Flip back 7 days. To the rip-off lying ''Santa Marta'' coach that actually dropped me off on a busy Barranquilla roadside as if this was what I paid for. 15 minutes into the trip, Cartagena city limits. A police stop. My passport handed over, a nervous couple of minutes, passport return. Breathe.
Wonder what the Colombian stamp looks like. Flick through. Continue to wonder. The passport is not stamped. Flip back a couple of days more.
Saturday morning, just off the boat. Hand my passport to Michel, the ship captain. Arrange a 3pm dock return to pick up the stamped document. Then it's 3pm, we're at the dock, our passports are not. Michel says he'll return direct to our hostels once stamped. I shrug, okay, par for the course, carry on.
It gets dark. Half a bottle of balcony rum into the evening. Evelien hands back my passport that she was handed in reception. A cursory glance at the front cover, throw into the top of my rucksack. Think no more.
Forward again. To Taganga. E-mail Michel, in a ''fuck, what do I do'' type way. He responds quickly. There's a guy in Cartagena who does this for him. David. I need to get back. But first the nightlife, the Lost City trek, the forgetting.
Shuttle back to Cartagena first thing next chance. Taxi to DAS office, immigration, a shambles in organisation. Sit in the waiting lounge, with no ticket and no identifiable queue. On occasion a man enters from a room, picks whoever has been waiting the longest, or his version of this. The Cartagena hostel assured me everyone speaks English here. Nobody speaks English. A French scuba dive instructor explains the system, and so I move chairs and this helps.
Finally into the room. The decision room, or whatever it is. Explain the above as best I can. Hand over the passport. This prompts giggles, laughter, an incredulous attitude towards me. I am returned to the waiting room without passport.
Half an hour passes, then someone who looks official beckons me over and says I have to wait an hour for David to turn up with the stamp. Find street food to kill time, small fried things, I haven't eaten all day. Sit on a step outside to gorge. A gigantic Colombian appears. ''Stephen!''. ''si'' ''David''. Shakes me hand. ''No stamp?''. I agree to this. He flicks through my passport. He confirms there is no stamp. He has not brought the stamp.
We get into his car. It is tiny and thus clown-like. A homeless guy seems to jump in too. I'm pretty sure this is something warned about in the guidebook. I try not to panic. We drive into the Cartagena slums, nearly sideswiping a motorcyclist into onrushing traffic on the way. This causes genuine laughter throughout the car.
Off the main road, onto some deserted backstreet. Wait.
A large and expensive German car swings onto the street from the other direction, pulls up next to us, rolls the window down. ''Passport?'', I hand it over. ''What date?''. ''The 27th''. The driver then wheels out the stamp, whack!, then signs the stamp. It's over. I am legal again.
The next 24 hours:
I get an overnight bus to Medellin. It's a warm night, so I get on only wearing a t-shirt, the rest of my clothes in my backpack stored in the luggage hold. The AC starts up. Frostbite inducing. I end up having to put my hands in my shoulder bag to keep them from falling off. A thin, half-crazed Colombian woman starts singing gospel songs acapella. Somehow I manage to sleep in spite of these distractions.
Smash! Sleep interrupted by the shattering of glass. Startled. 3 back windows out. It's 4 in the morning. The driver gets out, looks at the carnage, as shards of glass hang loosely around the window frames. He decides this is okay and carries on. A baby starts crying. The woman returns to her gospel singing. Every bump brings with it the sound of more falling glass. The broken windows at least curtail the AC chill, but sleep is unlikely.
A service station breakfast. I survey the damage, whilst standing in exhaust fumes for warmth. It looks horrendous, glass everywhere, the toilet exposed, the first window only two rows down from the crying baby. We apparently hit an overhanging tree branch. It gives the morning a surreal quality. I get back on the bus. We continue.
Sail away on a winters day/With fate as malleable as clay/But ships are fallible I say/And the nautical like all things fade
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This entry should just be pictures. Pictures that still do not do sailing through 350 (well, 365, one for each day of the year) sparsely populated, ever shifting, sand islands justice. But there are no pictures of dolphins, and so instead there's this.
Repetition: To get a boat from Panama to Colombia is not completely free of difficulty. These are not chartered boats, there is no official advice. One way is to head down Captain Jack's bar in Portobello, talk to some sea captains until you find one who doesn't reek of alcohol or give the impression of being a complete scoundrel and start negotiating a price and date of departure. I have no experience of sailing, I can't tell a scoundrel from a hero, I have visions of sawdust floors, reptile skin and barely concealed weaponry. I have access to the internet. I can cheat.
So, instead I get to my Panama City hostel, the one I picked after hearing rumours of a boat departure schedule. I note the 3 boats going on my departure date. I google. I e-mail the only Colombian hostel that may have knowledge about boats. I wait. I get the information back, they've only heard of 2 of the boats, and recommend them both. I ring up captain 1. I ask a series of questions from my guidebook, without really knowing what the right answers are. The guy sounds good, the price is as expected. The deal is made. 25 minutes and little hassle.
Skip to the boat. (these are old battered notes that make no sense, even to me. They seem to be titled ''things to do on a sailboat between Panama and Colombia'').
Breakfast on eggs, toast, jam and coffee. Good coffee. French captain, figures.
Morning shower is diving from the boat into the Caribbean sea and hoping against sharks. Motor on to island destination #1, after swimming from boat to a beach hut immigration immigration office. Dolphins appear in a moment, swim alongside the boat, then disappear suddenly. Read until sea sickness starts to dizzy the mind and disorientate the body.
Lobster. Beef Bourguignon. Not the same meal. These are strange notes.
Drink obscene amounts of rum post-sunset, whilst Eagle Rays sporadically jump around our craft. I'm told Eagle Rays, I'm thinking Great White Sharks.
Snorkel around sunken ships, through a kaleidoscope of fish, hoping the mask doesn't steam and I don't die from breathing in sea water. Gag slightly but keep everything down. Lounge in shallow water just off beach islands deserted but for the occasional palm tree, only the starfish for company. Starfish that we pick up. Starfish that we should not have picked up.
Paddle a one-man kayak across the waves to see if a catamaran is the boat some friend's are crossing on. It isn't. Nearly smash into some rocks. Write messages of salvation in warm sand. Jump on fallen tree branches until the 6th falling off, the one that twists the ankle and causes me to sit in shade for a while.
Lie in bed listening to 'Mermaid' too often, hoping ceiling staring will stop the boat from rocking. Have a conversation about dream interpretation. Followed by sleep and nonsense dreams.
Attempt to free dive 9m to touch the bottom, panic at 7m, realise equalisation is an issue of mine. Back to the surface and then try again. Survive a squall, swimming in the crashing waves for fun, and then the sun comes out and the skies clear and everything's a postcard. Row a rubber dinghy to shore, to play 1 vs 2 volleyball, and then drink beer and attempt to talk to Kuna about fashion. Lie on the boat rooftop in sun so hot it burns eyeballs through closed eyelids.
Drunken talk conspiracy theories with a couple from Israel, until the rum runs out. Stare at constellations and other stars, in a sky so clear you can make out man-made satellites and space stations.
Watch the sun sink into the horizon, the sun with nothing but open water to obscure. 36 hours from the San Blas to Colombia, 36 hours of lying down to avoid jelly legs and vomiting. Lie on deck in midday heat, forgetting my shorts have been recently replaced by shorter shorts, meaning my upper legs go from dark brown to bright red to pale white, like neapolitan ice-cream. More dolphins.
Sail into Cartagena on a gorgeous late August morning, wondering how the time passed so quickly.
Repetition: To get a boat from Panama to Colombia is not completely free of difficulty. These are not chartered boats, there is no official advice. One way is to head down Captain Jack's bar in Portobello, talk to some sea captains until you find one who doesn't reek of alcohol or give the impression of being a complete scoundrel and start negotiating a price and date of departure. I have no experience of sailing, I can't tell a scoundrel from a hero, I have visions of sawdust floors, reptile skin and barely concealed weaponry. I have access to the internet. I can cheat.
So, instead I get to my Panama City hostel, the one I picked after hearing rumours of a boat departure schedule. I note the 3 boats going on my departure date. I google. I e-mail the only Colombian hostel that may have knowledge about boats. I wait. I get the information back, they've only heard of 2 of the boats, and recommend them both. I ring up captain 1. I ask a series of questions from my guidebook, without really knowing what the right answers are. The guy sounds good, the price is as expected. The deal is made. 25 minutes and little hassle.
Skip to the boat. (these are old battered notes that make no sense, even to me. They seem to be titled ''things to do on a sailboat between Panama and Colombia'').
Breakfast on eggs, toast, jam and coffee. Good coffee. French captain, figures.
Morning shower is diving from the boat into the Caribbean sea and hoping against sharks. Motor on to island destination #1, after swimming from boat to a beach hut immigration immigration office. Dolphins appear in a moment, swim alongside the boat, then disappear suddenly. Read until sea sickness starts to dizzy the mind and disorientate the body.
Lobster. Beef Bourguignon. Not the same meal. These are strange notes.
Drink obscene amounts of rum post-sunset, whilst Eagle Rays sporadically jump around our craft. I'm told Eagle Rays, I'm thinking Great White Sharks.
Snorkel around sunken ships, through a kaleidoscope of fish, hoping the mask doesn't steam and I don't die from breathing in sea water. Gag slightly but keep everything down. Lounge in shallow water just off beach islands deserted but for the occasional palm tree, only the starfish for company. Starfish that we pick up. Starfish that we should not have picked up.
Paddle a one-man kayak across the waves to see if a catamaran is the boat some friend's are crossing on. It isn't. Nearly smash into some rocks. Write messages of salvation in warm sand. Jump on fallen tree branches until the 6th falling off, the one that twists the ankle and causes me to sit in shade for a while.
Lie in bed listening to 'Mermaid' too often, hoping ceiling staring will stop the boat from rocking. Have a conversation about dream interpretation. Followed by sleep and nonsense dreams.
Attempt to free dive 9m to touch the bottom, panic at 7m, realise equalisation is an issue of mine. Back to the surface and then try again. Survive a squall, swimming in the crashing waves for fun, and then the sun comes out and the skies clear and everything's a postcard. Row a rubber dinghy to shore, to play 1 vs 2 volleyball, and then drink beer and attempt to talk to Kuna about fashion. Lie on the boat rooftop in sun so hot it burns eyeballs through closed eyelids.
Drunken talk conspiracy theories with a couple from Israel, until the rum runs out. Stare at constellations and other stars, in a sky so clear you can make out man-made satellites and space stations.
Watch the sun sink into the horizon, the sun with nothing but open water to obscure. 36 hours from the San Blas to Colombia, 36 hours of lying down to avoid jelly legs and vomiting. Lie on deck in midday heat, forgetting my shorts have been recently replaced by shorter shorts, meaning my upper legs go from dark brown to bright red to pale white, like neapolitan ice-cream. More dolphins.
Sail into Cartagena on a gorgeous late August morning, wondering how the time passed so quickly.
Fragments
Wednesday, 21 September 2011
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Sun hits the pillow, my hair, my eyes. 10AM planned rise fail, reduce my morning to coffee. Face the day as bravely as I can, but it´s hangover on hangover on hangover & so a slight irritability slips into my mood. Wave bye to Esther and then a taxi trip with Chris and Evelien, past the canal and a bus abandoned on a busy city roundabout, my eyelids as closed as I can bear to strain against the midday sun.
And so, of course, on arrival the zoo is lashing rain. Shelter under the entrance gates until a break in the clouds. Wander paths caked in mud and view empty cages, the pigs gone, the deer void, the crocodile pen empty, a clue in the crocodile-shaped hole in the fence. Eventually spot an overweight Jaguar prowling a small cage, it´s supposed diet: Pigs, crocodiles, deer and, ahem, black children.
& then finally more live animals. killer cats, flesh devouring vultures, ice-cream eating monkeys underneath a sign ´´do not feed the monkeys´´. Dry empenadas outside
a fly-ridden toilet for lunch. Then a roadside walk as cars pass ferociously, the air displacement hard against my bare legs, giving us less warning than the room to spare between us and blunt metal death. Walk a jungle path before darkfall, hippie signs describing the forest, and manage to return before darkness elopes and only a tiny spider disaster ruins my afternoon.
Catch a panama city bus, that loops for a while before heading in the direction promised and dine on fried shrimp and chips with mayonnaise. Tonight is no drinking, something like that, so ask dim hostel receptionist for cinema viewing and she says yes, provides a list and we spend 20 minutes settling on a choice and return the list with said choice. The guy says no, we might wake sleeping guests, which considering every other night of the week the hostel runs a loud 3AM bar directly beneath the guests seems a teeny bit rich. And so play cards with a variety of people, including a Belgian girl, Elisabeth, who starts doing ´´dancing little men without laughing´´ and there´s little left to do or say,
And the sleep is good. A sad Christian apologises for waking me up in the night, but I´m pretty sure I came to bed after him so this may be sarcasm on a polite level. Walk the streets with Elisabeth with a boat shopping list, mostly consisting of Rum, and then more Cerviche. Look up boat directions, mild confusion but my childlike copying will have to suffice and then taxi to Albrook, tourist bus to Sabinates (surely not the actual name, but that´s what my childlike writing looks like today), more rum shopping then wait for a Porto Lindo bus with Donna.
And wait. And about 30 busses come and go and none for us, and then an hour passes, an the guys at the supermarket see a bright yellow bus and yell ´´porto lindo, porto lindo!!´´ but the bus driver does not let us on for reasons unclear. And so more wait. Donna suggests taking the security guard´s gun and hijacking a taxi, and what starts a a joke starts to become a serious option, and just as we´re about to do it the bus appears.
Finally. But it´s pouring rain and shopping bags split, my pepsi in the gutter, rainwater threatening to sweep away my mixer. Stumble forward, an almighty pull, and on the bus, my rum all over the floor. The driver stashes it.
The bus is ear drum punctuating music and brakelights create a disco amongst the crowded interior, where the rainwater mingles with sweat to create the stench of damp, against a windowed backdrop of late afternoon gloom. Donna departs in Puerto Bello, I carry on another town and follow my instructions to a dark coastal front, to Michel and my sailing companions. Spicy chicken and chips whilst glugging beer, everything more delicious following the journey pain.
Motorised dingy out to the ship on still water, the sky now charcoal. Brief introductions, less brief on-board instructions, sail into the darkness, fireworks from the shore to set us away. The rocking motion causes sickness and drowsyness, each wave a new assault, and then crash below deck, sleepmas coming early.
And so, of course, on arrival the zoo is lashing rain. Shelter under the entrance gates until a break in the clouds. Wander paths caked in mud and view empty cages, the pigs gone, the deer void, the crocodile pen empty, a clue in the crocodile-shaped hole in the fence. Eventually spot an overweight Jaguar prowling a small cage, it´s supposed diet: Pigs, crocodiles, deer and, ahem, black children.
& then finally more live animals. killer cats, flesh devouring vultures, ice-cream eating monkeys underneath a sign ´´do not feed the monkeys´´. Dry empenadas outside
a fly-ridden toilet for lunch. Then a roadside walk as cars pass ferociously, the air displacement hard against my bare legs, giving us less warning than the room to spare between us and blunt metal death. Walk a jungle path before darkfall, hippie signs describing the forest, and manage to return before darkness elopes and only a tiny spider disaster ruins my afternoon.
Catch a panama city bus, that loops for a while before heading in the direction promised and dine on fried shrimp and chips with mayonnaise. Tonight is no drinking, something like that, so ask dim hostel receptionist for cinema viewing and she says yes, provides a list and we spend 20 minutes settling on a choice and return the list with said choice. The guy says no, we might wake sleeping guests, which considering every other night of the week the hostel runs a loud 3AM bar directly beneath the guests seems a teeny bit rich. And so play cards with a variety of people, including a Belgian girl, Elisabeth, who starts doing ´´dancing little men without laughing´´ and there´s little left to do or say,
And the sleep is good. A sad Christian apologises for waking me up in the night, but I´m pretty sure I came to bed after him so this may be sarcasm on a polite level. Walk the streets with Elisabeth with a boat shopping list, mostly consisting of Rum, and then more Cerviche. Look up boat directions, mild confusion but my childlike copying will have to suffice and then taxi to Albrook, tourist bus to Sabinates (surely not the actual name, but that´s what my childlike writing looks like today), more rum shopping then wait for a Porto Lindo bus with Donna.
And wait. And about 30 busses come and go and none for us, and then an hour passes, an the guys at the supermarket see a bright yellow bus and yell ´´porto lindo, porto lindo!!´´ but the bus driver does not let us on for reasons unclear. And so more wait. Donna suggests taking the security guard´s gun and hijacking a taxi, and what starts a a joke starts to become a serious option, and just as we´re about to do it the bus appears.
Finally. But it´s pouring rain and shopping bags split, my pepsi in the gutter, rainwater threatening to sweep away my mixer. Stumble forward, an almighty pull, and on the bus, my rum all over the floor. The driver stashes it.
The bus is ear drum punctuating music and brakelights create a disco amongst the crowded interior, where the rainwater mingles with sweat to create the stench of damp, against a windowed backdrop of late afternoon gloom. Donna departs in Puerto Bello, I carry on another town and follow my instructions to a dark coastal front, to Michel and my sailing companions. Spicy chicken and chips whilst glugging beer, everything more delicious following the journey pain.
Motorised dingy out to the ship on still water, the sky now charcoal. Brief introductions, less brief on-board instructions, sail into the darkness, fireworks from the shore to set us away. The rocking motion causes sickness and drowsyness, each wave a new assault, and then crash below deck, sleepmas coming early.
Here Chewing Your Tail Is Joy
Wednesday, 14 September 2011
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Awake on-time but without a sober thought in my head. Breakfast of coffee, fruit juice, chorizo and eggs barely scratches the sides. Get a taxi canalwards with jose, talking half-drunkenly whilst the taxi driver turns into a tour guide. As canal's go it's impressive. As canals go.
Our timing is perfect at least, just as the last boats of the morning pass through, watching from the viewing station whilst sipping extortionate coke and an American voice drones facts in the background. The coke doesn't do enough to save my hangover and so head back for failed afternoon nap attempt. Jose departs, Peru bound, and I spend 2 hours attempting to play ping-pong with Esther. My self promoted ping pong skills were greatly exaggerated, she wins 21-5, 21-4, 21-8, 21-9, and the hostel is so hot that a thin water glaze covers my skin and my face reddens, and this is clearly not embarrassment or exertion.
Tea pizza, toasted sandwiches with red wine accompaniment and then hostel return for the promise of live music, but the advertised reggae is some terrible Spanish blink 182-lite and so back into the streets in a search for something more refined. A Havana style salsa bar looks amazing, red curtains and a huge dance floor whilst drinkers surround and the band warms up, but its a $10 cover and indecisiveness pushes us elsewhere.
There´s places which look more like houses than bars that we can apparently drink in but settle for a graffitied yard and litres of Balboa whilst a Colombian guy provides commentary on the world as he sees it, of water, atoms, whales, dolphins and head massage tools and then onwards, still avoiding the lure of front room drinking and finally a packed bar and live music and stumbled over dance moves and caipirinha strong enough to shake my balance.
Finally home once more, the rum now flowing fast but the time faster until near daylight and 6 hours sleep. Hastily assemble uneven pancakes, not quite solving the hangover equation. Attempt to get out the city, away from the noise, cars, people, escape to tranquillity. Taxi with Esther and Evelien to a bus station full of balloons, soundtracked by club tunes, a little too much fun for a hazy Saturday morning. Esther disappears for an international travel ticket purchase mission and we try to find the bus to the hiking trail.
A 40-minute wait so pursue a shopping mall swimshort purchase plan and then 40-minutes becomes 10 and there's a lack of till urgency and then a mall sprint, but a wrong turn and we´re the wrong side of the station. Correct, run through bus station crowds and fast foot restaurants and there's a fumble for turnstile change and we need 5 cents but we don't have that and so back to a kiosk and finally through. One minute late and the bus is on time. Cursing and then a taxi plan, but to the wrong park, where they have lakes the size of ponds and mountains the size of mole hills.
The supposed 3 hours hike takes 45 minutes, but the view over the city is serene and the spot relaxed and so lie in long grass until clouds overtake the sky, then back to fish market cerviche fresh from the boat, a cup cheaper than a cheeseburger. Buy a second portion and call this my evening meal.
Another night in the same bar, the hangover resigns around the 3rd beer and quick switch to rum&coke and back again, and more caipirinha, a now familiar scene. Last to leave the bar for a third night running, a record of sorts, and then deep into Sunday morning and....
Our timing is perfect at least, just as the last boats of the morning pass through, watching from the viewing station whilst sipping extortionate coke and an American voice drones facts in the background. The coke doesn't do enough to save my hangover and so head back for failed afternoon nap attempt. Jose departs, Peru bound, and I spend 2 hours attempting to play ping-pong with Esther. My self promoted ping pong skills were greatly exaggerated, she wins 21-5, 21-4, 21-8, 21-9, and the hostel is so hot that a thin water glaze covers my skin and my face reddens, and this is clearly not embarrassment or exertion.
Tea pizza, toasted sandwiches with red wine accompaniment and then hostel return for the promise of live music, but the advertised reggae is some terrible Spanish blink 182-lite and so back into the streets in a search for something more refined. A Havana style salsa bar looks amazing, red curtains and a huge dance floor whilst drinkers surround and the band warms up, but its a $10 cover and indecisiveness pushes us elsewhere.
There´s places which look more like houses than bars that we can apparently drink in but settle for a graffitied yard and litres of Balboa whilst a Colombian guy provides commentary on the world as he sees it, of water, atoms, whales, dolphins and head massage tools and then onwards, still avoiding the lure of front room drinking and finally a packed bar and live music and stumbled over dance moves and caipirinha strong enough to shake my balance.
Finally home once more, the rum now flowing fast but the time faster until near daylight and 6 hours sleep. Hastily assemble uneven pancakes, not quite solving the hangover equation. Attempt to get out the city, away from the noise, cars, people, escape to tranquillity. Taxi with Esther and Evelien to a bus station full of balloons, soundtracked by club tunes, a little too much fun for a hazy Saturday morning. Esther disappears for an international travel ticket purchase mission and we try to find the bus to the hiking trail.
A 40-minute wait so pursue a shopping mall swimshort purchase plan and then 40-minutes becomes 10 and there's a lack of till urgency and then a mall sprint, but a wrong turn and we´re the wrong side of the station. Correct, run through bus station crowds and fast foot restaurants and there's a fumble for turnstile change and we need 5 cents but we don't have that and so back to a kiosk and finally through. One minute late and the bus is on time. Cursing and then a taxi plan, but to the wrong park, where they have lakes the size of ponds and mountains the size of mole hills.
The supposed 3 hours hike takes 45 minutes, but the view over the city is serene and the spot relaxed and so lie in long grass until clouds overtake the sky, then back to fish market cerviche fresh from the boat, a cup cheaper than a cheeseburger. Buy a second portion and call this my evening meal.
Another night in the same bar, the hangover resigns around the 3rd beer and quick switch to rum&coke and back again, and more caipirinha, a now familiar scene. Last to leave the bar for a third night running, a record of sorts, and then deep into Sunday morning and....
Where C.America Ends
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So Panama City is skyscrapers, bright lights, terror traffic and slums, winding streets, pretty churches and salsa. It's easy to walk from a modern restaurant area into some foreboding suicide alley. Grab some food with Jose, attempting to reverse last night's financial fiasco with cheap eats. Wander the old town for a while, an inkling of a recommendation somewhere around here.
A couple of guys stop us, repeat ''Danger!'' and there's only 1-direction safe and so we take it and by pure luck find the place we were half aiming for. The food is good, fish in a garlic sauce, and the price within means although there's no alcohol here and hostel happy hour starts to pass us by so finish up with haste and head into the underground cave bar, the smell damp and used.
Jose proposes we drink 10 drinks each, which turns out to be the minimum & so drink rum and soda as if tomorrow is a hypothetical concept. Sometime around drink 9 I absurdly claim that this is still pre-game drinking. Meet an american military type who straddles the line between tedious dullness and mental crazy. I tell him American's can't drink for my own entertainment and he immediately takes this as a challenge, the outcome being
1) He can drink
and
2) He cannot take his drink
So he's on it, talking utter drivel, and shouting this and that, and then he wants to go out and find girls or something but I decide to stay and chat to a Swiss girl with the prettiest smile until 4 in the morning, looking out over the bay to the towering columns of light, but Jose has a better story, bars, fighting talk, strip clubs and waking up near naked in a strange place to a breakfast meeting with a strippers parents.
A couple of guys stop us, repeat ''Danger!'' and there's only 1-direction safe and so we take it and by pure luck find the place we were half aiming for. The food is good, fish in a garlic sauce, and the price within means although there's no alcohol here and hostel happy hour starts to pass us by so finish up with haste and head into the underground cave bar, the smell damp and used.
Jose proposes we drink 10 drinks each, which turns out to be the minimum & so drink rum and soda as if tomorrow is a hypothetical concept. Sometime around drink 9 I absurdly claim that this is still pre-game drinking. Meet an american military type who straddles the line between tedious dullness and mental crazy. I tell him American's can't drink for my own entertainment and he immediately takes this as a challenge, the outcome being
1) He can drink
and
2) He cannot take his drink
So he's on it, talking utter drivel, and shouting this and that, and then he wants to go out and find girls or something but I decide to stay and chat to a Swiss girl with the prettiest smile until 4 in the morning, looking out over the bay to the towering columns of light, but Jose has a better story, bars, fighting talk, strip clubs and waking up near naked in a strange place to a breakfast meeting with a strippers parents.
Half a day in San Jose
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Fling myself across the island, from bed to Moyogalpa. A 1 hour ferry wait so finish Marching Powder pre-bording so the ferry trip is boredom. Avoid San Jorge chaos with a $1 taxi & a 3rd Grenada return. Cross shopping list items off during another powercut and celebrate with coffee in a european themed cafe.
Somehow end up in the same hostel from before, a failure of imagination. An english guy who looks and talks like Damon Albarn drunkenly shouts at Brazilian football whilst verbally abusing the hostel staff. Put on my raincoat & to spend my last Nicaraguan notes on expensive steak. Bump into Zephyrites in the restaurant so have company at least. The steak rare with mounds of garlic butter, it just melts and the red wine exquisite.
The night is dark, wet but still too young for restation. Trip to a hostel bar for something to do, expecting a crowd but there's only the barstaff and the rowdy English guy from earlier. No option but to chat. I gleam the following facts: left the Bearded Monkey shortly after myself in disgust at being told to turn off the TV at 8:30, he was supposed to get a plane back 3 months ago, then got arrested twice, mugged three times and is living off pot noodles as a result. Then he offers me Ketamin. I doubt drunk in a hostel bar is the best time to introduce myself to horse tranquilliser so make my excuses and disappear into a sleepless night caused by Ipod alarm failure paranoia.
A 36 hours bus trip, Panama City Via San Jose. Breakfast is ginger bread, cake and coca-cola. Sustenance for the first 23 hours. Tica Bus the usual freezer. Meet Jose, a Mexican guy on a border crossing break and this is a stroke of luck as he speaks fluent Spanish and is super friendly. Get to San Jose and a 6 hour connection wait so stroll the streets with horror stories filling my head. The worst thing that happens is guide book map confusion over the bus station. Watch Barcelona beat Real Madrid on a street corner and wander the streets, a big city vibe, but we're not sure what to see so re-find the bus station and head out for some food.
A taxi driver drops us at a restaurant and I can tell it´s kind of expensive but last nights feast has but me in the mood for fine dining. We order a huge meat based platter and some cerviche, the food amazing, and a pitcher of Sangria to wash it down. 2, maybe 3 hours to waste so follow up with some beers, 4 a-piece and then the bill comes, $60 each, outrageous! 2 days travel budget in one fell swoop. The Sangria turned out to be our downfall. We´re drunk enough to think this amusing.
Back to the bus station and turns out another hour of wasting is required. Run the streets, sketchy as hell, buy more alcohol and drink on the pavement in an abandoned shop front, and then the bus finally arrives and sleep as far as possible til 4 in the morning, when we are dropped at an immigration office and the bus speeds off into the distance and nothing, nothing is open, and then spend 4 fucking hours at the border, 2 waiting in the darkness for border control to get out of bed, 2 more on the Panama side whilst a guy goes through every single travellers bag on the bus with a tooth comb. Jose gets pulled into the interrogation room and disappears for a while. Upon return he says another guy on the bus had $8,000 strapped to the inside of his leg. We don't see him again.
And then finally away again, sleep in a light R.E.M dreamworld, everything verging on clarity but never quite make it tangible, and then a bridge over a huge canal and welcome to Panama City.
Somehow end up in the same hostel from before, a failure of imagination. An english guy who looks and talks like Damon Albarn drunkenly shouts at Brazilian football whilst verbally abusing the hostel staff. Put on my raincoat & to spend my last Nicaraguan notes on expensive steak. Bump into Zephyrites in the restaurant so have company at least. The steak rare with mounds of garlic butter, it just melts and the red wine exquisite.
The night is dark, wet but still too young for restation. Trip to a hostel bar for something to do, expecting a crowd but there's only the barstaff and the rowdy English guy from earlier. No option but to chat. I gleam the following facts: left the Bearded Monkey shortly after myself in disgust at being told to turn off the TV at 8:30, he was supposed to get a plane back 3 months ago, then got arrested twice, mugged three times and is living off pot noodles as a result. Then he offers me Ketamin. I doubt drunk in a hostel bar is the best time to introduce myself to horse tranquilliser so make my excuses and disappear into a sleepless night caused by Ipod alarm failure paranoia.
A 36 hours bus trip, Panama City Via San Jose. Breakfast is ginger bread, cake and coca-cola. Sustenance for the first 23 hours. Tica Bus the usual freezer. Meet Jose, a Mexican guy on a border crossing break and this is a stroke of luck as he speaks fluent Spanish and is super friendly. Get to San Jose and a 6 hour connection wait so stroll the streets with horror stories filling my head. The worst thing that happens is guide book map confusion over the bus station. Watch Barcelona beat Real Madrid on a street corner and wander the streets, a big city vibe, but we're not sure what to see so re-find the bus station and head out for some food.
A taxi driver drops us at a restaurant and I can tell it´s kind of expensive but last nights feast has but me in the mood for fine dining. We order a huge meat based platter and some cerviche, the food amazing, and a pitcher of Sangria to wash it down. 2, maybe 3 hours to waste so follow up with some beers, 4 a-piece and then the bill comes, $60 each, outrageous! 2 days travel budget in one fell swoop. The Sangria turned out to be our downfall. We´re drunk enough to think this amusing.
Back to the bus station and turns out another hour of wasting is required. Run the streets, sketchy as hell, buy more alcohol and drink on the pavement in an abandoned shop front, and then the bus finally arrives and sleep as far as possible til 4 in the morning, when we are dropped at an immigration office and the bus speeds off into the distance and nothing, nothing is open, and then spend 4 fucking hours at the border, 2 waiting in the darkness for border control to get out of bed, 2 more on the Panama side whilst a guy goes through every single travellers bag on the bus with a tooth comb. Jose gets pulled into the interrogation room and disappears for a while. Upon return he says another guy on the bus had $8,000 strapped to the inside of his leg. We don't see him again.
And then finally away again, sleep in a light R.E.M dreamworld, everything verging on clarity but never quite make it tangible, and then a bridge over a huge canal and welcome to Panama City.
Ometepe 2
Wednesday, 7 September 2011
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Wake entirely destroyed by yesterday, delayed reaction and vague recollection of night wakening with severe cramp screams. Breakfast is coffee and eggs scrambled with onion, tomato and chilli, a cure to my drinking ills, if not my physical ones. Chat around the morning, the lakeside views encourage only pacivity.
Turn down offer of a rock walk and instead trek back down the hill into town, to the worlds smallest cyber cafe, a stone building with one laptop, blasting out house music at an irritating volume. Realise there are no busses on Sundays which limits travel options. Lunch in a shack, fried chicken etc. The chicken is good, some kind of spice batter improves matters and the meat succulent. Talk briefly to a German guy biking around the island, briefly stranded by the appearance of rain, takes him 10 minutes to restart the bike. Amusing to me. Then up the hill once more and decide to get a taxi with Will and Stephen, a couple of Americans from yesterday who know of a calming place on the opposite side of things.
A bumpy 90 minute ride to clean cut lawns and more lakeside. Volcano views again, my legs wincing at the memory. Stay at a biological centre which almost has a retirment home feel, luxury living. The weather turns damp and the smell of spring fills the Sunday afternoon. Go for a lonesome walk in search of something, but whatever it is I´m looking for I find nothing but mud and the night closes in and I´ve no flashlight and so walk back, following the fireflies, to a room with AC and a matress that isn´t made of cotton wool.
Breakfast is good. The usual, but the cheese that tastes like it may have once belonged inside a cow. Stephen and Will discuss US healthcare and I listen whilst trying to regain my senses. We walk to a waterfall, 3k, the first 2 mild, the final more stones and wet dirt. Starts bright and descends to drizzle then downpour, my waterproofs left at home.
The waterfall itself impressive, 35 ft of water starting as trickle and turning into a wall of water into a shallow pool below. A childhood adventure movie feel. Stomp around the ice cool pool, attempting to remove the last of Saturday´s mud from my combats and boots, and shower in the water, exhilerating after the hike.
On return I have several options for the day. Merida, or Moyogalpa, or something in between. The fly in the ointment, only two busses leave a day, the first long ago, the second at 3:30 but I have movement urges at 1PM and so pay up and hit the road, hiking Merida way, plan to stop at anything of interest. The track gruelling with my backpack. Get to the end of Merida without even realising it was ever there. Sit for a while under a large tree which interrupts the rain, waiting for a bus that doesn´t arrive and so it gets to 4 and I decide my only option is to hike on to San Domingo by nightfall, wait out the evening and then head ferrywards the next day.
A brief foray into accidental hitchhiking, a man in a minivan offers me a lift. I claim no money, a lie. He takes me anyway, drops me at the point where the islands meet. I still haven´t decided on what to do. Start walking to Balguay, but give up 2 minutes later and decide a bus may still come. Wait in a restaurant where the staff speak no english but attempt communication anyway. The weather now horrendous, wind blowing rain horizontal. 45 minutes behind schedule the last bus arrives. It´s going nowhere near where I want to go, back to Thursday´s entrance port, but I´m drained and it´s darkening so get it anyway. Stay in a new hotel, Short food wanderings and an early night.
Turn down offer of a rock walk and instead trek back down the hill into town, to the worlds smallest cyber cafe, a stone building with one laptop, blasting out house music at an irritating volume. Realise there are no busses on Sundays which limits travel options. Lunch in a shack, fried chicken etc. The chicken is good, some kind of spice batter improves matters and the meat succulent. Talk briefly to a German guy biking around the island, briefly stranded by the appearance of rain, takes him 10 minutes to restart the bike. Amusing to me. Then up the hill once more and decide to get a taxi with Will and Stephen, a couple of Americans from yesterday who know of a calming place on the opposite side of things.
A bumpy 90 minute ride to clean cut lawns and more lakeside. Volcano views again, my legs wincing at the memory. Stay at a biological centre which almost has a retirment home feel, luxury living. The weather turns damp and the smell of spring fills the Sunday afternoon. Go for a lonesome walk in search of something, but whatever it is I´m looking for I find nothing but mud and the night closes in and I´ve no flashlight and so walk back, following the fireflies, to a room with AC and a matress that isn´t made of cotton wool.
Breakfast is good. The usual, but the cheese that tastes like it may have once belonged inside a cow. Stephen and Will discuss US healthcare and I listen whilst trying to regain my senses. We walk to a waterfall, 3k, the first 2 mild, the final more stones and wet dirt. Starts bright and descends to drizzle then downpour, my waterproofs left at home.
The waterfall itself impressive, 35 ft of water starting as trickle and turning into a wall of water into a shallow pool below. A childhood adventure movie feel. Stomp around the ice cool pool, attempting to remove the last of Saturday´s mud from my combats and boots, and shower in the water, exhilerating after the hike.
On return I have several options for the day. Merida, or Moyogalpa, or something in between. The fly in the ointment, only two busses leave a day, the first long ago, the second at 3:30 but I have movement urges at 1PM and so pay up and hit the road, hiking Merida way, plan to stop at anything of interest. The track gruelling with my backpack. Get to the end of Merida without even realising it was ever there. Sit for a while under a large tree which interrupts the rain, waiting for a bus that doesn´t arrive and so it gets to 4 and I decide my only option is to hike on to San Domingo by nightfall, wait out the evening and then head ferrywards the next day.
A brief foray into accidental hitchhiking, a man in a minivan offers me a lift. I claim no money, a lie. He takes me anyway, drops me at the point where the islands meet. I still haven´t decided on what to do. Start walking to Balguay, but give up 2 minutes later and decide a bus may still come. Wait in a restaurant where the staff speak no english but attempt communication anyway. The weather now horrendous, wind blowing rain horizontal. 45 minutes behind schedule the last bus arrives. It´s going nowhere near where I want to go, back to Thursday´s entrance port, but I´m drained and it´s darkening so get it anyway. Stay in a new hotel, Short food wanderings and an early night.
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