North we trundled in the minibus. Our destination? The town of Santa Marta. Or was it a city? It occurred to me, sitting on that bus, that I didn’t have a clue what we were heading there to see; I only knew that nearby Tayrona National Park was meant to be beautiful. Given that we were halfway there, it struck me as about the time where I should be able to answer why and I dug out my big red Lonely Planet. The summary was less than exciting: A city with fading charm as colonial buildings crumble and are replaced by modern concrete ones, mostly used as a stopping point for people doing the five day trek to the ruins of the lost city. Why we were going here on our short time budget was a question that neither Phil nor I could answer and we both laughed at how ridiculous our current scenario was and waited to see for ourselves. Luckily, when we arrived we found it quite a lovely place. We’d booked ahead for the Aluna hostel, new and really nice. They had what is, without a doubt, the most impressive collection of a book exchange I have ever encountered as Patrick, the owner, is very selective on what gets traded. The dorms were clean, spacious, with great mattresses, fast and secure wifi, and beautiful rooftop common areas. Sometimes it’s best to not rely on guidebooks, and this seemed a good case for that argument.
In our room was a hilarious Norwegian guy named Chris but otherwise not much of a social scene to speak of. Then again, it was Carnaval and although the big party is in nearby Baranquilla, there is still plenty of action in the streets here and quite a few were gone there, we suspected. Phil and I went for a walk through town and stumbled on the Carnaval area replete with people whose faces were powdered in white, clown wigs, big hats, and black body paint. Street vendors were everywhere selling snacks and drinks and inside a fenced wall there seemed to be a beer garden of sorts, though more likely it was a place to watch live music later in the evening. Beer gardens themselves have no place in a country which allows you to have beer in the streets. As my camera was already in hand, I managed to catch a couple little boys spray down Phil’s entire left side with spray foam (espuma). I chuckled at it and we were joking about his new skin complexion when the kids decided I was next. They covered me and my camera in white foam but I got what is now one of my favourite photos as they did so, not to mention a pretty funny one through my soapy lens. The camera, with a few minutes of love, was fine after its first Carnaval encounter.
But we were hungry and street food was not going to cut it today so we ducked out of the area and walked to the oceanfront where we were surprised by the number of people out on the beach at dusk and milling around. Santa Marta doesn’t have a great beach (it’s more well known for nice beaches it’s close to) but it was definitely adequate and had a nice island backdrop not to mention a very parky avenue running along the coast. In fact, this city has an abundance of nice, wide, green avenues and we walked along a couple before we finally settled... for street food. Otherwise, prices were a bit too steep, but the salchipapa we had (cut up hot dog, fries, grated cheese, and cabbage) was actually pretty decent. We were planning on heading to Baranquilla for the carnaval so we didn’t end up returning here that night but went back to the hostel, met up with Chris, and had a couple beers on the rooftop terrace before calling it an evening. The plan for the next day was to take a day trip to Tayrona and see what it was all about, but by the time we woke up and talked with an Aussie guy, that plan had been nixed. It was an hour drive to get there and a two hour walk with your stuff to the nice beaches not to mention a pretty hefty 35000 entrance fee and in the end, the math didn’t make sense to do a day trip much less a half day trip. We needed a plan B.
We could hang out in town. We could go to nearby Taganga, a fishing village just outside the park with a decent beach for the day instead. We could go to Baranquilla today and come back to do Tayrona tomorrow. In the end the option we went with was to leave a day early, stop in Baranquilla for a few hours, and then catch the last bus home to Cartagena that evening. So we packed up and trucked out, two hours later arriving back in Baranquilla with no idea where to go. Still, we stashed our bags at a restaurant in the bus station. Hopefully they would be there when we got back – I took my passport and camera with me but otherwise most of my stuff was in there. Finally, we convinced a cab to take us there for 15000 and while we wondered at times if he was taking us all the way to the Carnaval in Brazil, he got us to the place eventually and we were free. I’m not sure if there’s a lent-Carnaval connection, but what it is, basically, is a four day party-holiday for most from Friday to Tuesday with Latin music and dancing and crazy outfits, paints, and so on. As we were walking around the stadium which was filled with roaring people, we saw a big mural for Daddy Yankee and got excited when not one but two scalpers told us that he was playing tonight. Phil and I looked at each other.
The tickets had a face value of 24000 and we paid 30000 for them which also included (through muscle and force of will) the ability to cut through the massive line that was spiralling around the stadium and walk right in. Well worth the extra $3. And we didn’t know it then, but that night would be the best night out we’ve had since, well, I’d probably have to go back to Vang Vieng in Asia or something to top it. We had no hotel, and all our stuff was at the bus station, so why not? The party was over at about 5 AM and we could go to the bus station and just catch the first bus heading back to Cartagena. In we went, a quick search later, coming out of the entrance below the stands to live reggaeton music and the sounds of thousands of Colombians dancing, drinking, and throwing flour and water at each other. Phil and I were smiling ear to ear at this unplanned modification of our heretofore rather ill-planned trip north and without even trying a really friendly Colombian started introducing us to all his beautiful female friends. Now THAT’S hospitality!
Before we got into any more drinking however, we had to get some food in our systems. That was solved by the numerous meat-on-stick with potatoes venders spread around the stadium. Then, large plastic beer cup in hand, we rejoined our new friends and for us, the party began. They were a cool group and Maria Jose (who asked that we call her Majo which is an entertaining nickname) in particular took to introducing us to her many friends that were also there. How we got so lucky as to be included in this group of Colombians is beyond me but I am extremely grateful. Nearby, there was an older guy, probably in his late 40s anyway, who was delighting in childlike mischief. He’d buy water after water or talk the guys with coolers into dumping some into his cup and then start splashing random people. He soon turned his attentions on our group which instigated a full out water war that would flare up time and again throughout the night. I’m not sure if they sold packets or people brought them from home, but the next innovation in Carnaval weaponry was flour all over your face and clothes and hat, and throughout the night I sported white beards and skin grafts of varying size, shape, and density. All of this was a lot of fun.
Of course, the main event at least that day, was the music. They had band after band of live Colombian music and meanwhile the girls would patiently attempt to teach us steps which passed the time really quickly. In retrospect, a bit more drink would have been good as I might have loosened up a bit more on the dancing, but budgeting intoxication for a 12 hour shift with no sleep is difficult at best and all the more so while already intoxicated. I feel like the fact that I did not collapse in a heap on the grass is testament to my skill in this department, but I probably have to give the group credit for keeping us so entertained. We didn’t end up getting to see Daddy Yankee live, which would have been awesome, but we did see a live performance of “Yo No Se Manana” which I was quite excited about and – and this is important – AND we found a new musical obsession to knock “Llamado de Emergencia” to second place in the charts after a very long run. The song? “El Celular” by some Cartagena group, performed live and catchy as swine flu at preschool. This song became a theme throughout the night and by morning we were hooked.
Eventually, it got to be about 2 AM and Grace invited us all back to her house for a house party. First, of course, we stopped at a little restaurant and grabbed a really good mid-party roast chicken meal and then to get some vodka, red bull, and Canada Dry. I’m not sure that gingerale is especially Canadian, but it makes me feel patriotic nonetheless. Then off to Grace’s house which was actually really nice. We had lost the guys who first introduced us which is too bad because we owed him a bottle of vodka all to himself – what a great group of people. I’d had dance lessons galore from Majo and Daniella, and we met a Swedish Colombian girl (!) named Elsa there who took my education into her own hands (or should I say onto her own feet) at the party. The vodka didn’t last long and the red bull was half gone before we’d even arrived but it was enough. Our new song came on several times throughout the evening and we got excited everytime. We partied until 6 AM and then said our goodbyes and headed to the street to find a taxi to the bus station. There weren’t many, and when you look foreign they try to get a good price out of you, but almost four months of travel hadn’t exactly left us new to the game. We negotiated pretty hard with one guy (we already knew what the fare should be) and he drove off but eventually turned around and told us to get in. “How much?” I asked. It’s always important to be clear. He tried one last time to repeat the number we’d already refused and I shut the door again and said no then he caved and said, “OK, 15.”
Watching different people haggle is interesting as everybody has their own approach and I think it largely depends where they’ve learned or if they’ve learned. Some don’t haggle at all, justifying the cost as meaningless to them in their currency but very meaningful to the locals. This doesn’t work if you want your trip to last more than a few days. Others think drawing a hard line is rude and I’ve seen people react negatively to it, but at the end of the day, they won’t sell you something if they’re not making money or it’s not worth it for them. They’re just trying to get the most they can for what they’re selling (in this case, a ride) and on our side, we’re just trying to get the best price for what we’re buying. It’s a bit unfair on our side, if anything, because we often don’t really know what we’re bargaining for. Exactly how far IS the bus station, for example? But for those worried that we’re rude about it, no, not at all. We have our price and a respect for the other person so long as they’re not asking initially exorbitant amounts and though you play the game afterwards all is well. Our driver seemed dejected and like he was making a big sacrifice, but once we agreed he was all smiles. It’s not every weekday morning you get a big cross-city fare I’d guess. We ripped across the city at breakneck speeds, sometimes almost triple the posted limit and when he found out we liked “El Celular” he found a CD with it, cranked the volume, and played it on repeat all the way to the bus station. A great cap to the night.
But it still wasn’t over. We still had to get back to Cartagena, though getting a bus ticket and getting on the bus was not much work at all. Both Phil and I slept pretty much the whole way back to Cartagena and then from there we taxied to the old town again and stayed at Casa Viena. Phil was asleep the moment we sat there waiting for them to clean the room but I couldn’t get back to sleep. I read, I laid down, but I wasn’t tired... just exhausted. So I went around the town on a bit of a walk, grabbed some lunch, and then came back and finally had a two hour nap from 3-5 PM. Phil and I got up and did a bit more walking around the town. Cartagena deserved more time, more photos, and is somewhere I’d really like to return to in the future but fatigue still had me in its grip and after a seat in our usual square and finding Hotel Santa Clara at Maria from Bogota’s suggestion (they wouldn’t let us in!) we went back to the hostel and slept right through until morning. We were going to catch the bus to Medellin at 7:45 AM but nobody would give us the fare we’d researched, which was 70000 pesos ($35). They wanted $55 or 110,000 when we could fly for 81 plus taxes and get there in 4 hours instead of 14. So we got on the internet, booked a flight for noon, and headed to the airport. We had to repack Phil’s whole backpack into mine and his surf bag to save him money on extra luggage but it worked and we were soon in the air and flying south to Medellin.
We were in the small village of Capurgana in the Darien gap of Columbia, one of the most uninhabited regions on the planet because here, the wildlife is truly wild. A Norwegian guy would later tell us a story about a journalist in Darien who had fallen asleep with his tent not fully zipped and woke up to find blood everywhere and half his scalp chomped off. A vampire bat – with rabies, it turned out – had managed to get in and feasted all night. He managed not to die, somehow. We however, we in a village and while there were no cars, roads, or electricity after 8:00, it was not so remote as that. The only way in or out was by boat and it turned out that the one boat heading to Turbo, a small city two hours away with roads and a bus terminal, was sold out for the day. There were, however, three spots on an indirect route to Candi and from there onward to Turbo. I looked at Amy, one of the three English people from the boat, and said that since Phil and I were two and Renee and Jared were two, it made sense for them to take the spots and we would spend another day in the middle of nowhere. “But I feel so bad, you guys are stuck here,” she replied. “If there were four spots, it would make more sense for us to use all of them instead of you guys but there are only three so this is the most logical thing,” I replied and she agreed with me. That is, until 30 seconds later the ticket agent turned and said he actually had 4 spots.
Suddenly, it still made more sense for the three of them to take the tickets. Simon, after all, was only traveling for two weeks. Well, Phil only had two weeks left too, I thought, but I said, “I wish everbody were here to discuss it” because I did still feel a bit bad to take the spots and strand them. She went to tell them while I stalled for time to try to hold the four spots and came back saying everyone had agreed that the three of them should go. Fair enough, consensus wins, and one more day in this small town wasn’t so bad. Still, not once did any of them say thank you and I further discovered from Phil that the story they’d heard was that there were four tickets to Candi where they’d probably have to spend the night and not all the way to Turbo via Candi. Anyway, I wasn’t happy with them on principle though the town was lovely. It also allowed Phil and I a chance to retrieve our hats which had been left aboard Da Capo. We walked around, lunched, finished our vodka with Jared and Renee, and went to sleep. I had a weird night where I awoke certain I had drunkenly got myself on some ship. We were in a hotel right over the water and the window was open, so there was the noise and breeze from the sea plus my head was still wavy from 5 days on a boat. I had philosophical thoughts for a few hours, saw shapes in the shadows, grew paranoid that our open window was an invitation to thieves, and finally fell asleep where I had a dream I could fly. I guess being back on land was taking some adjustment.
The next morning we got on our boat to Turbo where they fleeced us for baggage weighing over 10kg. In other words, any backpackers not making day trips would pay a lot more. Two hours of bumping and motoring along the ocean and we made it to Turbo where we hunted down a bus to Cartagena. However, there is no bus to Cartagena, only collectives (minivans) to Monterria and we got into a bidding war which ended with in a converted truck for 20000 pesos ($10). The driver was an idiot however and managed to clip an oncoming truck... with Phil’s surfboard. This didn’t seem to concern him at all which was obviously upsetting but he eventually had karma catch up with a flat tire. Of course, we had to sit there and wait at the side of the road, so I’m not sure that’s really a fair trade. We made it to Monterria finally and from there got in another colectivo (with a different company) to Cartagena for another 4 hours. Here, I made some friends in the van and wound up chatting with a few of them while they would talk to me and take turns answering my questions. Two of them gave us phone numbers to call, the first (Osbaldo) for somewhere Phil could get his surfboard fixed and he’d pick us up and bring us there, and the second (Carlos) to go out with him and his friends.
We got into Cartagena 13 hours after we first got on the speedboat that morning and Osbaldo offered to split a cab with us then negotiated a fair price out of the locals. He made sure the taxi knew where we were going and we were finally in Getsemani, the backpacker district at Hotel Holiday. We went out and explored the town and basically decided we loved it almost immediately. The buildings were colonial and thanks to the city’s walls and well-positioned defences it had never been sacked by pirates and privateers. People were everywhere, plazas with old buildings filled with chairs and people drinking in the moonlight with floodlit churches and historic sights all around them. Houses and little bars were pumping out salsa music and families and friends were there loving life and partying like there was no tomorrow. Phil and I sat in the square and people watched for some time, too tired to do much else but enjoying the atmosphere too much to sleep.
The next day in Cartagena we just walked around. Freshly squeezed orange juice and a fried mashed potato, egg, and ground beef ball for breakfast, we walked around the old town where we were staying looking at hostels and buildings. From there up to the centre looking for surfing shops for Phil and of course enjoying the town on a Saturday afternoon. We walked all the way up to the beaches and downtown area before grabbing a taxi back to the hostel. Daylight had only made us appreciate this place more, not to mention that it is literally crawling with beautiful girls. People watching has never been so much fun. We’d seen some cheap places in the old centre to grab a bite and wandered back there. While looking around, we ran across Renee and Jared and very shortly after, Hanna and Simon. We all had a beer together at a place we thought served dinner but nope, only lunch, and then split off because Renee and Jared are picky eaters and didn’t care for the cheap place that Phil and I found. We’d planned to meet them but the place they were going to go was closed when we got there and there was no sign of them at their hostel.
We walked back to the centre thinking they’d maybe taken a seat in the square but they weren’t there either so we decided to check out the nightclub all the street guys were trying to get us to visit: Isis. We arrived with beer still in our hands so we sat outside watching. It didn’t take much watching to realize the place was crawling with prostitutes. It was basically a brothel under the guise of a nightclub but we went in anyway to see what it was like. Everywhere, and I mean everywhere, we saw them and a few American-looking guys and not much of anybody else. We thought it’d be entertaining to have a drink – beer, to make sure if wasn’t spiked – but they told us it was 12000 for a beer that is usually 1500 and we saw why. If you are there, it’s for one thing only. We left. From there, we walked back to Getsemani and Avenida Nacional which is along the city walls, water, and filled with clubs. We went to a few but discovered that everybody was there with somebody. Outside one, a blonde came up and asked where we were from. “Canada” we answered. “WHERE?!” “Saskatoon”. At this she gave us a thumbs down and stuck her tongue out, and her lame attempts to excuse herself later were unheard. Traveller or not, that’s my home! And you’ve probably never been there.
Inside the club, she was nowhere to be found thankfully. The plaace was a visual overload, the girls here and the way they dance was eyeball popping. Of course, everybody is with somebody else, and we didn’t find any groups that looked inviting. Phil tried, against his better judgement, to chat with some Argentinians we’d seen in Bocas del Toro, but as usual they were snobbish and couldn’t wait to be rid of him so that they could be ignored by everyone else. There have been exceptions, of course, a few really cool Argentinians we’ve met along the way, but for the most part this is standard. One of the friendly ones told us that most of them who travel are the rich and think they’re better than everyone. Someone else postulated it was their largely Italian descent that led to their arrogance. It’s been said that once you are let in to the group they are very warm and friendly but otherwise nearly impossible to even be friendly with. Unless they want something from you. I stupidly gave away my bandana in Bocas del Toro (after initially laughing and refusing) to some Argentine girl that came up to me on the streets. Phil had lost his treasured SURFO hat. If you’re thinking it’s ironic or hypocritical to be offended that someone tells me my town is a dump and then have a paragraph about the attitude of Argentinians, you’re probably partly right. But I’m not dissing a place I’ve never seen or even talking about the country as a whole. I’m only recounting that most of my encounters with Argentinians thus far have been negative.
We had ourselves a dilemma the next morning. It was now the 14th, Valentine’s Day, and if we wanted to meet up with Anabella and Maria, we had to be in Bogota by the 20th. And there was still Santa Marta, carnival in Barrenquilla, the Tayronga National Park, the lost city, Medellin, the slow boat trip south to Bucaranga (two days) and busses. We decided that morning to head north to Santa Marta, spend a day there, a day trip to Tayrona, come back to Barenquilla to see carnival, and then back to Cartagena for one more day before heading south. I would have to miss Medellin (at least for now) to do my boat trip and I’d also have to skip San Gil and some hiking near there. Colombia would probably need a return visit even if I did double back to Medellin. The north was getting the short end of the stick but on the other hand it would help accelerate my timeline a bit and ensure that, despite the temptation, I didn’t spend too much time in Colombia. So we got on a collective and headed north to Santa Marta, four hours away to squeeze in what we could of this part of Colombia.
A favourite speech from Seinfeld begins with George Costanza setting the scene: “The sea was angry that day, my friends, like an old man sending back soup at a deli.” Indeed, many of the crew would, that day, refund their soup and also cheetos. The wind was coming from behind us as our sailboat, which suddenly felt too small to make this passage, bobbed, weaved, dropped, and heaved in the swell. Contrary to what you might expect, a tailwind is probably one of the worst winds you can have sailing. Why? Well, I’m going to get geeky on you here but it’s because a sail actually works a lot like an airplane’s wing: that is, the wind doesn’t actually fill the sail and blow it forward. Instead, it runs along the curvature of both sides of the sail. Because the same volume of air blows across both sides, the air on the outside of the curve of the sail is actually more spread out than on the inside of the sail and that means there’s higher pressure inside the sail than out. What THAT means in turn is that the sailboat is actually sucked forward more than it is blown much like a plane is sucked upwards into the sky. This phenomenon means that wind blowing about 70 degrees from the front actually gives you the best speed and most stable configuration. What we had was a sail filling and pushing the boat along and then going slack as the boat reached the wind’s speed then jerking taut again as the boat slowed. In addition to the boat not being pulled in one direction and therefore rolling back and forth. (NOTE: This continues part 1, Sailing San Blas, below)
Still, I didn’t get sick. Others did, definitely, but that Dramamine was looking like the best $5 I ever spent. There was nothing to do except sit on the side and stare out at the waves and distant islands we were sailing past or standing beside the mast and looking off the bow as though it were your boat. Thus, it was the most relaxed I’ve been on this entire trip, with no pressure to be moving on to the next place (after all, we were!), study Spanish, write my blog, edit photos, or even read my next book which is Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood a very thoughtful bon voyage gift from Barb. I just sat and watched and contemplated and occasionally listened to music. I could get used to sailing, I think, although by the last day I was getting comfortable enough to not only start studying my Spanish some more but also working on photos belowdecks as we plugged along. At least for a little while.
Kuna, Ya!
We arrived in the Kuna town of San Ignacio de Tupile a bit after 5 PM and immediately headed for land where we noticed for the first time that land felt funny as opposed to comfortable. Some of us even walked a bit off-kilter though I wasn’t really at that point yet, or at least no more so than usual given my tiptoe tendencies. And anyway we were soon too wrapped up in Kuna attention to notice. What a friendly and warm people! After reading about how isolationist and ‘tolerant but unwelcoming’ the Kuna are meant to be according to the idiot that writes the Panama section of the Lonely Planet (easily the most unresearched and throwaway section of the Central American LP) we found them excited to see us and eager to converse with us. In the main square kids would either run up to us and ask us to take their photo or approach shyly or just pose and hope we’d notice. The older kids would be brimming with questions and for us guys the eligible females were definitely curious if we had ‘esposas’. None of this was money related – we were twice approached by people looking to collect a $1 visitor tax but the others never asked for anything aside from our attention.
While we were standing in the square distant explosions, pops, and bangs approached with shouting. Suddenly, the square was awash with Kuna in red with wooden weapon facsimilies like rifles and swords running around and shooting at each other and us. They were rehearsing for their Independence Day celebration and as quickly as all the play fighting had started it moved further along the village. We left the village at sundown for the boat and after another great dinner and a bit of chit chat we went to sleep. Alcohol in any quantities was basically no longer an option after the day’s sail so we had our beer and realized we had purchased far too much alcohol for the voyage. There was no swimming here (especially after seeing the pit toilets over the ocean, Slumdog style) or beautiful island but the village was a unique experience all its own and we felt lucky to have seen it.
Day of the Dolphins
We had another big day of sailing the next morning but everybody had found their sea legs by then and nobody was sick at all. We broke up the trip by stopping for lunch outside a small group of islands and yet more Kuna villages. The afternoon sail was unbelievable: not only were we all in good spirits as the bouncing of the boat no longer phased us, but we saw no less than five separate pods of dolphins including one pod that was very curious and friendly and loved the sound of us cheering and clapping. They’d flip and jump and splash and race alongside the boat and probably hung around for half an hour. By the fifth pod, half the people couldn’t be bothered to look up from their books but I think we all knew it was pretty amazing. My perception of the ocean changed a bit that day. It’s kind of like wandering through the jungle. At first all you see is trees but with enough time you see there is plenty of life hiding among them and sometimes not hiding at all. Dolphins have that peculiar distinction of not having been hunted by man and are one of the few animals out there with whom, despite reckless tuna fishermen the world over, we still have good relations. This, to me, is what being in the Galapagos will be like and I’m very excited to make it there if I can.
Night of the Storm
We anchored that night at Isla Pino which was again beautiful and also the last of the San Blas islands we would visit. There was a really strong current but some braved it anyway and while they were ashore we realized that our anchor hadn’t stuck and we’d drifted pretty far. Luckily we didn’t run aground or get hung up on some reef and we motored back up and anchored again as they swam doggedly back to the ship. We all sat on deck and watched the last sunset we would see over Central America which not coincidentally was beautiful. That night the wind really picked up and the boat was rocking something fierce but again, we’d all adjusted to the sea by then and only Phil in his hammock, swinging in the wind, had any problem sleeping. The captain asked us to wake him up if his computer started beeping, as it would mean we’d drifted more than 100m from our anchor point but thankfully there was no such emergency. We awoke in the morning afloat, intact, and anxious to complete our journey and see the coast of South America appearing on the horizon.
Yes, our last day had arrived and the agenda was nothing but sailing and fried bananas wrapped, interestingly enough, in bacon. I have grown to dislike two foods in my time here: beans and fried bananas. I started liking them, moved to loving them, but have since consumed more of both then any ordinary non-Latin human could be expected to endure and now can hardly stand the taste of either. Not green beans, mind you, just the refried variety that are part of every economical meal from here to Tillajuana. We sailed and sailed and yet more dolphin encounters to the point that I surreptitiously kept an eye on our captain to see if he was chumming the waters but I found no evidence in the end. Our last dolphin encounter came as the green hills of Colombia were growing large on the horizon, our first sight of South America and our last sight from the bow of Da Capo. We anchored at Sapzurro, right on the Colombian border and in the heart of the Darien Gap with no roads or cars, just boats to bring supplies and people in and out. From there, back on to a lancha with all our worldly possessions and we said our goodbyes to Mats, Dina, and Mateo then motored off in the distance to the next coastal town of Capurgana. We arrived just in time to visit the immigration office and get our passports stamped. “Welcome,” the officer said to me, “to South America.”
Let me just start this segment of my journey by reminding readers who may have forgotten amidst all my adventures abroad that I am a prairie boy. I come from Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, a beautiful city in the middle of a vast flat ocean... of land. The nearest coast in terms of driving hours is Vancouver, BC, about 20 hours west and over the Rocky Mountain range. This leg of my journey starts in Panama City and ends in a small town in Colombia, the two points on the map joined by five days in a 36’ sailboat called Da Capo with stopping points all along the San Blas Archipelago of islands. It would be unlike anything I had ever done before, bobbing along on the ocean with nothing but the wind moving us along, and arriving in a brand new continent. Sure, there are more risky ways to get to Colombia, which I elucidated on in my last post, but be assured dear reader, that this would be an experience and adventure that I would never forget.
The Caribbean in a 4x4
Panama City. Friday, Feb 5, 23:00. Phil and I have just returned from the grocer with what we think will be enough drink for the trip. 1L of Abuelo Panamanian rum, 1.75 L of Smirnoff Vodka, 4 L of Coke, 2 L of Fresca, and 12 Panama beers. While there, we ran into three of our fellow trip-goers, all English. There’s Amy, fluent Spanish speaker and PR consultant. Simon, funny if half-jetlagged Londoner who also happens to be an electrical engineer and project manager. If you’ve ridden the Tube, you’ve seen his work. And finally there’s Hanna, bubbly interior designer with some amazing ideas for her own coffee shop when she gets home. They too are procuring booze and we compare levels to find our estimates in agreement. They look like they’ll be fun and good company, which makes the voyage all the more exciting. Back to the hostel loaded with liquid we go for some attempted sleep though I found myself waking every hour. Finally, at 4:20 AM I woke up just before my watch alarm and got Phil up as well. The bus was supposed to arrive between 4:30 and 5:00 AM, and at 4:21, it was at the door and waiting for us.
We got on the bus and did not see our three English friends from the night prior, worrying now that we perhaps were on the wrong bus (though the driver did answer to Manuel which was the name we were looking for. Soon, I realized it was not 4:30 but 5:30 – my alarm hadn’t gone off because my watch has a ‘home’ time and ‘current’ time and you can set the alarm for either zone. I’d set it for home which was an hour behind. So now we were on this bus an hour later than expected, too. It wasn’t too worrying as we were still heading to the same place, but what about the English? What about the time? Had the boat left already? Only one way to find out. About halfway through the trip we discovered that the Canadian couple sitting behind us was also bound for our boat, so worries were allayed and we switched into a 4WD for the next leg of the journey, the only way at the moment to reach Carti. It was a sizeable trip for $25 and we arrived at Carti without any hassle or notes of interest. From there, another $5 for a motorboat to our sloop (plus $6 to pay to the Kuna Indians who basically own the islands) and soon we pulled alongside Da Capo.
Home on the High Seas
The Canadian couple, by the way, are from Vancouvr. Jared is an alectrician there though with his accent I am able to correctly deduce he’s originally from Toronto. The four of us are greeted on the deck by Captain Mats. The boat from above looks tiny but we are excited to be here nonetheless, our home on the high seas and gateway to Colombia. The captain brings us down below where we are amazed to see how much they have squeezed into so small a place. The only thing comparable I have seen are motorhomes and this definitely blew them away. There are the captain’s quarters where he, his Colombian wife Dina, and their son Mateo sleep and we store our large packs at the aft of the boat as well as another room at the front for Hanna and Simon. I sleep on the bench around the kitchen table and Amy sleeps across on the other bench – we just move a few cushions and there’s plenty of space, not to mention that our beds are backed by small storage cubbies and on top of yet more storage. The kitchen has two burners and an oven which detach completely from the counter at the pull of a lever to rest on a pivot through its centre of gravity. That way, when the boat is swaying or listing in the wind, the stove and its contents are always upright.
There is also a marine toilet with a series of valves to adjust for pumping waste out and sucking seawater in and the sink doubles as a faucet for the fresh water shower. Our boat has a fresh water maker which we’ve been told most others do not, but where it’s hidden I have no idea. Up the stairs there are two benches around the wheelhouse where Jared and Renee sleep at night which also has a foldout table not to mention gauges for depth, wind direction and speed, boat speed, heading, and so on. Along both sides run two narrow wooden walkways lined with mesh and cable to keep from falling off and at the bow of the boat is a flat area for sitting, visiting, and getting some sun by day. By night, this is Phil’s home, where he hangs his hammock and puts up the small shelter to keep him dry and a bit warmer. And that concludes my grand tour. The captain went through all this with us as well as the rules of the water and then went through our plotted course to get a feel for what to expect on the trip. Then, soon enough, we were underway – but the wind wasn’t strong enough to get us there quickly so we motored. The main sail was still up for stability but it wasn’t moving us at all.
Glowing Waters of Porvenir
Our first port of call was the island of Porvenir. However, there was no port and nought but a dozen Kuna upon whom to call. In other words, aside from this family, the island was empty, beautiful, and all ours. The waters around the island were that turquoise blue you only find in Photoshopped brochures for Caribbean resort, practically glowing with electric iridescence from an LCD panel that wasn’t there. I waited with Phil, Jared, Renee and a few others for the captain to ferry us to land in the dingy while others couldn’t wait. Beginning with little Mateo, age 3 and a half, who donned his lifejacket grabbed a snorkel and climbed down the latter to snorkel on his own and followed by Simon and Amy they seemingly floated about 4m above the sea floor, so clear was the water. We made landfall and strolled casually around the island, the trip taking about 20 minutes in powdery white sand lined with palms. If I am being too verbose in my descriptions, understand that in doing so I am doing a great injustice to a chain of islands that require a poet’s brush of pen and much more space than I have here. Truly, San Blas was the pearl of the Caribbean and we were increasingly speechless as each incredible island was impossibly matched or bested by the next.
What we found here that we didn’t find anywhere else was ice cold beer and hammocks to accompany them. The island had the highest population of Kuna Indians of all the ones we would visit except of course for San Ignacio, which was a full Kuna town, but I’m getting ahead of myself. The Kuna are indigenous to these islands and have lived here far longer than European colonization. Whatsmore, they were quite possibly the only indigenous group to successfully ward off European interests and maintain their culture and lifestyle with little outside influence. They are a matriarchal society and when our captain asked why in a matriarchy most of the chiefs are male, it was explained that women were too hard and lacked the compassion and empathy needed to settle disputes and render judgement on what little crime and mischief may crop up. In general, it’s role reversal although men still filled the warrior roles which I found interesting considering this description. We visited with some on the island and looked at their art which is largely made of reverse stitching layers of material so that no stitches are actually visible or as near to it as possible. The Kuna seemed friendly and welcoming here even though our one sailboat alone nearly doubled their island’s population but we would have more encounters a few days later more worthy of description.
Dina’s Diner
We had read that our boat had a great reputation for food served but as most things down here, I’d believe it when I saw it. So, as the sun was setting and we returned to our boat, I was instantly curious at the aroma that wafted from the galley below. There Dina was grilling up some delicious smelling pork chops that lived up to everything we’d heard. After dinner and dishes, we all sat around the wheelhouse looking up at the many stars and Orion straight above with beer, rum, and a good dose of conversation. The night didn’t get too late, though, as we’d been awake since 4 AM and all needed some sleep, even Simon who’d pretty much slept all day. Breakfasts on the boat were a different matter. The supplies were eggs, bread, cheese, and ham. Do with this what you will. To be fair, the first day was Kuna bread warm in the oven and delicious, kind of halfway between a fried tortilla and dough but otherwise you were on your own. In fact that first day all I had were two pieces of Kuna bread with ham and cheese rolled in them. The second day the English went to scrambled eggs and I actually made a pretty tasty omelette if I do say so myself.
Chi Chi and Me
We had sailed after our visit of Porvenir the first day to the island of Chichime but arrived too late to do anything but enjoy the sunset. After breakfast we went up to the oat deck and were in awe of the place. The water here was literally swimming pool blue. On this blue water a Kuna paddled up with ten or so lobster on one side of the boat and a huge red fish on the other. To our delight, Dina started negotiating a price with him and bought eight pounds of lobster for about $5/pound for dinner that night. We transferred them happily to our boat, swam around and then came back to the boat for lunch before taking the dingy out to the shores of Chichime. We took some group photos in the water and again walked around the island. Here, there was only one family of Kuna and then us and it did somehow upstage Porvenir. The weather so far and in fact for most of the trip was cloudy but this did not diminish our enjoyment or the beauty of the San Blas Islands. Occasionally, we’d get a patch of sun and it was the visual equivalent of “turning it up to 11”. As well, it made the photos a bit more dramatic from time to time though it also made others difficult or impossible. As you’ll see, that didn’t stop me.
Islands of the Coconut Flag
We left around 2 in the afternoon for our next destination, a group of islands within the San Blas called Coco Banderas (or literally coconut flag). Sailing between the islands had so far been no problem but today the seas were a bit rougher. The didn’t stop people from trying to read but I found I couldn’t do it. I did stock up on Dramamine before leaving and I think it was a good investment though I’ll always wonder whether I would have been able to go without or not. Still, I’m happy to report I was never sick the whole time – maybe a bit green around the gills when I had to go below to use the washroom once but fresh air and a horizon cured that soon enough. And I could now officially say I had been sailing – the motor was off and the only sound was the waves, wind, and occasional dolphins splashing. That trip was our first encounter with dolphins and combined with beautiful islands, lobster cooking below, the thrill of sailing 15 knots on a ‘beam-reach wind’ which had the boat angled seriously to one side, Phil and I came to an agreement. San Blas was now the best thing we had done in Central America which was fitting as it was also the last.
The sunset at Coco Banderas was spectacular, again thanks to the scattered cloud cover that might have dampened others’ spirits (not on this trip). After sunset, lobster dinner was served in a beautiful sauce with rice and believe me, the plates hardly had to be rinsed. If there were any thoughts that Dina might have been lucky with the pork chops, she had now proved her mastery of the tiny kitchen. Everybody stayed up and had some drinks that night but somehow I was out for the count. I could hardly keep my eyes opened after dinner and said goodnight at about 8 PM at which point I just barely made it down the stairs and fell on to my bed asleep before my head hit the pillow. I hadn’t made the bed, moved the cushions or even undressed, just collapsed, and the general theory was that the Dramamine had taken its toll. This would prove fortunate as the next day’s sail had basically everybody feeling poorly except for myself and of course Dina, Mats, and Mateo. Alcohol is not a combatant of seasickness.
Before we set sail on that particularly rough trip however, we grabbed our snorkels and went in for another wonder of the Coco Banderas islands. The snorkelling here is incredible. Just a short swim from the boat was a reef full of fish and beautiful coral which comprised the best snorkelling I have done on this trip. The reef circled on all sides a small pocket of sand at about knee-height and Amy, Hanna, Simon, and myself swam out to there and literally stood in the middle of the ocean surveying our surroundings. Islands to the left, islands to the right, we knew we didn’t have too much time and picked the island on our right to swim to and explore. Snorkeling there was a pretty cool experience as you encounter shallowed and shallower water with reef and seagrass and then you look ahead and there is a brilliant and blinding wall of pure blue ahead where the reef and grass give way to white sand. The island itself, well, how many ways can I explain paradise? We sailed out a little earlier than any of us would have liked, 11 AM, but we did have a good four or five hours of sailing ahead of us with a tail wind to reach the Kuna village of San Ignacio de Tupile which is where our story will continue next time.
I left the mountain town of Boquete for David (pronounced dah-veed) at noon with three people I’d met from the thankless climb up Volcan Baru: Clint & Kenny (two guys from Jersey) and Raj (from England). Raj was headed to Panama City to fly to Colombia and Clint & Kenny were, like me, heading to a place called Santa Catalina. They were looking for a bit of surf before heading back to the US and I for Manta Rays and Whale Sharks that I’d heard had been spotted in the area as recently as two days ago. Both animals are on my top 5 to-see SCUBA Diving list along with an octopus, seahorse, and Hammerhead shark so seeing both in one site made it too tempting to pass up (not to mention that it was somewhat along the way to Panama City). We switched buses in David but as we got to board the bus to Santiago we were told our bus had already left. Indeed, the girl had sold us the wrong tickets and we went back and managed to get ours changed with surprising ease.
We knew arriving that there was no way we’d make Santa Catalina that night without an expensive taxi so the four of us split two hotel rooms at $7/each and walked around Santiago long enough to discover there was very little going on. We also picked up some food as we’d been warned that it was difficult at times in Santa Catalina to get food: I grabbed a big packet of spaghetti, some sauce, and raman noodles or the low price of $2. The next town on our way to Santa Catalina was called Sona and there were many buses from Santiago there. However, there are only a handful of buses from Sona to Santa Catalina, specifically one at 8 AM, one at noon, and one at 4 PM. We said goodbye to Raj who jumped on a bus to Panama and we grabbed one to Sona that was just about to leave at 10 AM. Perfect timing. The countryside was a mix of hills, farms, and small towns, authentic and definitely not on the development trail. Promising. Our arrival in Sona gave us just enough time to grab a quick and cheap bite ($1.50) from the bus station before the Sona bus arrived. Even though it wasn’t supposed to leave until 12, it was full before then and left at about 11:30. Good thing we got here with time to spare.
At last we were in Santa Catalina. The town is great, relaxed, undeveloped, and devoid of anything resembling foreign infestation. Small streets lined with shady trees winding up the hill and down to the coast where a dive centre and a small restaurant sat. The problem with places that aren’t developed, of course, is that there isn’t much infrastructure for travellers. The first few places we looked were either full or way too expensive but eventually we found our way to the Blue Zone Hostal. They had two beds left and Ignacio, the owner, had a tent he was willing to rent out for the third of us. Clint volunteered for the $5 tent and Kenny and I took the last two beds. This place is really cool, just a short walk down a dirt path from the beach, up on a hill, with an open layout. In the rain it might not be so pleasant but it was a beautiful day.
Speaking of amenities, internet was basically a non-option here. There is one cafe about 30 minutes walk out of town which has pre-dialup speeds at T1-fibre prices. Still, I had to log on if only to let Brian know that I’d have difficulty making a Friday podcast in these circumstances (we’re supposed to be talking to Frank Black and Eric Drew Feldman about their upcoming album, Non Stop Erotik). Something else I hadn’t mentioned was that, at least according to familydoctor.org, I managed to get myself a stress fracture in my left foot hiking down from Volcan Baru. It’s not too bad for a bit of walking but more than that and it is pretty darn painful. The walk to and from the internet left me again hobbling like an old man and it took me about an hour to make my way back. I also booked myself on a SCUBA dive the following morning with SCUBA Coiba. Two dives are $115 and you stop on one small island and then Isla Coiba as well, which is ordinarily a $50 boat ride in itself. There’s an additional $20 for diving in the national marine reserve but for mantas and whale sharks, well worth it.
The rest of the night was pretty uneventful and relaxed. Kenny lent me his book, Outliers to read and I got about halfway through it. I also picked up a pizza and ate half for dinner leaving the rest for my packed lunch on the boat trip. This was my first time SCUBA diving in the Pacific (obviously Malaysia and Australia don’t count) as well and I was amazed. I’d been warned that the visibility was pretty poor and there wasn’t much to see but there was a bit of reef and a lot of life. And a LOT of plankton, which should have bode well for a whale shark sighting too but alas, the first dive we did not come across one. Flounders, frog fish, and a couple eels, plus the usual parrot fish and other regulars of the ocean world. We stopped at a small strip of sand on a deserted island and had lunch on the beach. One of the girls diving, Rebecca, is from Chicago and in fact manages the Chicago Symphony. We got talking about that and I mentioned my love of John Williams’ music at which point she told me she has met him and had lunch with him on several occasions. And then she points at her foot where she has a tattoo of the Rebel Alliance logo (which she assures me is also a symbol of good luck for a Sahara tribe). So she is going to let me know the next time he’s in town conducting and not only will I go and check it out but maybe – just maybe – I’ll get to meet him.
I don’t quite know how to convey my excitement at this possibility but rest assured it is immense. I’ve been listening pretty non-stop to his music since I was 14 or so and he is the only musician I’d put above Frank Black which might help underscore things a bit. But I digress. Aside from Rebecca, who was awesome, we had a pretty cool group of divers which always makes it a lot more fun. Our next dive was a bit better in terms of life. I have never seen so many moray eels in my life – at least 20! – not to mention the biggest reef sharks I’ve ever seen (and lots of them) and eagle rays. I believe I saw a manta ray as well, but it was quite distant though very large. Still, I don’t think it qualifies as a sighting but just for the sake of recording it. Then we went to Coiba island, which is sometimes called the Galapagos of Panama because it has never been logged and is a protected park. It was pretty though the quantity of life and its shyness leads me to conclude that this is no Galapagos. It is, however beautiful. And when we got off the boat, we were swarmed by media wanting interviews. Do you speak Spanish? A little. OK, good enough, and then some rapid-fire questions for the evening news or some sort of documentary. So now Panama and the world can see how terrible my Spanish is, especially under pressure. Woohoo!
That night, I made my spaghetti, thinking I’d make enough to have leftovers for breakfast in the morning. With my foot, surfing wasn’t a great idea and that left me little to do but relax, and I suspected I’d have quite a few do-nothing days in Panama City as it was, so I planned to leave the next morning. While I was making spaghetti and ‘meat balls’ I finished reading Outliers. I really like sociological books like this and found some of the insights fascinating. I’ve always felt that people who work at something are the people who are good at it, whether it’s math or music or anything else and it was nice to see some correlations of this theory to reality. As well, I always enjoy reading about people who have become ‘successful’ in their fields and there are plenty of stories here, too. Finally, there’s a whole section about cultural impact and flight so I was bound to find the whole thing fascinating.
My spaghetti didn’t have enough sauce and was enough for three people to eat AFTER I finished my dinner. Oops. So I didn’t save any money cooking myself. Afterwards, we all hung out and drank some of the beer Ignacio had stocked the hostel with and Florian, an Austrian guy I’d been diving with, brought out his schnapps that he still had from home. I probably could use more time at a place like this, I decided, but it wasn’t meant to be on this trip. I needed to get to Colombia and get started on South America, I needed to get to Panama and start negotiating with local captains for a good deal via the San Blas islands, and there was the matter of getting some new eye glasses made among other things. So I left in the morning, bequeathing the spaghetti to Clint and Kenny and taking the 8 AM bus to Panama City, the canal, and beyond.
Most renowned explorer in human history Christopher Columbus. Scourge of the Spanish Sir Francis Drake. Fearsome pirate (and delicious rum) Captain Henry Morgan. Legendary travel and photo journalist Dean Katsiris. What do we all have in common? We spent inordinate amounts of time enjoying the paradise that is Bocas del Toro, my first stop in Panama and one of the most magnificent places I have visited, in Central America or anywhere. The name, which in English means “Bull’s Mouths”, comes from the fact that when Columbus arrived the surf funnelling through rock chambers on shore made snorting sounds, something I would witness on Red Frog Beach without realizing the significance a few days later. As for the pirates, well, it’s an archipelago of islands with thick mangroves and shallow reef perfect for hiding fleets of ships not to mention running your adversaries on the ground or staging ambushes. And myself? Well, I would be snorkelling in dolphin-infested waters, SCUBA diving walls of reef, surfing the perfect waves at Black Rock, catching water taxis to nightclubs on other islands, reclining on pristine beaches with a world-renowned (Island Magazine, June 2009) Pina Colada, and more. Of course, first I had to get there.
Getting There
Crossing the Costa Rica-Panama border was pretty easy, especially compared to the Costa Rica-Nicaragua border. We (Phil and I) crossed the big steel bridge at Sixaola with loosely spaced 2x4s serving as the deck of the bridge, feeling like refugees straggling across to a new life. I asked the customs officer to place my exit stamp on page 20 rather than 21 as my passport is growing short of blank pages and some countries require full-page visas. Instead, he stamped the empty page 6. One last middle finger from Costa Rica. On the Panama side they were surprisingly rigid about proving continued travel, which is the first time I have encountered that although it is supposedly necessary for every country. I employed a mixed dose of semi-fluent Spanish and completely illiterate foreigner as I explained that I was leaving for Colombia by boat and from there to Ecuador by bus and managed to get admitted into the country. Others had to buy a bus ticket to San Jose or elsewhere in Costa Rica that they had no plans of using which only serves to underscore how pointless it is to insist on proof-of-exit. Then we were in Panama, at last.
They have shuttles that run from the border to the ferry terminal for $10 as we learned from a rude man that insisted we were idiots if we didn’t go with him – there was no hope of getting there any other way, it would cost the same and take 3 hours. Au contraire mes amis, we caught a public bus to Changuinola (80 cents) and then another to Almirante (90 cents) and arrived just over an hour later and at 1/5 the cost. From there, a local walked us to the ferry terminal where we paid $6 to bring us to Isla de Colon in Bocas del Toro. Jez was still there, and it was good to have the three amigos back together for one last night (he had to catch a plane to Venezuela in two days from San Jose, Costa Rica). We also hung out with a Quebec girl and two Swedes that we met at our hostel, Mondo Taitu. Backpackers again, it was nice to be back among travellers and in a cool hostel where we could meet people. The town here has a very backpacker-friendly vibe with lots of cheaper restaurants, local eateries, laundries, bars, and dive shops. Walking down the streets you’re sure to have somebody ask what you’re up to today and if you’d like to take their boat to do it.
Old Friends and Hookahs
We had a big night out with Jez starting as all nights do with cheap drinks at the hostel and then over to the Iguana bar, which was a fun night for all involved and we met yet more cool people. I should also mention that after our two-country search for fedoras, Jez had finally found one that was pretty sweet. That left Phil and myself on the hook, but here in Panama they take hats pretty seriously (hence the Panama Hat) and I found one for myself that will hopefully become a staple of my travel outfit. If nothing else, it should keep the scorching sun (and it IS scorching here) off my face a bit. The next morning we were up early to wish Jez a good trip as it’s doubtful we’ll be seeing him again unless he visits Canada at some point, although I believe we’ve planted the seed for including Colombia in his travel plans. Either way, hopefully he’s safely in Venezuela and having a great time now. It had started out pouring rain that morning but eventually stopped and remained overcast, so there wasn’t much except to explore the town a bit and see what there is to see. Some cool art, some cheaper restaurants than we’d found the night prior, and every supermarket owned by the Chinese.
That evening we went out because our Iranian friend wanted to have that flavoured tobacco out of the pipe that I’ve seen a million places in Asia and always thought was some sort of illicit drug. Turns out that nope, it’s just steam and flavoured smoke (apples in our case) that you taste when you breathe out and so we sat around with the girls (Swedish/Swedish-Iranian, Canadian, and German) with a beer and they passed around the hose. I didn’t mind it though I certainly wouldn’t want to make a habit of it. On the way home, Phil got a salsa in the streets lesson from Roshe and we almost had some street food. Street food! Yes, we’re definitely backpacking again. Here, they have “Sandwich guy”, “Meat-on-a-stick man”, and “The Chicken Lady” with their food carts and I have to say it’s a good and cheap way to top up the tank though we wouldn’t do so until tomorrow.
The Snorkel Trip
They run a pretty standard snorkel trip here, and I was aboard one that morning. First, they take you to Dolphin Point, where you would have to be blind to miss the dolphins swimming around and jumping out of the water. Unfortunately, capturing this on film proved to be quite a tall order but from there we went out to Coral Caye and did some snorkelling. Because Bocas is at the mouth of a river, visibility here is rarely better than mediocre but it was good enough for shallow water to see some neat things. Our American roommates had a plastic bag that sealed for taking a camera snorkelling and I chanced mine to take a few underwater photos. The plastic has to be pulled taut, however, or the effect is to warp time and space itself. Far too quickly, everyone was back on the boat and ready to go to our next stop: the beach. I don’t really understand why all these people came out on a snorkelling trip when all they wanted was to go to the beach but I didn’t want to hold everybody up so I got back on board too.
Before the beach however, was lunch. They took us to a place for lunch alright. Spaghetti? $18!!! Really. I definitely was NOT going to eat there but I went over and talked to the store owner next store and found that their Snickers bars were a much more reasonable $1. I joked that it was for lunch and mentioned how crazy the prices were at the restaurant and she mentioned that she had some empanadas and sweet banana bread available for 35 cents/each. So my lunch turned out to be three empanadas (filled with egg and spices and a bit too much salt) for $1.05. Getting back on the boat our ‘tour guide’ who didn’t speak English started telling us what was going to happen next (yes, in Spanish) and I got to play the very fun role of interpreter for the Americans as there were no other English/Spanish speakers on the boat. There are days when you feel like the goal of fluency in Spanish is hopelessly out of reach and other days where you realize how far you’ve come. When Phil and I arrived, we were in the same shoes as these Americans and now here I was translating for them.
Red Frog Beach Club
At Red Frog Beach some were shocked to learn that they had to pay $3 to get in. If you get one of these snorkel tours from the guys on the street, they’ll tell you anything to get you on board. Cooler with ice? Of course and maybe a free beer too! Admission included? Definitely! Cost is $15? Yes, yeeeeesss! In the end, it’s $20 plus $3 admission which is the same cost as the much more reputable Jampan tour – except I believe that they actually have a nice boat, cooler, and stick to their promises. Next time. The beach is so named for the indigenous red frogs (maybe a bit bigger than your fingernail) that are in the jungle here, and although it is $3 it’s a pretty nice beach. We hung out there for the remainder of the afternoon and then went back to wait for the boat. However, on the walk back I was extremely lucky to get to see a three-toed sloth on the forest floor with her baby. Generally, you’re lucky to see them in a tree as they only come down about once a week to expel their slow-digested food (incidentally, I’m not convinced that there’s a working one on the whole island; your money at work) but here I was looking at two of them! Cool. We finally got back on the boat, waited for the woman traveling with her Chihuahua to finally come back to the boat, and went back to Isla Colon.
Surfing Brazilian Coladas
Wednesday nights the infamous Aqua Lounge has its Ladies’ Night and EVERYBODY in the town goes there. It’s on the next island over, a $1 taxi trip away, and consists of a bar, dance floor, and a floating platform with a large hole in the centre for swimming – or jumping from the roof. I have to admit I think it’s pretty awesome to boat to a bar and then back. In fact, I think that the whole concept of boating everywhere is about as close to living in Venice as you can get in this hemisphere. Do I sound like I’m in love with this place yet? We boated early the next afternoon to Black Rock, off Isla Carenero (Columbus named it that because this is where they careened their boats on their sides to clean the hulls) with surf boards in tow, and the boat took us right out to where the waves were breaking for $2. I’m not a great surfer or even a good one, but I know what constitutes a good wave and these were probably the best I had ever encountered for my skill level. They were taller than anything I’d surfed before, which made it a challenge, but they broke beautifully, slowly, and ran for a healthy amount of time before waning. Unfortunately, the previous evening combined with my genetic propensity for mal-de-mer resulted in two stomach-emptying sessions out there in the waves before I rode a wave in to the shores of Carenero.
The beach was something out of a fantasy novel or at least the opening scene to some cheesy adult movie. It wasn’t that this beach was so incredible but the fact that there were six Brazilian models doing an impromptu photo shoot coupled with the fact that I was happy to have solid land under my feet. Seriously, these girls were Maxim-grade good looking and were striking poses on rocks, with trees, in the water with one leg lifted daintily to the sky, and laying on the sand with head cradled in hands. I won’t lie to you, I propped my surf board against a tree, laid down on the pier and enjoyed every minute of it. They left far too soon, and were replaced with Mike (the American that Phil and I had come out surfing with) followed thereafter by Kyla and Eric (the two Americans I’d gone snorkelling with). I went to refill my stomach at the nearby Prickly Pear and got talking with the owner as I sipped my Coke and ate my burger whereupon he showed me the article of Islands magazine that constituted his 15 minutes of fame and my excuse to try one of his now-famous pina coladas. It was more than worthy of renown: he freezes pineapples and then blends them with coconut and rum (no ice) to make a sweet and syrupy cocktail of deliciousness.
Bedbugs!
The next morning, I moved rooms finally. After the first night I woke up with over 20 bites running from my pinky all the way up my arm and a few elsewhere as well. I’d gone to reception to tell them I thought I had bedbugs not expecting much of anything but unlike many other hostels, they took it quite seriously. They were in my room steaming the bed, wood, and anything else for almost two hours. Unfortunately it wasn’t enough and the next morning I awoke with even more bites on my back, stomach and legs and two others in the room (Kyla and Eric) also had a couple. I was now over 50 bites and calling them itchy is like calling Everest a hill. They were back in the room that afternoon steaming the other beds too. Phil had escaped any bites which we postulated was due to his mosquito net, though I don’t fully which gave rise to the theory that it was ants or (sorry Nicole) spiders. I don’t think so, however, not in these quantities and configurations. When I finally moved, the hostel owner offered to wash and dry all my clothes for me and anything that had touched the bed. The rest I left in the sun to burn the creatures out and that was the end of that particular bedbug episode. Or so I hoped.
Japan Attacks
Mondo Taitu, which was the hostel I stayed at, is well known because its owners make a pretty good effort to arrange some cool themed parties, and Friday nights start with them here in Bocas. That evening was Sake Bombs and with your bomb you got a Japanese bandana to proclaim your mastery. We met some friendly Argentinian girls and I got to telling them and a few others my idea to rent a boat for the day and go island hopping wherever we wanted. I wanted to explore this archipelago more and everybody was pretty excited about the idea which isn’t really on the standard list of optional activities and soon I had more people that wanted to join than I had room in a standard boat. First come first serve in the morning I thought, but then I never counted on how explosive the sake bombs could be. Not only were most people tired and/or hungover in the morning but the weather was gray and gloomy so that idea was put aside. Still, I wanted to do some exploring as I was going to leave on Sunday and so Phil and myself (as well as an Israeli guy and a German girl named Jenny who had arrived that morning) went to the other end of the island to see Bocas del Drago, or Dragon’s Mouth beach.
Escape from the Dragon's Mouth
Isla Colon itself had not struck me as particularly beautiful up until that trip. As we drove out on the noon bus ($5 return) the weather improved and improved and it was hot and clear skies by the time we arrived. In the paradise of this paradise. Bocas del Drago was absolutely the most beautiful beach I’d spent any decent amount of time on this whole trip (Cancun was beautiful too but lacked the charm, swaying palms, and spaciousness). It just ran and ran for miles in little bays and points, palm fringed with Caribbean. To put it another way, that day alone I took over 140 photos (don’t worry, I’ve gone through and selected only my favourites). Phil and I found a little hut out on the water that was deserted so we pulled up two lawn chairs and sat there enjoying life. I went to buy a couple daiquiris. She put in way too much ice and exactly 2 oz of alcohol so it was spread over 3 cups. I’d also asked for a mixed Pineapple-Strawberry daiquiri so there was no way she was going to use the extra and I asked for it but no. I then offered to pay $1 for the extra but nope, it’s a whole cup. Fine, so it is, but it’s also 1/3 of the alcohol I paid for. Still she wouldn’t budge. Ah well. This doesn’t exactly qualify as trouble in paradise.
After soaking up a lot of sun Phil and I walked along the beach as far as we dared before catching our bus back. Dinner that night, like every night, was at El Chitre, the best budget option in Bocas with a full plate of rice, coleslaw, and choice of meatballs, chicken, or pork and a cold glass bottle of Coke for $3.75. We ate there maybe 6 or 7 times and qualified as regulars by the time we left. Saturday night was my last night in Bocas, although I’d made that claim before, and we went out with some of the new arrivals for another Ladies’ Night at Aqua Lounge including Phil’s two new Argentinian roommates, our new buddy from Chile (Nicolas), Jenny, a couple Americans, and probably one or two others that we’d met at the hostel. It was a great way to say goodbye to the island. Or so I thought. The next morning I woke up and the power was out. No ATM, no money to pay for my hotel or get out of there, but I was surprised and delighted to learn the bank had backup power. My mismatched sandals, which had made it all the way from Mexico to Panama had walked their last stride and did not escape Bocas with me. I left them there as much for symbolism as necessity and stepped onto the ferry. The islands faded and Panama sat on the horizon growing larger.
