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.