Panama

Dirty Laundry, Bocas del Toro
13th May, 2012

Ahhh Sunday...the prophesied day of rest. There is definitely something lingering adrift the air on mornings such as these, as if a whole town has been waiting for that vivid excuse to falter. Outside it's raining - even better; please don't wake the dead. I need to sit. In the heat of another momentous evening with the entire world seemingly at my feet, common sense has once again miraculously managed to prevail. I'm still drenched, have shallow cuts across my right hand from sharp barnacles which clung off the jetties we'd been jumping from; what's more I just pulled a chunk of glass out from the underside of my toe - but hey, at least I held some manner of restraint and didn't wake up with "When in Bocas..." tattooed across my forearm. That was the plan after all. Now I'm contemplating busting up Captain K. Rool. Why is there a coconut in my bed?? And whose things are these?? Oh well, this is sure no time to be un-resourceful. Goodbye shredded fish blanket, hello pink flower man-sarong!

I do believe in miracles. I've taught myself to cook. A systematically simple task for the hoards who populate this earth, I on the other hand thought it reasonable enough to boil onions in my rice water. Finding myself strung out on the expenses of Costa Rica, this charade had to stop. It was time this boy became a man. And so it was in the kitchen of Rocking J's hostel, where I taught myself the secrets of creating 'glorified bolognese', a dish better known to the kinder few merely as Chile con Carne, yet one that holds true in my mind as a celebrated new speciality, which will triumphantly come to surpass my former go-to masterpiece of microwaved eggs on toast. This was how to survive out here in the wilds - my detox had been fortified. With that one meal I fed myself for three days, until the cleaners got curious and threw the dregs to the dogs.

Beach near Puerto Viejo

If I found Puerto Viejo fun loving & sprightly, like a Black Sam Bellamy "Prince of the Pirates" sort, Bocas del Toro has left a mark on me like Henry Morgan must have all those years ago with the Spaniards. Ruthless. Notorious. Bad-fucking-ass. Like a washed up whale, I arrived into Panama swept up in a titanic tailwind of excitement. I had been a destitute, then once again found myself in the mix of a brooding cocktail of comical flair, an infectious collective of extraordinary personalities. Sometimes it just works out that way; the right time, the right place, the right people. Hostel Heike. A bitchin' balcony filled with scumbags & dirty laundry. Magic. The Flying Dutchman had stolen a push bike off some local drug dealer, and here it was hibernating in my newly appointed bunkhouse. I got sucked into a foolhardy state happiness, and like the ameture I am, the one we've all come to hate and/or love, I soon found myself filtering through the frat, & passed out in the comfort of my distressfully uncomfortable bed. When I woke I had no recollection of my recent previous undertakings, and to be honest had no idea where I was. Great, only then to wind up locked outside my room without a key...I fumbled onto the balcony - and here is where I found our Dutchman, oblivious, alone, staring out into the pre-dawn darkness. "Best we get to bed hey?" Saved.

The next day was never going to be much fun. Free pancakes did little to resolve my persperating problems, nor did a trip across the island to Starfish Beach. That bus ride was like purgatory, one of the worst I am yet to suffer. Once there I ordered a platter of fried fish & made a right mess of the devouring situation. Later that night we hit up the Mondo Taitu Bar for happy hour schapps, but I was in such a state I was even turning down free shots. I necked two beers before stepping outside to chuck and grab myself a strawberry lollie-pop.

Beach near Bocas

Back at the hostel for more pres, our balcony became a breeding ground. I'd never witnessed such a motley crew of kick-ass travellers. I seriously had my doubts about Panamanian engineering, and could see the statistical "how not to's" racking up in the world press. I don't know how, but I got sucked into the party once again. We lumbered on down to the Iguana Bar and spent a good part of the night jumping out into the Caribbean Sea directly from the dance floor. In the midst of my attempted break-dancing, I met this German girl who just happened to be an old mate of backflippin' BelLo!! This wondrous world is a crazily small place sometimes!! We swam above sting rays, got all gymnastic under the jetty & watched the stars flicker far off in a perfectly clear nights sky. Ole was a jolly mess, and asked me to provide some pivol means of cover as he undressed out of his wet clothes down to his bare white ass. It was more a case of David covers Goliath. I'm tiny, & Ole is the biggest Scandinavian man alive. The entire club could see everything out on display. Even better, he then just let his underpants float out into the ocean.

More pancakes...at this point I had already eaten sooo many pancakes. I got quite good at cooking them too I guess. Also, I must say I've got really good at making chopped-up ventilated clothing out of expensive unwanted garments. It's become quite common for people to realise halfway through their travels that they're moving about with too much shit. For me it's quite the opposite - I hardly have a thing, and what I do have has tended to disintegrate. Actually, my clothes are wretchedly disgusting. Ole decided to give me a large shirt meant as a gift for his father. Gratefully of course I accepted this kind gesture & continued in my own way to cut the sleeves off. Little did I know that this brand of shirt can cost up to $150 back over there in Norway!! Whoops.

Viking man & my new shirt

Alas, this one fine day was spent at the beach, body surfing in the half decent shore break, and playing a mixed nation mash-up game of volleyball. Now...I've only just realised while writing this, that all you actually do in Bocas is hang out all day at the beach, and bust-up bustling parties. That is pretty much it. So, what to do after the beach on a Saturday?? Party at Aqua Lounge I guess!! This place is swell. Although the trampolines were broken for this time being, there were still these open portal like holes straight through the deck where you could leap down into the refreshingly cool water directly out from their guzzle bar. Across the landing and there are a bunch of swings where you can spin the night away doing the same thing - as it is, back-flipping will always impress the best!! Drinks were downed, a second wallet was almost lost (before a smokin' Norwegian chicka saved the day) & birthday cake seemed to be laying around the club everywhere when ever I needed it the most. So, so..."When in Bocas..."

Tata, with love from Panama. 
Captain K. Rool xx 


That Face of a Half Sucked Mango, Panama City
21st May, 2012

Mother nature has a habit of coming to our aid in the most unlikely of circumstances, often in our greatest time of need. Taps run dry and the heavens open above us, drenching a parched land with life giving water. Find yourself starved, deprived of essential yet regularly neglected vitamins, and plump, juicy mangoes shall fall from the sky. So then why, must my basic animal instincts always adopt a way of failing me?? Where hides such justice? All night long I'd been kept awake in my tent by the heavy crashing sound of fruit, plummeting onto the corrugated iron roof of the adjoining kitchen. The next day I find myself resting in the shade, reading a new book in the comfort & relative safety of a hammock. Never let your guard down I tell you. I hear a rustle, far up in the highest reaches of my shelter tree, and obviously without thinking lift my face upwards to enquire. I don't even have time to grimace at the gullibleness of this split-second mistake...SMACK!! I'm being beaten up by a tree. Could I be anymore pathetic? Actually, I believe I've been down this road once before - I'm just grateful it wasn't another orange.

Bocas had been a wild ride. That was indisputable. The days had soon whizzed by in one chaotic haze of beach, babes & booze. I was ready for another break; to get my head back in check and hopefully regain that drive to restore at least some of my bodies former integrity. The crisp smell of the air excited me as the bus chugged its way uphill, steadily approaching the mountain hideaway of Boquete, tucked picturesquely between the steep slopes of the luscious Caldera River Valley. This was just what I had been after - a few days dedicated solely to hiking about the surrounding countryside. Save a little cash, save a whole lot'a self. Darting off the bus & into the rain, I soon found a quaint little hostel called Nomba's, ran by a hilariously energetic El Salvadorian woman. It had the feel of what hostels once might have been, before the dawn of the Lonely Planet led dictatorship, or the emergence of those purpose built flashpackers. This place was cosy & basic, yet full of charm & authentic character.

Looking down over Boquete

An early rise had me on the move as the sun began to poke its beaming cap over the distant hills. I knew I was in for a long day on the trail. The plan was to hike the nearby Volcan Baru, the highest point in the whole of Panama, where reputedly on a clear day one can attain a view of both the Caribbean & the Pacific in a single panorama. Locals kindly welcomed in my morning, as they passed me by on their way to work, tending the farmlands which hugged the roadside leading into the park. Colourful traditional dresses hung drying from fences as woman prepared meals and waited for their smartly dressed children to be collected by the bus for school.

By the time I was halfway up the volcano I was already feeling the burn, and I began cursing myself for allowing my once unstoppable stamina to fall into this state of disrepute. To be fair however, it was quite the climb. By the time the atmospheric cloud forest had given way to a metallic tangle of TV antennas marking the 3475m high summit, I'd already walked around 21kms and gained over 2000 meters in elevation, all of which I was yet to attack in reverse. I slumped down against the cross trig around midday and smashed into some jam rolls & a large can of chili tuna. I wasn't looking forward to the return journey. More often I prefer the climb. Descents kill your weary bones & joints at the end of a long day. On reaching the park entrance I felt totally wrecked, and my boots had surely shrunk and decided to cut my poor toes to shreds. I was longing for a lift back to town, but the odds turned against me as thunderous black clouds rolled in and dumped all of Gods bursting bladder in one mighty calculated downpour. Within minutes I was soaked, and figured it was best just to keep on trudging back to Boquete. Finally, about half way there, I managed to snare a ride in the back of a pick-up. As grateful as I was, you know how you get twice as wet when you start running in the rain compared with walking?? Well, picture zipping down a hill at 70kph with a full-wall force of these mammoth bullets of liquid-pain puncturing you repetitively like angry hands at a typewriter. My boots became gutters that could have filled a sink. It seemed more likely that I'd been out whitewater rafting on a fishing buoy. By the time I made it back to the hostel I'd come close to hiking a marathon; that day I covered about 39kms, with over 4000 meters worth of ascent & descent in a little under 8 hours. The mountain goat was back! I couldn't have felt better.

From the summit of Volcan Baru

That night I was out like my father is after "half past nine, too much wine." I only wish it could have kept coming that way. Another scheduled treat of easy hiking to various lookouts & waterfalls, in the company of a friendly Polish girl (who I am yet to know the name of, even after a whole week travelling together...) became tarnished by the presence of a man waiting for an introduction on arrival as we returned to our hostel later that afternoon. You know when you meet someone, and for some reason you can just picture them stabbing you to death as you sleep?? You don't know what it is exactly - an itch you can't reach to scratch. Or more like that time I spontaneously sent myself to the doctor, only to find out I'd only ever been born with one kidney. I knew something wasn't right, something was missing. His name was Chris (look him up in the US child abductor register & I'm sure you'll find his picture! He's here in Panama!!). He told me that he'd just hung around "being" in Volcan for the past four months. No one just hangs around in Volcan! "So Chris, what brings you over this way to Boquete? How long you plan to stay here for?" It takes him a moment to flutter his eyes and collect his thoughts..."hmmm, well, there wasn't much happening in Volcan...so I thought I'd come stay here in Boquete for a while...maybe four or five months...might read some more books & watch some movies. Have you seen the collection of great movies they have here?? Boy...I think I've nearly watched them all!" Freak!! You meet some creepy people out on the road. That night I slept with my knife ready at arms under my pillow. I've never been sure if it truly came down to it, whether I would have the stomach to actually stab someone in my own self defence. With this guy...I couldn't register a strand of restraint in my conscience. For your own sake buddy, do not wake me up for a glass of milk in the early hours.

Lost Waterfall

I continued my little escapee jaunt, with a detour out to the quiet surf town of Santa Catalina on the Pacific Coast. That was a long day of buses, four in total, and I became ecstatic when I found myself a cheap place to pitch my tent for the night. Lucky for me, I'd only just got it all set up with my things tucked inside before the heavens grumbled and the downpour began. What a show mother nature put on for us all this night! Never, ever, ever, ever had I seen a storm as awesome as that! It was like something out of a horror movie. The sky became luminescent, and the crack of thunder surged through us with an anticipated unexpectedness. The water was out, so we all showered under the overfill gutter-pipe outlet protruding from the side of the ramshackled building; and once the power shut off, childishly sat around the table reading books by candlelight. The reflex surprise of the roaring thunder was only outdone by the sudden crash of mangoes, falling onto the roof above us. After a big bowl of cornflakes & way too many Oreos, I retired back to my tent. Whether it's the malaria tablets playing tricks on me, or simply the unsettled playground of my own mental mind, but I'd been having some seriously wack dreams of late. That night was one of the worst. I dreamt up a smorgasbord of frightening scenarios, ranging anywhere from decapitation at the hands of a giant green lizard, to becoming locked in the depths of a dungeon by my high school teacher Mrs. White for not surpassing her growing expectations in my latest English assignment. I also thought I dreamt up an earthquake, shaking me from my sleep not once, but twice throughout the course of the night...only that turned out to be real! From where does one determine fact from fiction?? I imagine there is often only a fine line.

After my long night dancing with the devil, I decided it was time to hit up some waves. To prove the Australianess in me once and for all. That day flew by!! I forgot how much I enjoyed surfing in bathtub temperatured water. I was out there for close to six hours before the waves slowly disintegrated into nothing more than a frothing washing machine. I strolled on back to camp with my head held high, cooked up some scrambled eggs...then, this was when the mango smacked me square in the face & ruined my good fortunes. I became the Pied-Piper. Puppies by the half dozen started following be around, infecting me with their discarded flees. One got its fat head stuck in the panels of the kitchen window trying to get inside as I enjoyed my dinner. Then the rains returned, and never went away. I slept all day, but more nightmares of the Taliban stoning me to death like a Hazara, kept me from fully nodding off soundly. This was a sign. It was time to leave.

Yesterday I crossed over the canal, a breathtaking sight to behold, and arrived at the crossroads of Panama City. Looking out at the high rises across the water, there is a definite air of contrast here, a mix of the new world mingling with the old. Soon, my world will also be making a sharp U-Turn, signalling the beginning of a fresh new adventure. The first chapter of my long awaited journey is coming to an abrupt end; closing shut great curtains in front of an enlightened face. Gallivanting across Central America is done for. It's time I found a sail boat to Columbia...

Panama City from nearby Casco Viejo

Hope all is well back home...
Miss & love all you few each & everyday!
No fear...all shall become clear. 
Talk again soon after the San Blas!!
Love Schmorgasbord xxx