change is constant

There is a quietude, a dampening down that comes with travel, especially solo travel. As I contemplate re-entry into everyday life, it is this peace with myself that I regret slipping away. I'm at the Panama City Airport, through all the formalities and now just waiting. There are 3 older women traveling together, headed home from their Panama adventure. Also a newly formed group of people who seem to have their Christian faith in common, I overheard them discovering this commonality as we all stood in line to get checked in. One of them is pioneering in Idaho, whatever that means today. There is a young man who had his wife and 4 year old son with him earlier but they were just seeing him off. He told us that she had lived in the US with him until 2 years ago, and then wanted to come home. So he visits sometimes, and this time he found that his son knows little English, and he no Spanish, and it was clear that his leavetaking was hard. His wife and son had been supposed to come back with him this trip but at the last minute she backed out. Stories everywhere, although I am surprised at the ease with which some share theirs. I was up until after 1 last night, and then up at 6 this morning. I'm hoping that means sleep on the plane will come easily. Layover in Houston, and then SF late this evening. Hasta pronto. Thank you for reading my musings!

Maybe we fiind what we are looking for after all

Today was a day of encounters. At the bus stop this morning two young women showed up, both Americans. One of them is here doing an internehip with the Smithsonian, which has a facility in this town and seemingly every area of Panama. She told me she is working on a bat study. I had always thought all bats were blind, or nearly so. However, the type of bat they are studying goes after larger prey-namely a type of frog, and with the larger prey they need sight in addition to the sonar and other sensory devises they have, and these bats can see. They also monitor the mating sounds of the particular frog they hunt, and can use their powerful and finely tuned sonar to pinpoint the frog’s location. Meanwhile, the man waiting on my other side looked at me and smiled after we watched a mango drop from a tree and roll down the street toward us. Another chicken bus but this time the local science population clearly changed the composition of the riders, nearly all either somehow involved in science, or headed to the locks. Funny how that changed the experience. I'm in shorts and flip flops, body greased with sunscreen and bug spray, the wind blowing through all the windows of the bus, and I find myself at peace in this moment and this place. I know it is transitory, but it's sweet nevertheless. I arrived at the locks in time to see two large ships pass through, which was fascinating, amazing- and then nothing to see at all. So I decided to head for the Causeway. I had planned to walk out to the street and catch a bus but as I headed that way a van taxi pulled up beside me and we negotiated a fare. Through the next half hour ride, I karate chopped my way through words, phrases and even whole sentences in Spanish with the driver. He suggested we rent a bicycle for two once he knew where I was going-ha! I’m fairly certain he was just entertaining himself. At any rate, we had a pleasant conversation and I was delighted to have even a stunted conversation in Spanish that went beyond destinations, prices and food and he was very patient. And by that point in the day, the air conditioned ride was welcome. We did reach an impasse a time or two when I could not figure out what he was asking me, or how to say what I wanted to say. I met Louise at the bus station later in the afternoon. She is a retired school teacher, 83 years old and spoke very good English, having grown up in the Canal District with her dad working in the tunnels of the Miraflores Locks. She said that when she was in school, the US provided free education to the children of the canal workers, in English. More conversation with a young couple waiting for the same bus, and then this evening a Canadian family group was at dinner. We talked about everything from best places to dive (I contributed absolutely nothing to this topic), to treatment of cow manure to make potable water, to our travels in Panama. I can’t really do them justice. They are clearly more worldly and sophisticated than I would have expected, which is an indictment of my thought processes more than anything. It was a husband and wife, one of their five children who is mid-university, the wife’s dad and an uncle. An odd configuration for a traveling group but it seemed to work. In the end, I am reminded that regardless of who they are, or how they are, I bring myself to each encounter too.

Being lost and finding the bread crumbs

Always the question when on the bus is where I am to get off. The problem is that I’ve never been where I’m going and there are often not signs to tell me when we’ve gotten where I want to go. Sometimes I ask the driver when I get on, and they will then indicate to me when it’s the stop I want. Other times, like today, I asked a fellow passenger at some point if this was Esclusas de Miraflores-the Miraflores Locks. She sat across the aisle from me, so I lurched gracefully across to ask as the seat cushion I had vacated temporarily slid forward-clearly not attached! She said no and indicated it was a ways up. So when I thought it was the right stop, I looked to her for confirmation and she confirmed it with a nod of her head. The connection to other humans is sometimes simple and even as tenuous as the seat cushion’s position on its frame, but it frequently makes a significant difference in my day when it happens. What a difference it makes when you know where you are going! Coming home, I knew where I needed to get off the bus and this made for a relaxing ride, other than the various bodies that came and went on the seat next to me. The chicken buses are converted school buses, and this one had unequally sized seats. The left side had longer bench seats with room for about 2 ½ adults, and the right side had shorter seats with room for about 1 ½ adults. The only problem is that I don’t know any adults who can be split in two physically. So when the bus gets full, there’s some real intimacy. The seat covers are the color of chocolate mud and the vinyl covering most is ripped and patched. I first shared with an old man who was headed home to a distant town. He said it would take him an hour and a half to get there. Then a young school girl, and then a big muscular man with whom I shared a brief discussion about the commute. I had noticed that I got different vibes from the different seat partners, and I wondered how much of it was just my perceptions, and so I endeavored to have some sort of social interchange. The weather (hace calor!) or traffic (hay mucho trafico) generally sufficed as my test group. Look for the resulting thesis on newsstands near you soon.

more photos uploaded

at https://picasaweb.google.com/farmerrirene/Panama?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCPiml_H-yKSKlQE&feat=directlink

You can't get there from here

My afternoon did not go as planned. When I got in at the airport, I couldn't get a taxi ride because they wanted the 3-4 passenger groups-they charge by the person, and it's not metered, so a single fare is a lot like a one-top in the restaurant world. Not worth their time. The fare is whatever they can get, with some unspoken minimum based on the length of the trip. So I walked out to the street and flagged down a passing taxi. When I asked him how much (important to do before getting in the cab), he said back-how much will you pay? Since I knew what I'd paid for the same trip in reverse, I dropped the figure a couple of dollars, and said $2. He said ok, and in I went. But then things got harder. I could not find a bus for Gamboa. I asked several people, one of whom said to take the del Sabor bus. This I did, but the driver had never heard of the stop I wanted, and when we pulled back into the Gran Terminal, I knew I'd just had a lovely air conditioned cool-down but I was still back where I'd started. Oh, except now I had seen the town of Clayton, and I'd seen the US Embassy, should I have need of it. I went again in search of someone who knew and with whom I could communicate. By the third person, I realized the problem-I needed to go to the other side of the terminal-not where the metro buses run but where the chicken buses run. Oh. But I need a card to get through the gate. So that entailed a visit to a window, where I paid $1.25 just for a card to get to the bus loading zone-I still don't understand that but it was the only way to get through the turnstile, since jumping it didn't seem like a very good idea. Yet again, I asked for the bus to Gamboa, and it was pointed out to me. I got on the bus and since the driver was chatting on his cell phone, I asked the Committee of Concerned Riders if the bus went to Gamboa. One of them was sufficiently acquainted with the driver to interrupt his call and ask him, to which he answered yes. Then I tried to pay with the card I had just bought, and the Committee kindly informed me that the fare was cash only and that I was to pay when I got off. Ok. Gracias. I sat down. Not even 30 seconds later the Committee was back in action. Not my bus. This bus was in fact not going to Gamboa, but some other place that the man in front of me said was not close to Gamboa. Disappointing news, but better than a long pointless ride on the not-air conditioned, bumpy, lumpy chicken bus. So I thanked the Committee and assured them of my vote for them in the next election, and exited the bus. Back to square one. At last I was told that the next Gamboa bus left at 4:30. It was now almost 3. Ok. So I'm taking a taxi. And off I went, but all was not finished. Turns out Gamboa is in BFE, and once there, the driver had no idea where Ivan's B&B was. We asked a few people, and I must confess that I was by this point a bit grumpy. I was regretting this plan to stay at Ivan's, and wholly unhappy with the time taken for the trip. All my doing, but still grumpy. As we drove away from the 3rd or 4th person, they called out to us and pointed down the street. There stood Ivan waving us in. I won't share the words that I was muttering to myself but you can imagine at least some of them. Ivan was Mr. Cheerful and within 30 seconds of my arrival said "You are really lucky I had room". At this point I noticed that I must be in fact a grown up, because I did NOT say what I wanted to say at that point. I did not find it possible to agree with him just then, but I maintained a discreet silence. I'm happy to report that things started looking up from there. There is only one other guest here, Kevin from Brisbane, Australia. He is in Panama for a diving trip but here for a few days doing some birding and other adventures. Dinner and breakfast come with the package, which is good because the next closest food is at least 10 minutes by car, and I don't have a car. And I don't think taxis come out here looking for fares. So tonight Ivan, Kevin and I shared stories over spaghetti and cherry pie, and then Ivan trusted us alone in the house while he and his wife Gladys went down the street for a social call. Not being sure of Ivan's sense of humor, I didn't play any practical jokes on him. But by tomorrow night, who knows? I'll be part of the family by then. I walked down to the canal before dinner. This town was built when the canal was built, specifically to house the employees of the dredging division. It's a company town, and feels strangely silent and haunted. Lots of jungle, birds and other wildlife in and around it though. I can hear something outside my window right now, and I think I may have nightmares about the strange creature I saw earlier. It looked a lot like a miniature sloth and when I asked Ivan what it was, he named it and said it is a sort of large rodent-like animal. Oh goodie. If I sound less than enthusiastic about this spot, it's only because I am. And I know who chose it, which makes it worse, of course. But the people are nice, and it's too late now. Up early tomorrow and off to see the canal, the Miraflores locks, and the Causeway. Or so the plan says.

Said another way

Travel exposes one to different ways of doing things. For instance, the airport at Bocas is different in a couple of ways. I hadn't noticed when I arrived, but they have made good use of the end of the runway once the asphalt ends-it is a baseball diamond. I would really have liked to see how they handle a game and a plane simultaneously but if it happened while I was here, I missed it. Bleachers too, so you can watch either planss or games, or both. The airport is just a few blocks from downtown, so I was able to walk to my hotel, and then walk back to the airport. When I checked in for my flight today, after checking my back pack (small enough not to check on standard flights but these planes for the intra-country hops are tiny), I was asked to step on the bag scale. I had to ask a second time to be sure that was really what he wanted. Sure enough, they weighed everyone with their carry-on. I guess we were close to our weight limit? Confidence inspiring. Since we got to choose our seats when we got on the plane -nevermind that boarding pass with a seat assignment, I queued up early enough to get a window seat. Turns out I got both a window and an aisle seat, because my side of the plane had one seat per row. I like that they don't worry about little things like having your carry-on stowed for take off and landing, and shutting down portable electronic devices. No bother with such silliness! I'm on my way to Panama City's domestic airport, then a short taxi ride and a bus ride to Ivan's B&B, my home for the next two nights. When I emailed Ivan yesterday to see about a room, he responded with a bunch of questions of his own. He wanted to know what I plan to do in the area, how I was arriving and did I want dinner, among other things. I'm used to coming and going fairly anonymously, and I think Ivan's may be a different experience.

People are strange when you're a stranger

I met someone last night who is from another planet. In a former life. And who's to say, really? It made for an interesting conversation with a fellow human who is trying to make sense of irrational things. He said we met in a former life too, but I don't recall it. The festival, it turns out, is today. But I am leaving for Panama City today, and will miss it. There was a big baseball game on last night, apparently Panama's equivalent of our World Series. Walking the streets after dark, it seemed that everyone was gathered around a TV out on the street, with the volume WAY up. At the end, the score was tied, and the favorite team (not sure who was who) was at bat with bases loaded. The pitcher hit the batter, which of course gave him the base, gave the team the winning run, and up and down the street you could hear eruptions of joy. And then the music started, and the dancing. Earlier in the day I had reason to pass by a rundown house painted green on raised piers about 3 feet off the ground, a metal roof, with plants smothering the front. There was a long narrow porch, really just wide enough for passage. But clearly it was the mens' territory. Jutting out from the porch was a roofed overhang, under which sat a TV, and somehow the men managed to sit in that narrow porch and watch TV, smoke and drink their beer. It made me smile, the way that humans behave. Men congregate and make man noises, women circle up and chatter endlessly, and the children run playing in circles around them all. And life goes on. I suppose that in a community such as this, being unhappy with your mate would in some measure be diluted by the constant presence of others. And for sure it would be a force in keeping a marriage together because it would not be just the couple divorcing, but the whole group would be disrupted. I like looking in on other ways, and other lives. And I'm glad I'm not required to stay and participate.

carpe diem

So this is how it works-I wandered down the main street after posting those photos and was wondering what to do next. I was considering a boat taxi to another island, and as I walked by the main plaza, a man standing next to a chiva said "Bocas del Drago?" And I said "Cuando va?" About half of the passengers were school children on their way home for their mid-day break. We drove across the island through a jungle interspersed with wooden houses on stilts, beautiful clumps of bamboo, concrete buildings, a little school in the middle of nowhere, and then there was Drago. I never meant to come here, and I didn't have a bathing suit or other things I might have brought had I planned to go to the beach but my underwear worked just fine. And I will probably never pass this way again. So I went. Back for yet another shower and then down to the May Day festival, whatever that involves.

watching the world go by

There's a single sheet with which to cover myself on my bed, a ceiling fan and a floor fan. Still I slept with the window and balcony door open last night. The fan helped to drown out the street noise, and the room would have been intolerable without it anyway. When I walk into a place with air conditioning, I confess to feeling an immediate relief and delight, but it doesn't take long for it to chill instead. Best of all is to find a spot in the shade, where the breeze cools the sweat on your skin, a cold drink and people watching to be done. The faces here are intriguing. There is quite a mix of ethnicity, due mostly to some of Panama's not so dignified history of making use of others either against their will or for wages that keep them in poverty. But of course Panama has no corner on that market. At any rate, you can see people of African descent, native Panamanians (Indians, for lack of a better word), Asians and European, and most frequently there is a mixture. Some family groups seem to be rainbows of skin colors. Not very many albinos like me, but almost any other can be found here. I posted a few photos, hoping this works... If this doesn't work as a link, copy and paste the following into your browser: https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/sredir?uname=farmerrirene&target=ALBUM&id=5873046051336229681&authkey=Gv1sRgCPiml_H-yKSKlQE&feat=email

for my brothers

Pascal: "Nothing is so unbearable to a man as to be completely at rest, without passions, without business, without diversions, without study."

doing nothing at all is hard work

My toes are waving hello at you from the other end of the hammock at my new home away from home. Yet another product of my unwillingness to plan or at least schedule ahead was that the only flights with a seat left were at 6:30 am and 5 pm. So at 4 am I had an incoherent conversation with a man I presume was at the front desk of my hotel about taxis and airports. (Dave, if you are reading this, I know 4 am is not early for you but it felt like hell.) I was dreaming that Emily Brown and I were having a conversation about a very large ham that she and Chris had been gifted and she was just getting to the part where she was going to tell me what she did with it. Now I'll never know. I'm an island dweller for now, and embracing the life, even if just for a short time. I rented a bike, which is now staring at me from the curb, and got the lay of the land while bathing in my own sweat. But then I had a late breakfast sitting looking out at the water and the boats with the breeze cooling my skin, and feeling good about not having to figure out where I'm going to sleep tonight, and how I'm going to get there. Mind you, by tomorrow I will probably feel the urge to move along but today is a good respite. And tomorrow is May Day, which is apparently a good excuse for a holiday here. I'm in Bocas del Toro, which feels a bit like any ocean-side town in a warm sunny place that tends to fill up with ex-pats and tourists. I've had a late morning nap to make up for my lost dream and now I'm considering a cocktail. I was amazed to find that this place-the entire island- does not have a bookstore. If I'm ever an ex-pat in my golden years, I shall have a bookstore to feed the habits of those like me. My Spanish works quite well, it turns out, once I was speaking with people who are used to talking to non-native speakers. Yes, I know that means I speak it badly but we knew that already. By the way, feel free to leave comments. They won't show up right away, but I'll post them as soon as I get back on line-unless you ask me not to, of course. Clay, I tried to get photos yesterday of what I think were 'wild' bee hives as I rode through the country side. We slowed down a lot because believe it or not, the PanAmerican Highway turns into a rutted, dirt road in places (like your road, Dennis), but of course there were never any at the side of the road at those exact times. I don't quite know how people do this 'nothing' thing for any length of time, but I'm going to give it a try.

Another day, another bus ride

On today’s bus ride, there were not only chickens, but I got to hold one. It happened by degrees. I had a window seat, and eventually a woman with a baby and son who was maybe 7 years old got on. An older man helped them get on and stowed their bags, but told the boy to hold the box He ended up next to me. I saw that the box had several sizeable slits cut in it and when the boy saw me looking he told me it was his gallina-his hen, although clearly it is still quite small. I fabricated for myself a story wherein his grandfather gave it to him to take home, but of course I don’t know really. Eventually the bus filled up and the boy’s mom told him to stand and give up his seat to an adult. By this point the box was residing between us rather than on his lap, so then it fell to me to hold the chicken box.

Lucy in the sky with diamonds, she is sprinkling them in my path

I have a friend who likes Neil Diamond's "Diamonds on the soles of her shoes", and I thought of that song today when I was riding in the boat. It was about 7:15 and the sun was hitting the water in such a way that there were many reflected points of light in a small but gradually increasing 'road' across the water. They sparkled and dazzled and it seemed that one could walk on that diamond studded path to a place of magic. Just a few minutes that stood out in a procession of many. Still, I stayed put in the boat.

stepping over the threshold

Pico Iyer talks about travel, and what it is, in a book I'm reading - the prospect of stepping out of the daylight of all I know and into the shadows of what I don't know, and in the process becoming "newly attentive to the details of the world..." I like the way travel to a place that is foreign pulls me out of myself, gives me new perspective and somehow hits the reset button. By foreign I don't necessarily mean outside the U.S., I'm speaking more of a way of living and a different approach than I am familiar with. This falls in line for me with the idea that we need the weirdos in the world-they make us re-think how we view life and those around us. It's very easy to fall in line with the current way of thinking, there is tremendous pressure to do just that: whether it's how we educate our children, how we keep our house, or any number of things. Society makes the different among us pay. I think that's probably human nature at work, but that does not excuse a lack of trying to do better in this. In some way travel helps me to do this. As Pico says, it's a useful corrective to what we might otherwise assume to be real life. This facade we have built is no better and no worse, probably, than that of any culture or any time. Human kindness and inhumanity abound. But travel helps me remember that there are indeed other ways. And I think that's useful because I forget very quickly once back in my own place.

Be careful what you look for, you might find it

I'm wondering tonight what it is I go in search of. Certainly not places like this. In my imagination it is a delightful village with interesting, interactive people who are willing to include a stranger in their midst, some really good food, sights I've never seen, and some adventure to boot. Not asking too much, am I? I wondered today when I might settle down, or grow up, or some such thing, and cease this necessary search. I found a hotel, if one can call it that-along the water that fronts La Palma. More accurately, it sits on the water. All of the buildings closest to the water actually sit on piers, or stilts, over the water. Just outside my room is a lovely balcony that overlooks the bay, and I feel certain that either the sound of the lapping water or my fan will lull me to sleep tonight. I'd like to try to upload some photos but haven't taken very many so far. I have plans to rise early tomorrow and photograph this little village before there are so many looking back at me, but I'll wake whenever I awake, because my travel alarm's batteries are dead. One would think I would have checked that before leaving home, but congruent with all else about this trip, I did not. It will really only matter on the day I need to catch a flight home anyway. I'm willing to let a little fate be my guide for now. I don't even know the time difference between here and home, because what does it matter, really? I'm sitting on the street now, near the free wi-fi connection that is available at various points on the street. Imagine if you will, a small village built into the side of a hill overlooking the water. Most are clapboard buildings, some concrete. I can hear the sounds of family life all around- not much air conditioning, so not very many closed windows either. And the ubiquitous sound of music down the street. I saw a disco bar earlier and wandered in to get a look. Sure enough, a disco ball revolving in the ceiling and music so loud it would have been impossible to hear someone say anything. The food choices seemed to be fish or chicken or pork with rice, although I am sure there is more if one knows where to look. I had a moment of panic earlier, after we arrived looking a bit like a boatload of refugees. I walked the street between the buildings on the water and it was sort of like walking a gauntlet. I consider it good practice for, I don't know, maybe when I am crowned Queen of Something. I failed to wave at the onlookers though. The panic came when I went to a hotel and was told they had no habitaciones. Oh shit. What if there are no rooms in the town? I did not think there were any other guests at that place, they simply didn't want to be bothered. As I walked to the only other hotel I could see, i came up with a backup plan. I would go hang out in the Catholic Church until they kicked me out and then maybe they would find me a bed for the evening. Pretty sad plan, huh? But it was clear there was no leaving tonight, so I broke out in a bit of a sweat. Fortunately that plan was not needed because Pension Tuira had rooms-all of them. I am the only guest, as far as I can tell. And I'm not Catholic, which might have hurt my chances.

Wherever you go, there you are

After 7 hours on the bus, a breakdown, a chiva ride and then a scary boat ride, I am in La Palma. After all that, I'm not sure it was worth seeing. But how do you know until you go? I was a little nervous about the bus station but it turned out to be pretty easy. The ticket booths had the names of the regions/areas for which each sold tickets, and all I had to say was "a Metiti". The bus was what is commonly referred to as a 'chicken bus'. Not that there were any chickens but it appears to have seen another life as a school bus. It has been painted in incredibly bright colors and designs that incorporated religious figures/symbols, sexy women and graffiti, all combined in a way we'd probably describe as lurid. But I saw many buses decked out this way, each with its own individual designs. We left the main bus station in Panama City with few passengers but by the time we got to the outskirts we were full with quite a few people standing. I thought we were squeezed in tight but little did I know! Later it got a lot cozier. When we got to the Darien region, there was a checkpoint that everyone else seemed to know about but me. The Darien is the southern-most region of Panama, contiguous with Colombia. As a result a large part of the Darien is a no-go zone, because it's a hiding place for guerilla fighters, terroristas and various ne-er-do-wells. The likelihood of being killed or kidnapped if you go alone is only exceeded by the likelihood of getting lost in the jungle. So I noticed that everyone else had gotten off the bus (no announcement) and was thinking I'd get out and stretch my legs, maybe even find some food, and a soldier got on and eventually made it clear I needed to go to the checkpoint with my passport. There were many well-armed soldiers about, and a couple of them talked with me, asking me where I had come from, where I was going, for how long, etc. Either I misunderstood some of their questions or they asked the same ones a few times. They seemed to question my plan to go to La Palma and made it very clear I should go no further than here. One of them seemed to be trying to figure out if I was a terrorista. All the rest of the bus was done and back on the bus and I started to wonder how long they would wait for me. Eventually they extracted one last promise from me to go no further than La Palma and gave me my passport back. If their goal was to make an impression, they did. Then again, not enough to stop me going further if I thought it was safe. The goal (for me) was to take the bus to Metiti, from there a chiva to Puerto Quimba, where I would catch a boat to La Palma. I had thoughts of getting a guide from here to visit an indigenous village upriver but I think I'll forego that unless I run into other tourists I can group up with. I see no other tourists in town at all so far. The bus broke down at some point early afternoon, but the driver and the "guy who gets passengers" got it started again. Alas, not for long, it broke down again. This time they told us to transfer to a chiva (a large van) which had pulled up behind us. I have attracted attention here, a woman just walked up and looked over my shoulder at what I was doing. She said something but for once my poor spanish came in useful. I told her "No hablo mucho espanol" and she accepted that. Still she lingers, along with a boy on a bike. Anyway, the chiva ride was cozier still, but I met a young woman who is here with the Peace Corp, and she was helpful. We stopped at another checkpoint, she used her Peace Corp ID but I had to go through the questions again, this time in the van with dead silence and everyone listening. At last Metiti. Hmmm...no chiva and time was going fast. The last launch was to leave Puerto Quimba at 4, or so I was told. But there were several others waiting too, so I hoped for the best. Besides I didn't see any hotels in the vicinity. At this point I had not eaten since breakfast and no bathroom either. I don't know how people who take frequent long bus rides here handle going without a bathroom. The bus didn't stop for rest breaks. The chiva to PQ was similar to a 15 passenger van, but there were at least 19 of us. I was wedged so tight that I literally could not move. Our composite smell was rather rank. Quite a few of the other passengers live in La Palma and know each other and they rearranged passengers to get the last few in. Two had to stand crouched in the door area, but they got in. No boat...in the middle of nowhere, oh, but there was yet another passport check for me. Somebody knew somebody with a boat and it appeared like magic. And so we all clambered into it. I do not know how many it's supposed to hold. There certainly were no life jackets. I should mention here that I have a great fear of deep water and drowning, and it took some effort to climb into that boat. But everyone else seemed ok with it, and so I decided it was the best alternative. I got a little wet from the spray but no worse. Whew! I hope, I hope the regular launch is larger than that little outboard motorboat. More about the town a little later. I am going in search of food and something cold to drink.

With the morning light comes trepidation.

Salud!

I found the words to ask the young woman at the front desk of the hostel if she knew how I could get to La Palma, which is in the Darien. She did, and gave me the bus station I need to get to, and assured me that they run frequently. I'm pretty sure the bus doesn't actually run to La Palma (it appears you can only get there by boat or by plane), but that is alright, because my book tells me that if I take the bus to Metiti, I can get a boat to La Palma from there. And Metiti is also in the Darien, and according to my book, the boat ride is through virgin jungle and dense mangrove forests. So tomorrow morning I'll go early to the bus station to allow for the error factor-wherein I can't understand what I'm being told and have to ask multiple people and wander aimlessly for a while. I really hope she is right about the buses, because that means I can go to La Palma on my own, and possibly hook up with a tour guide there to go into the jungle. Possibilities abound, and I'm both relieved and excited. Perhaps being unprepared will end up leading to a better option in the end anyway. I'm showered and on my way out to visit an interesting looking bar I saw in my wanderings today. I'll drink a toast to you. Good night!

A stitch in time, or just good luck-I'll take the latter

I am feeling some regret at my lack of preparation for this trip. Life seems to be a series of choices, generally irrevocable. And so I'm going to be winging it. Still, some rough idea of a plan has emerged. Because I don't yet know what I can do, it has about 3 alternates. More on that in a bit. The first leg of my flight was uneventful, I even slept a little, and woke up with the requisite stiff neck. I found a nice corner in Houston and took a lovely nap there, although I was a bit concerned about oversleeping and missing my flight. A funny thing happened shortly after I landed in Panama City. I had put on my money belt after leaving Houston and stuck some 'backup' in it. I stopped to use the bathroom...ok, this next part is a little disgusting, so you may want to skip to the next paragraph. Yes, it fell in. Fortunately it doesn't seem to be very absorbent and it was rescued readily with no damage to the contents. The search for the right bus to the area of town I was headed turned into a saga because I was too stubborn to just take a taxi. I wanted to take a bus to prove to myself that I could figure it out. I had not counted on how rusty my Spanish has become with years of non-use. It doesn't help that the Spanish spoken here sort of sounds like the speaker has a mouthful of banana when they are talking. So I could understand about 1 out of every 10 words, which made for enlightening conversation, especially when I was asking for directions. As usual, people were kind, and while I went by a circuitous route, I did finally arrive. I noticed that people were paying their fares with a little orange card, but I was certain they must also take cash. They do, but only coins, which I was not prepared for. Some random guy got on the bus, took my dollar bill and put in 4 quarters for me, and then hopped back off. That first bus driver then told me where to get off and told me to go izquerda, which I knew meant left. However, how far left and where to turn left were a mystery. But I happened to see a queue for the little orange cards, so I got in line for that. I could not figure out what was wrong when I gave the cashier 2 dollars and asked for a tarjeta. Eventually he said some words I recognized, along with some help from a couple of guys in line behind me- dos mas-ah! A 4 dollar minimum. Ok, success in small measures. So I had the magic card, but no idea where to catch the next bus I needed. I asked a woman waiting nearby and got only 'azul' and that she was pointing up the street. I thanked her and moved in that direction. And there were a few officer-types (I thought) in blue shirts-this must be what she meant. Turns out they were bus drivers, and one of them got on his bus, which was sitting idle, and drove me probably a mile, to where I assumed I was to catch the next bus. I don't know why he did this, he must have been on his break, but it was very kind. I barely remembered to thank him as I struck off in the direction he pointed, hoping to find a bus stop around the corner. Instead I discovered that I was on the square just down the street from my hostel. The room is quite basic, with two plastic chairs, a bed and a ceiling fan-the last perhaps the most important. Oh, and I have my own bathroom. So in spite of myself, I've landed and gotten my feet firmly on the ground. Somehow everything gets easier once I have a room and have dropped my pack. It's not that it's heavy, it's more about feeling exposed and obviously vulnerable as I wander with my pack, pausing to look at a map now and then. Once I have lost the pack, no one knows if I've just arrived or if I'm an expat, at least from a distance.