Fragments

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.