My watch read 4:10am. I double and triple checked the time, starting at the orange point that indicates 12:00, counting off the hours to the right. 12 to 1 is one hour, then comes two, I think thats three, four, yep, its 4:10am, time to go. The 4x4 to the coast would be by the hostal at 5, I was packed and good to go but worried I didn't have enough food. I made a quick run out to El Rey, the 24 hour grocery store around the corner, and picked up fruit and Oreos - if the rice beans and pasta failed me, at least I would have some sweets to fall back on. Six liters of water, three cans of pork n beans, two of mixed vegetables, a few apples and oranges, two pounds of pasta, medium size bag of rice, loaf of bread, and 24 oz of hot sauce - all set for five days on the water.
The 4x4 made a fantastic first impression. Man oh man, I thought, a Lexus to take us to the water, silver, shiney, looked clean, almost expensive. Is this really Panama? Once we piled in I realized it was no Lexus. The truck was some sort of stipped down plastic seats ash tray by your elbow no leg room lousy Panamanian off road high class wanna be beast, that feasted on diesel fuel. The two hour drive from El Congrejo, Panama City to the Golfo de San Blas would mark the beginning of a wild trip by sailboat from Panama to Colombia.
Trying to sleep for the first 45 minutes left me even more tired and with a bump on my head from banging into the driver side window each time I began to doze off. We conquered rocky roads, mud, small mountains, a two and a half foot deep river, a military check point, and made it under an electrical wire from which a sloth hung, cchhiilliinn, moving ever so slowly across the wire, one extremity at a time (paying absolutely no mind to we inferior humans and our miserable flashing cameras). For days I had been asking why we couldn't take a bus out to the San Blas Islands, our only option being this 25 dollar 4x4 drive. It quickly became clear that no bus, even with one of those classic out of control local drivers, could make the trek.
We reached the water. Mark, Joe, Gustav, and I stepped out of the truck and found ourself in the middle of nowhere. I mean n o w h e r e. Jungle, water, a few locals, not even a sign for Coca Cola - we had really made it out there. We were directed toward the lancha (small boat) that would take us across the gulf to Porvenir, where we hoped to connect with a larger sailboat. I had a nice moment, standing on the dock looking out into the gulf, heavy dark clouds over head, rays of sun peering through the clouds. The water was rough. I stood, back to land, front to water, so proud of getting here, proud to be out there doing something I would talk about for the next 70 years, proud to do something wild.
Lancha is an appropriate term to describe a small boat, what we were stepping into was more of a splinter than boat. Pretty much six slabs of wood thrown together, is there such thing as an 8 by 4? If there is, thats all the splinter was. Water crept in through the boards, drowning our poor little toes. The driver covered our bags with a plastic tarp, though the sight didn't boost my confidence. Three minutes into the ride we were drenched. Mark, sitting with his knees up against my back (the splinter was 1.4 persons wide), handed me a red plastic rose filled picnic bench table cover to stay dry. The covers came straight from that terrible, cheap restaurant with one waiter, three tables, and bugs!
The covers didn't work. At all. Not even a bit. I was drenched, thoroughly.
Who ever coined the phrase 'soaked to the bone' clearly wasn't that wet because I was soaked to the marrow, to the marrow of the bones forming the marrow of my bones, and wetter. It looked as though we gringos had just jumped into a pool fully clothed (with my camera in my pocket!). For half an hour I held my hands up (as though screaming Praise the Lord!) clutching my laminated table cloth trying to form some sort of a wall from the water. To Mark's advice I gave up and embraced the salt water as part of the experience. And that, it certainly was.
For an hour and a half, we sat single file in this miserable little splinter, getting soaked from the small waves, practically drowning in the medium waves, and laughing hysterically when the big mommas came, filing our boat with water and our soul with smiles.
At one point Mark (a forty some od year old Phys Ed teacher from Canada who loves to laugh and goes for the same crazy adventures as me)tapped me on the shoulder and spat 'Ey man, what happens if we don't make it?' I said 'Mark, let's be clear, we probably won't make it. Anyway, its even less likely that if (when!) we do capsize someone on land will hear of it and come to rescue us. If THAT happens, and some poor fellow does catch wind of our distress, it is VERY likely that he will send an equally shitty perhaps smaller splinter to come save us, which will 100 per cent absolutely not do us ANY good! Are you religious?' We laughed, during which salt water poured into our mouths, we pushed on.
In any event, we made it. I was actually somehow cleaner after the splinter ride than before. Dirt from under my nails and between my toes just up and disappeared with the waves. Sadly, the sailboat turned out to be a larger splinter - dirty, uncomfortable, crowded, far from sea worthy, but perfect for the adventure. We crawled aboard, dripping salt water, threw our (equally soaked) bags down below, and engaged in a fierce spanglish argument with the lancha captain over the price of our little salt water bath/ruinallyourstuff boat ride out here to El Porvenir.
That was Thursday Morning, March 26. We spent the next two days in the beautiful, picturesque San Blas Islands. Crystal clear, warm water, tiny islands home to just one or two palm trees, locals that paddle in their canoe up to one's boat to sell fresh fish, lobster, shark, or to haggle you for a magazine. We got dangerously sunburnt snorkling and doing absolutely nothing save soaking in the beauty and peace of the islands. From there it was a 50 hour journey in the open ocean to Cartagena, Colombia. Rough seas made heating up a can of beans (without spilling them EVERYWHERE) a chore. Most of us got sea sick, the Captain and his first mate drank every drop of our liquor the first night, so what we thought would be one long party turned into eight guys stuck in a cramped sailboat, sober, sick, and eating beans for four days - I LOVED IT!!!
Personally, I didn't think we would make it. I made peace with the fact that I would never see my family again. Alas, I was reassured by the fact that I am proud of my last blog entry, I had recently sent a few nice emails, and I had had an INCREDIBLE last few months - Not making it could have come at a worse time.
Never fear, I write this from a Hostal in the beautiful, lively, romantic city of Cartagena. The five guys from the boat and I have become very close. Most of us will continue to travel together up towards Ciudad Perdida, before heading south to Medillin.
I can't say I've done many things that rival taking a sailboat from Panama to Colombia on the 'wild' scale. I felt myself changing every step of the way. Ditched half of my clothing, nearly tossed my guide book overboard; maybe some of the recent desire to get out there and just be, doing whatever, with whoever, wherever, living, loving, finding life - comes from reading Keroac's On the Road. The other part of it is seeping out from somewhere within me, a place still undiscovered, a place I hope to dive into sooner rather than later.
Although I am not learning much spanish, I am learning the language of Travel. Be it speaking, sign language, body language, or some other form of communication, I am finally learning to let go and travel. Its thrilling. Scarey, funny, intense. Sensational.
My last blog was from Leon, Nicaragua. I spent a few days in Leon, followed by Granada and eventually Isla de Ometepe. I caught up with my good friends from Guatemala Edan and Kevin, spent nearly a week with them on the island. Shot down through San Jose, Costa Rica allllll the way (17 hour bus ride) to Panama City. There, for five days I marveled at the Casinos, found absolutely NO good local food, and wound up in a Club which I took to be heaven seeing as the male to female ratio was 1:5, and every single woman was drop dead gorgeous. Little old naive me, this was no heaven, it was a club full of prostitutes (lo mismo?). Squeezing back out through the same door I had entered, with a grin big enough to light up Central America, I was off in a few hours to the San Blas Islands, from there to Colombia!
I am healthy, happy, still smiling, still stinky. Reading and writing every day, enjoying the trip more and more. Missing home of course, reluctant to email. I dig drowning in this world, this place outside of my reality where people come to experience culture, color, life, through a completely different lens.
I think I'll head north from here. Who knows. I don't. I have some idea, but not much. Thats the way it should be, thats the way I like it.
Love Always
SF
Monday, March 30, 2009
Friday, March 13, 2009
March, Eight Weeks Yesterday
Hola Hola!!!
During the days and weeks before I left for Mexico I was quick to say 'Ahh I'll travel for four, five, or six months. I'll get through all of Central and South America,' so on and so forth. I realize now how naive and blind that attitude was. A third of a year is a long time! More like VERY long! I look at how far I have come (I write this blog from Leon, Nicaragua), at my destination (Lima, Peru), try to think of the time away from home in a general sense, and I am left feeling that four months is an incredibly long time, though not nearly enough to see (properly) the countries I am travelling through. Alas... I've adopted the classic (Arnold Schwartzasomething)attitude 'I'll be back... within the next thirty years, come back to these regions and explore what I missed when I was young and restless.'
My last entry came from San Pedro, by Lago de Atitlan in Western Guatemala. It would not be kosher of me to say I don't have the words to describe the past two weeks, because although thats how I feel, the next painful hour and a half will be devoted to that task alone. Nevertheless, if my experience up until the last entry had been an eight out of ten (discomfort adds points in my eyes), its has now reached at least an 11.73. The food, the travel, the people, the sights, cities, vibes, volcanoes, cliffs, beaches, all of it, unreal. I have finally become very comfortable, so much so that I have begun to tell myself - Its ok to want to go home, Its not out of homesickness or lonliness, its simply out of wanting to be back home in your routine, its ok jordan, there there - . From the Lago de Atitlan, I traveled over through Antigua and Guatemala City up to Coban, where I spent a few days exploring the caves and waterfalls of Semuc Chempey near Lanquin. The trip from Coban north to Rio Dulce was easily the most memorable day of travel so far (Monday March 2, 2009). I thought after that day to devote this entire blog to the one short trip, copying the six page journal entry to the net. Being the lazy bum I am, I waited nearly two weeks during which I had many similar experiences in transit, so copying that entry didn't seem appropriate. From Rio Dulce it was a quick jump up to Livingston, followed by Puerto Barrios and the Honduran frontier alllll the way south (in one day) through San Pedro (second largest city in Honduras, San Pedro from Lago de Atitlan's daddy)down to Agua Caliente, a city on the boarder between Honduras and Guatemala, but very close to El Salvador. After one night in Agua Caliente it was crossing the small corner of Honduras down into El Salvador via El Poy. Two more buses In El Salvador got me south to Apopa where I caught an onward bus to Santa Ana. A few nights there before the coast for one miserable, lousy, expensive night by Playa Tunca. One night in San Salvador got me on the bus to Managua, Nicaragua early early early the next morning, from which I got off in Leon - Landing me where I am now! WHOA, quite a trek.
The literal transit, the buses, camionetas, cars and trucks for hitchhiking, boats, has become a continual highlight of the trip. Getting stuffed into a twenty year old yellow school bus (that is certainly not yellow, it most likely has flames, crome horns, a shiny grill, things hanging from every nail window and opening) outfitted as part church, with quotes from the bible on every wall, pictures of Jesus, colors, images, trinkets (none of which cover the mandatory 'your child's safety is our primary concern,' and the 'how's my driving?' signs bolted above the driver seat) and part human stuff sack with seats and standing room that fit roughly 75 people when 45 would be the US legal maximum capacity.
And those are just the buses...
Camionetas are the old vans that serve as public, multi person taxis. They FLYY around, doors and windows WIDE open with the driver hanging out of his window screaming and honking, while his partner (the man in the back who gets out to harass people, collects money, and handles luggage) literally hangs out of the van the entire ride yelling at everyone standing on the street, climbing up on the roof while we drive at lord knows what speed, all the while the driver pulls U Turns, slams on the breaks, spins the tires (Jesse on a bad day perhaps? :) ), pulls out the cell phone, and the latin music is loud enough to pop an ear drum or two.
It was wild. Chaos. My first time in a Camioneta was making a transition that wonderful day between Coban and Rio Dulce. Got off the bus from Coban in a bustling, orderless, frantic, beautiful in some odd sense junction El Ranchon. 'Got off' deserves some explanation because the bus only slowed down, never stopped. Two seconds after I had jumped down I realized the bus that was driving away had my bag underneath. With lightning reflexes I ran after and banged on the bus until someone got out to give me my bag - even then the driver didn't stop!!! Then came the Camioneta.
I was taken (literally) by the arm from a guy who ran over to me screaming Gringo, Ay Gringo, where you going, where you going!!! Shit if I could turn this guy down, I told him Rio Dulce (four hours away) to which he replied Direct Direct and pushed me into a van. There I sat, in the back row clutching a bag with my valuables, as the volume was turned up, pedal pushed to the floor, rules of the road disobayed, doors not closed, and destination in NO WAY achieved. Still a thrilling ride!
The story of that day gets much much better (forgotten passport, hitch hiking away from a police checkpoint) but there is too much else to talk about.
Every day I meet new people. There is never a bus ride, night in a hostal, internet cafe, or tourist atttraction without a new encounter. Although its easy to find down time to be alone, read, write, reflect, there is certainly no shortage of company. I have made good friends and met people I hope to keep in touch with; not just one or two day friends, forgotten immediatly after parting ways.
A few quick highlights -
In Santa Ana I went to the same street vendor two nights in a row for Pupusas. Margharita, the chef, stood behind a small table with delicious food, and arranged three little tables with a few chairs for people like me (not gringos, or travellers, just other hungry folk). The first night was simply nice, she and I spoke a little bit, I ate WAY too much, a little connection was made. The second night I arrived to find each seat occupied save for one, at a table across from an older man who appeared very poor, tattered clothing, sunken cheeks, dirty hands and face, but warm eyes. When he (Josef) saw me look at the open chair, he immediatly smiled and beckoned me to sit with him. I did not hesitate and soon found myself speaking to a wonderful man. We spoke and ate, spoke some more while eating, Margharita sat down and chimed in, her two (adult) sons showed up and joined in, family pictures were brought out, stories exchanged, free food and drink brought to the table. It was unforgettable.
Broken spanish and english, smiles, laughter, these were charming, endearing people, so quick to bring me into their small community.
I walked away glowing - two hours later.
That experience has not been a single occurance. I have had so many encounters with hospitable people, helping me to navigate bus systems, directing me to local streetside restaurants, joining me for walks through the city. Almost daily I can tell a story with this underlying element of human connection, openness, warmth, or however else one may describe it.
I have written too much but could easily continue for hours.
Throughout the past few weeks I have found myself stepping in and out of cultures, getting a hint of this, a glimpse of that. I love the fact that I am jumping around, getting a bit of every flavor. Though the next few weeks are going to be even more hectic. I found a very inexpensive flight out of Lima to New York. Thats the destination and I don't have too much time. It'll be a challange, finding the balance between moving toward a destination quickly, knowing time is of the essance, but making sure to enjoy every moment, not passing up on any of these experiences. Im excited, energized at the thought of what is to come, anxious, missing home, loving Central America, eager to read and write, full of love and happiness, and proud of what I am doing.
The cities I visit, the roads I travel and places I flop, are not less travelled. I am not (as I had so naively predicted) falling off the grid, escaping civilization, braving new frontier, though I am on a personal level.
I would love to write about the music down here; the music from the stores and restaurants, from the buses, from their brakes, their smog producing engines. Music in the faces gazing curiously at the gringo entering their territory, from the sickly animals prowling the street that eye longingly when you sit down to a meal. Music in the foods that are brought to you sitting on a sidewalk. Different in every country, different in every city. Music that sounds very different from the rhythm of New York City. But music that is music, however foreign to the ear. Music is everywhere, and when one learns to quiet down and listen up, wonderful sensations are experienced.
I am healthy (Not sure how thats possible, you should see my diet! holy moly the things that have gone through me. I'll spare you the details), as always suffering from a slight funky smell, feet are in TERRIBLE condition, but getting me from point A to B without fail.
All is well by me. I enjoy SO MUCH reading your emails, and still give myself a hard time for not responding. I am less and less inclined to enter the cafe, sorta just want to be... though I welcome every bit of news from home.
Another blog to come, not soon, but it'll appear this year.
My love and affection to all
sf
During the days and weeks before I left for Mexico I was quick to say 'Ahh I'll travel for four, five, or six months. I'll get through all of Central and South America,' so on and so forth. I realize now how naive and blind that attitude was. A third of a year is a long time! More like VERY long! I look at how far I have come (I write this blog from Leon, Nicaragua), at my destination (Lima, Peru), try to think of the time away from home in a general sense, and I am left feeling that four months is an incredibly long time, though not nearly enough to see (properly) the countries I am travelling through. Alas... I've adopted the classic (Arnold Schwartzasomething)attitude 'I'll be back... within the next thirty years, come back to these regions and explore what I missed when I was young and restless.'
My last entry came from San Pedro, by Lago de Atitlan in Western Guatemala. It would not be kosher of me to say I don't have the words to describe the past two weeks, because although thats how I feel, the next painful hour and a half will be devoted to that task alone. Nevertheless, if my experience up until the last entry had been an eight out of ten (discomfort adds points in my eyes), its has now reached at least an 11.73. The food, the travel, the people, the sights, cities, vibes, volcanoes, cliffs, beaches, all of it, unreal. I have finally become very comfortable, so much so that I have begun to tell myself - Its ok to want to go home, Its not out of homesickness or lonliness, its simply out of wanting to be back home in your routine, its ok jordan, there there - . From the Lago de Atitlan, I traveled over through Antigua and Guatemala City up to Coban, where I spent a few days exploring the caves and waterfalls of Semuc Chempey near Lanquin. The trip from Coban north to Rio Dulce was easily the most memorable day of travel so far (Monday March 2, 2009). I thought after that day to devote this entire blog to the one short trip, copying the six page journal entry to the net. Being the lazy bum I am, I waited nearly two weeks during which I had many similar experiences in transit, so copying that entry didn't seem appropriate. From Rio Dulce it was a quick jump up to Livingston, followed by Puerto Barrios and the Honduran frontier alllll the way south (in one day) through San Pedro (second largest city in Honduras, San Pedro from Lago de Atitlan's daddy)down to Agua Caliente, a city on the boarder between Honduras and Guatemala, but very close to El Salvador. After one night in Agua Caliente it was crossing the small corner of Honduras down into El Salvador via El Poy. Two more buses In El Salvador got me south to Apopa where I caught an onward bus to Santa Ana. A few nights there before the coast for one miserable, lousy, expensive night by Playa Tunca. One night in San Salvador got me on the bus to Managua, Nicaragua early early early the next morning, from which I got off in Leon - Landing me where I am now! WHOA, quite a trek.
The literal transit, the buses, camionetas, cars and trucks for hitchhiking, boats, has become a continual highlight of the trip. Getting stuffed into a twenty year old yellow school bus (that is certainly not yellow, it most likely has flames, crome horns, a shiny grill, things hanging from every nail window and opening) outfitted as part church, with quotes from the bible on every wall, pictures of Jesus, colors, images, trinkets (none of which cover the mandatory 'your child's safety is our primary concern,' and the 'how's my driving?' signs bolted above the driver seat) and part human stuff sack with seats and standing room that fit roughly 75 people when 45 would be the US legal maximum capacity.
And those are just the buses...
Camionetas are the old vans that serve as public, multi person taxis. They FLYY around, doors and windows WIDE open with the driver hanging out of his window screaming and honking, while his partner (the man in the back who gets out to harass people, collects money, and handles luggage) literally hangs out of the van the entire ride yelling at everyone standing on the street, climbing up on the roof while we drive at lord knows what speed, all the while the driver pulls U Turns, slams on the breaks, spins the tires (Jesse on a bad day perhaps? :) ), pulls out the cell phone, and the latin music is loud enough to pop an ear drum or two.
It was wild. Chaos. My first time in a Camioneta was making a transition that wonderful day between Coban and Rio Dulce. Got off the bus from Coban in a bustling, orderless, frantic, beautiful in some odd sense junction El Ranchon. 'Got off' deserves some explanation because the bus only slowed down, never stopped. Two seconds after I had jumped down I realized the bus that was driving away had my bag underneath. With lightning reflexes I ran after and banged on the bus until someone got out to give me my bag - even then the driver didn't stop!!! Then came the Camioneta.
I was taken (literally) by the arm from a guy who ran over to me screaming Gringo, Ay Gringo, where you going, where you going!!! Shit if I could turn this guy down, I told him Rio Dulce (four hours away) to which he replied Direct Direct and pushed me into a van. There I sat, in the back row clutching a bag with my valuables, as the volume was turned up, pedal pushed to the floor, rules of the road disobayed, doors not closed, and destination in NO WAY achieved. Still a thrilling ride!
The story of that day gets much much better (forgotten passport, hitch hiking away from a police checkpoint) but there is too much else to talk about.
Every day I meet new people. There is never a bus ride, night in a hostal, internet cafe, or tourist atttraction without a new encounter. Although its easy to find down time to be alone, read, write, reflect, there is certainly no shortage of company. I have made good friends and met people I hope to keep in touch with; not just one or two day friends, forgotten immediatly after parting ways.
A few quick highlights -
In Santa Ana I went to the same street vendor two nights in a row for Pupusas. Margharita, the chef, stood behind a small table with delicious food, and arranged three little tables with a few chairs for people like me (not gringos, or travellers, just other hungry folk). The first night was simply nice, she and I spoke a little bit, I ate WAY too much, a little connection was made. The second night I arrived to find each seat occupied save for one, at a table across from an older man who appeared very poor, tattered clothing, sunken cheeks, dirty hands and face, but warm eyes. When he (Josef) saw me look at the open chair, he immediatly smiled and beckoned me to sit with him. I did not hesitate and soon found myself speaking to a wonderful man. We spoke and ate, spoke some more while eating, Margharita sat down and chimed in, her two (adult) sons showed up and joined in, family pictures were brought out, stories exchanged, free food and drink brought to the table. It was unforgettable.
Broken spanish and english, smiles, laughter, these were charming, endearing people, so quick to bring me into their small community.
I walked away glowing - two hours later.
That experience has not been a single occurance. I have had so many encounters with hospitable people, helping me to navigate bus systems, directing me to local streetside restaurants, joining me for walks through the city. Almost daily I can tell a story with this underlying element of human connection, openness, warmth, or however else one may describe it.
I have written too much but could easily continue for hours.
Throughout the past few weeks I have found myself stepping in and out of cultures, getting a hint of this, a glimpse of that. I love the fact that I am jumping around, getting a bit of every flavor. Though the next few weeks are going to be even more hectic. I found a very inexpensive flight out of Lima to New York. Thats the destination and I don't have too much time. It'll be a challange, finding the balance between moving toward a destination quickly, knowing time is of the essance, but making sure to enjoy every moment, not passing up on any of these experiences. Im excited, energized at the thought of what is to come, anxious, missing home, loving Central America, eager to read and write, full of love and happiness, and proud of what I am doing.
The cities I visit, the roads I travel and places I flop, are not less travelled. I am not (as I had so naively predicted) falling off the grid, escaping civilization, braving new frontier, though I am on a personal level.
I would love to write about the music down here; the music from the stores and restaurants, from the buses, from their brakes, their smog producing engines. Music in the faces gazing curiously at the gringo entering their territory, from the sickly animals prowling the street that eye longingly when you sit down to a meal. Music in the foods that are brought to you sitting on a sidewalk. Different in every country, different in every city. Music that sounds very different from the rhythm of New York City. But music that is music, however foreign to the ear. Music is everywhere, and when one learns to quiet down and listen up, wonderful sensations are experienced.
I am healthy (Not sure how thats possible, you should see my diet! holy moly the things that have gone through me. I'll spare you the details), as always suffering from a slight funky smell, feet are in TERRIBLE condition, but getting me from point A to B without fail.
All is well by me. I enjoy SO MUCH reading your emails, and still give myself a hard time for not responding. I am less and less inclined to enter the cafe, sorta just want to be... though I welcome every bit of news from home.
Another blog to come, not soon, but it'll appear this year.
My love and affection to all
sf
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