves to wait till 8am, when the next boat would depart. The locals left on the dock didn’t seem to believe us when we stated our intention of waiting right there on the covered pier until the next ferry. It was a 16 hour wait after all. But we had a guitar, we had bed rolls and we had an insatiable desire for adventure, and in all honesty is was a small town with limited sleeping options and the dock was likely to be as good as Jose’s motel and the air was certainly going to be fresher. The decision was made in our minds before it was spoken, to (naturally) roll the dice and sleep out side.
Barnes, brow furrowed as he fervently read his latest engrossing novel, merely nodded or grunted (maybe both) as I announced my mission to collect the necessary supplies for a night on a dock. The supplies were these:
· Loaf of bread
· 3 plantains. Bananas would, of course, have been better but they did not have bananas
· 2, 1.5L bottles of water
· 2 cans of Campbell’s pork N beans
· 1 pack Marlboro’s original cigarettes
Once the laundry list of groceries had been filled, I returned from my quest. I was gone 5, maybe 6 minutes. Barnes hadn’t moved, naturally.
The closer that one travels towards the equator the more regular and even the amounts of sunlight and night time are. The sun in Panama on November 1st went down at approximately 6:34pm. Maybe it was later than that but that doesn’t really matter to the story. The point is that it was early and we were on a dock with a single low wattage fluorescent light bulb and our headlamps. Night came swiftly and thoroughly. It is a strange thing being from the Northern parts of the world and feeling the effect of the sun on your circadian rhythm as it adapts to meet the pattern of the earth’s most constant companion and regulator.
Sometime well into the darkness of the night the rain came like a hundred thousand steel ball bearings dancing on the polished concrete floor of my mind. Our roof to the open air dock was corrugated steel and my eardrums were immediately intoxicated with the sound. It was deafening. I thought to myself that sooner or later I would get used to the sound and tiredness would overcome me. I strummed on the guitar, pondered life on the road and smoked a few Marlboros until the sandman finally came a knocking, but I was wrong about what I’d earlier thought about getting used to the sound. I’m sure after experiencing that for days, weeks, or months on end I would have grown accustomed to the relentless pounding but those few hours were not enough. That and the constant cognisance that even though I felt safe, I was sleeping outside on a dock a few feet from the water with all my earthly possessions within arms reach but somehow not close enough. At one point I got up to relieve myself at the end of the dock and startled a 2 foot long crocodile that was floating a meter below my feet in the water.
We did make it to Bocas and began the second chapter of this turbulent adventure with great intensity and diligence.
Chapter 2: Feel the Vibrations! Come on! Come on!
If I ever return to the beautiful islands, God willing, I will know the answer to the question I am about to pose, however, for now I am bound to carry the images of those days seared into the rear area of my mind in such vivid Technicolor that it would make an acid tripping hippie FREAK.
The climate is hot. The sol, shines unrelenting, practically forcing all inhabitants to consume copious amounts of beer at all times of the day – all times. Perhaps this is true always or perhaps it was because we arrived on the wildest weekend of the year in Panama. Seemingly the month of November is characterized by the most concentrated occurrences of national holidays experienced in any country around the world. We arrived on day one. There were bands playing, dancers marching, people drinking, hawkers hawking, people drinking, police policing, children running, and of course people drinking. It goes without saying that there is absolutely no way for even a Mormon to resist the hospitality and contagious celebrations that men, women, children and people of all races and creeds were drinking deeply of: that and the simple fact that every grocery store is heavily stocked with ice cold sixty cent beers. YA. I think I mentioned that it was hot, so hot that the immediate formation of condensation on each can of beer was like being in a cool mist as the clouds formed around the can. Naturally this unique phenomenon prompted mucho drinking of the malted beverages as the only effective way to cool down.
Day one passed with what can only be described as a bout of barely contained mayhem. After drifting between the islands to the various bars and lounges known for such things as ocean swimming pools (a large hole cut in the deck) and alternating hours of happiness, that are reachable only by a small motor boat for $1 we cruised along the one road in the main town towards the instantly infamous hostel characterized by the cheapest beers on the island, maybe the entire continent. Mondo Taitu has $0.50 beers from 7-8pm and challenges all comers to drink 100 of them during the course of their stay in bocas at their hostel. There is no time limit on the challenge and the reward is a candle lit dinner for two, in addition to the prestige of having a Polaroid posted on the wall-of-fame. We calculated that it could be done in 4-5 days for about $70. I am proud to say that Canadians and the Irish composed over half of the pictures (with Canadians topping the charts by 1) of smashed individuals grinning, perhaps without any recognition, into the camera at the fateful moment that the illusive line was crossed. Both Barnes and I respectfully declined the offer to join our countrymen on the glorious wall for reasons that amounted to financial, as much as a desire to spend more of our time in the next 5 days seeing other bars and more of the island than would have been possible while staving off liver failure each morning only to begin the fervent assault on our bodies most active organ (yes our livers work more than our hearts and yours would be too if you ever hit up Bocas) again once 7pm rolled around.
This calculated decision did not in any way damped anyone spirits, quite the contrary in fact. With a newly acquired wardrobe that consisted of three of Panama’s finest traditional shirts (see accompanying photos) I set about the quick work of establishing myself as a major beauty. Barnes, was (of course) on the exact same mission but blew a tire off his party bus when on the second night he failed to return to bed until 7pm the next night. It was a sordid tale indeed that left my friend of friends bed ridden for the next 7 days but it went something like this: copious consumption of all sorts of edible and non-edible food stuffs from cervezas to fried chicken, to Lord knows what else, but he ended up partying all day, night and day again before we rendezvoused at our then favourite Mexican joint, whereupon he dutifully scarfed 3 tacos in record time complete with fried beans and a cabbage salad that accompanied his ashen face with no small hint of foreboding. Chad then mumbled something indiscernible and stumbled off barefoot in search of (presumably) his bed leaving me to foot the bill, which I was only too happy to do, you understand of course. I promised to allow him only 2 hours of sleep (the amount I had received the night before) then I would wake him in time to head over to Aqua lounge for what would doubtlessly be another fantastic evening filled with great memories and great friends. Chad Barnes didn’t get out of bed for the next three days except to do the utter essentials.
While my amigo had been chumming it up with the locals all night I allowed myself 2 hours of precious sleep from 5am-7am before I roused myself like a battered champion but a champion nonetheless to head off to the dive shop where I was to embark upon a fantastic foray into the underwater world seen by many but known intimately by only a few. I was determined to enter the ranks of the chosen few who get to kiss a stingray on the lips and ensure 7 years of good luck following the aquatic lip lock. While that didn’t happen on this trip I did get to experience an hour long speed boat ride out to tiger rock (aka the middle of the Caribbean) where we back flipped over the side and went for one of the coolest dives around a rocky outcropping that juts straight from the blue depths of the unknown (to me). While I didn’t get to kiss a ray I did get seasick (maybe a combo of the 8 foot swells and the ambiguous amount of beverages from the previous night and the sound sleep) and hurl over the edge of the boat much to the joy or revulsion of the Japanese tourists who accompanied me (one can never tell with their taught faces what emotions they are trying to express). But after that I felt much better and rallied the troops for our next dive which was followed by a delicious shrimp lunch at a restaurant on stilts in the middle of the mangroves and coral reefs. Bocas was alright by my standards.
From that point forward I was on a solo mission to show the locals that Canadians can get down like any Panamanian and then some, and I like to think I succeeded, but who can tell. I drank beers, I sang heartily, and I joined arms with the other half cut men on the streets as we celebrated with sweating brows a festival that by this time didn’t really matter. The real festivities were for in this order: the day of the dead (where no alcohol is “legally” sold all day until midnight at which point any self respecting person makes up for the past 24 hours in the next 5, then people sleep from 6-8am when the drums stop (more or less, some drunk bastard is “practicing” for the next days march somewhere at all times) then everyone roused themselves for flag day which was (I can only assume) a celebration for the flag of Panama, then it was followed by independence day (from Columbia, the Independence day celebrations from Spain come later in the month) which was the biggest party of them all complete with baton twirling, much much more drum beating and you guessed it: reggatone and regge being pumped from every form of speaker anyone could get their hands on.
During all this revelry I can honestly only say that I survived because I was committed to diving every day which I did, and the fact that I had to care for my infirm companion. But don’t be turned off by this colourful yarn spinning, there is a lot more to Bocas than simply that parties.
Most of the days were spent relaxing in the unparalleled Caribbean sun and swimming in the warm sea, or under it as I perused the reefs, shelves, drops and shallow seas. I also hiked across one of the islands known for its red poison arrow frogs. I only saw one and it was about the size of the fingernail on my baby finger but that guy could hop! And he looked quite poisonous in his bright red pyjama suit. Upon such hikes with a few of my newly found friends we stumbled out of the jungle onto pristine virgin beaches with not another soul in sight and nothing but the warm sun and the crystal clear waters as our companions. The azul blue of the water was so vivid that it captured my gaze and imagination for long minutes if not hours before the white sand beach gently nudged me into the warm embrace of the curling turquoise waves. And then I splashed around with all the joy in my heart that a pig must feel when it plops itself soundly in a patch of thick mud. But this was decidedly better.
Oh yes Bocas del Toro was one incredible exhibit of the raw untouched beauty of the tropical climate combined with some good ol’ Caribbean lifestyle and a heavy dosage of a Panamanian hoe down. But Barnes had one hell of a high fever, smelt like a putrid mix of A&W onion rings and death, was sweating buckets uncontrollably all the while suffering from poor circulation as denoted by his blue lips in the 35C weather. It was time to get him some real help.
Chapter 3: Pointed South
The 10 hour bus ride from the Caribbean to Panama city did nothing to help the situation of my good amigos intriguingly memorable scent of my favourite deep fried side dish yet exceedingly repulsive aroma, but the shot he received in the ass at the hospital in the city sure did. The diagnosis: Dengue fever. If anyone or any mosquito ever offers you some, I suggest you take a pass. It was several more days of recovery but with due diligence i.e. a billion gallons of water (the only thing that saved my in Bocas) and some serious rest that included a few 14 hour naps, he was right as rain (and of course the shot in the bum).
The week spent in the city bearing the name of the great nation of Panama (Panama City of course) was consumed by more sleepless nights and the mission of finding passage, preferably by boat, to the south and my long awaited goal of reaching the continent of South America. Touring the various yacht clubs yielded a subsequent series of interesting conversations that always ended with, “you just missed a boat looking for crew, but it left a few days ago”, which undoubtedly led to the drinking of several cervezas at the bar before heading off to the next marina.
Naturally the “must do list” of the city was dutifully checked and noted as the engineering marvel that is the Panama Canal was toured and documented photographically. The canal is really something else. Massive freighter ships come chugging into the locks led by diesel belching tug boats and then towed along by Japanese made, Mitsubishi, electric powered, 500 hp mini locomotives (as best I can describe them) that go for a cool $2 mil a piece as we were informed by the enthusiastic lady over the loud speakers. The sun was shining and the clouds were shifting as gargantuan, behemoth boats chock-a-block full of shipping containers were being raised and lowered by gravity and ingenuity in what seemed like a toy set up for giants from the observation platform at the Mira flores locks. The locks operate day and night and are a major source of revenue for the country since their patriation from the Americans and have stopped only once since their completion in 1914 (fun fact). We toured Casco Viejo (the old city) that was both beautiful and one of the sites for the filming of the most recent James Bond, Quantum of Solace, which came out while we were in the city. Naturally we saw it twice at $3.25 a pop it was a major bargain and we re-toured the old city to re-shoot all the best scenes with our own take on them: hand held, high def, no editing or props and very little resemblance to the original film but nevertheless a major step towards my dream of being 007 at some point in my life, even if that is for only one uncritically acclaimed, non-official version, filmed by Chad with a handycam.
Panama city was a time of re-fuelling the tanks, washing our clothes (mine simply dirty and Barnes’ haggard collection the epitome of putrescence), getting healthy and eventually not finding a boat that was leaving in our time frame. After a week it was high time to leave and leave we did. A chartered jet, or a routine commercial flight (call it what you will) towards Columbia booked and we were ready to embark on yet another phase of the journey which would, with any luck, become a lot more dangerous, and involve many more broken Spanish conversations with phrases such as: “where is I can to wash myself?”
Central America was indeed a real treat, as a good friend of mine and a great scholar would say. However, it was only the beginning of the journey and there was much more around the corner, or over the Darien gap, depends how you look at it. I read a great passage in Ernesto Guevara’s, The Motorcycle Diaries, that I thought was fitting of our own voyage: “There we understood that our vocation, our true vocation, was to more eternally along the roads and seas of the world. Always curious, looking into everything that came before our eyes, sniffing out each corner but only ever faintly – not setting down roots in any land of staying long enough to see the substratum of things. I feel like Che’s words mirror my own thoughts well and yet I also notice the subtle difference. Che and Alberto were on a tour of South America on their motorcycle, La Ponderosa II. They had a goal which was to be nomadic bums and at the same time meet doctors around the continent and to observe life and experience the heart of their neighbouring countries, but in essence they were still there to observe (so I think). Barnes and Noble are traveling as Nomadic bums in order to experience the similarities and differences or life South of the North. I hope to take with me a piece of every culture and also to leave a part of me behind to grow in the hearts of the people I come in contact with. This is not a philanthropic mission but an honest one. Honesty and authenticity lend to validity and substance of character. I think that is in the end what I am after, substance of character. I don’t know if I’m so much as finding it here as discovering it within myself along the way. Either way I know that the experiences I’ve enjoyed and endured thus far have brought with them many of the same pleasures and sorrows for injustice that Che saw on his documented journey beside me and the subsequent ones. I also know that the experiences have changed me and I hope and pray that the result of those changes will be more positively productive than those of the bearded revolutionary of yore.
