Costa Rica Part 2: Monkeys and Lagoons

Costa Rica
October 12 - 18

On the morning that we left Uvita, our host's parting words to us were to 'stop banging pots and pans in the kitchen' because we'd woken her up. Aw, we'll miss you too, angry German lady. And with that, we were off! We walked for the last time down the jagged dirt road to town, said goodbye to the sloth sleeping in a tree on the corner, hustled with Nancy the tour guide to the bus station. Only eight hours and one bus change later, we made it to...

Puerto Viejo

When we rolled into Puerto Viejo at about four o'clock and stepped off the bus, we were surrounded immediately by taxi drivers asking where they could drive us, which was funny when we realized that the whole town covered like half a square mile. Puerto Viejo is a small Rastafarian beach town, full of Bob Marley cover bands and locals selling weed to tourists, and where every restaurant, every day, likes to proclaim on exuberant sandwich boards that their "catch of the day" is red snapper. Get it while they've got it, guys! This rare breed goes fast!

Admittedly not the best picture I could have taken of Puerto Viejo

As we walked along with our conspicuous backpacks, we were followed by men on bicycles riding idly around and shouting at tourists, "Hey, hostel! You want a hostel!" and "guys, that place is full, come over to my place!" This is the part where we might have realized we're racist, because the first person we actually took a hostel recommendation from was a European girl with a less confrontational sales pitch:

"Would you two care for a hostel recommendation?"

So we followed her directions to La Ruka Hostel. On the way there she passed us again, this time leading a trail of gringos like a pasty Pied Piper to this place where, in fact, she ended up roping in TOO MANY takers. La Ruka had to awkwardly turn away backpackers who had followed this girl on her bike ten minutes past the edge of town.

Like we did, I'm sure all those people responded to her based on her ability to speak nuanced English, which of course made her sound friendly and less aggressive than someone just yelling "hostel!" over and over. Fair enough, and La Ruka was perfectly comfortable and a good place to meet other travelers. But here's the thing -- travelers will choose these hostels run by other foreigners, and then grumble about getting ripped off by locals when they want to buy things around town. But why should locals be expected to cut you a fair deal when you're staying at a foreigner's hotel and speaking blunt, imperfect Spanish that probably sounds just as abrasive as shouting "hostel!" does?

I dunno, just my two pennies.

ALSO, when we asked the front desk attendant for a restaurant recommendation, she responded, "oh I don't know, I've only been working here ten days." Ten days?? A week and a half?? You don't know one place to eat??? Get it together! 

In the morning we walked to the Jaguar Refuge, which is fantastic. This place is a wildlife refuge, where they take in animals who have lost limbs, incurred brain damage or been machete-ed to the head, among other weird accidents that tend to happen around machetes. While we were waiting at the front for the tour to start, we watched sloths climbing through the trees in their little courtyard, and repeatedly falling into the bushes below them. They have volunteer care-takers, whose jobs are simply to watch the sloths and retrieve them when they fall out of their trees.

A sloth who has fallen into the bushes

The other volunteer jobs at the Jaguar Refuge Center involve  cuddling with recovering monkeys, ocelots and anteaters, while tour groups filter through and watch. One guy was sitting in the corner of a monkey pen, his half-buttoned shirt stuffed with sleeping monkeys, their butts poking out from under the hem. So adorable, I spent the entire tour squealing with glee. Here are some cute animals!

The refuge, after they have determined an animal to be sufficiently recuperated, sets them free in the jungle right behind the open premises, so that the animals can leave, but can always come back if they need food. So mid-tour this orange, mangy looking, four foot monkey with visible healed wounds came swinging around the side of a building and just loped right into our tour group, grinning at the crowd like a crazed hobo. He scared the absolute crap out of a little girl, who then started sobbing. It was just a perfect, perfect moment. Why do I never have my GoPro when I need it! #newyearsresolution

A monkey swings over to terrorize children and collect his food rations

At one point they let us into a room to play with the monkeys, who, it turns out, take a keen interest in ear-wear, because they were all over Eian -- grabbing his ears, jumping on his head, swinging into his face. Just a majestic interaction between man and wild.

The next day we hit the road again, this time into the mountains to La Fortuna.

La Fortuna

We stayed at the self-described "Famous Arenal Hostel Resort," which made us wear lame tourist wrist-bands and is named for the most active volcano in Costa Rica, Arenal. We did not climb that one. Because it's illegal. But we did hike Cerro Chato, a dormant volcano whose top caved in and created a lake at the top.

Arenal Volcano from afar

And unlike some other volcanoes I could name (suck it Baru), Cerro Chato was a lot of fun, full of root systems and ledges to climb, and the lagoon at the top to swim in. We went with a Tico guide, who kept sprinting ahead of the pack and shouting "only five more minutes til the top guys! Almost there!" He did this for the entire five hours of hiking.

As our tour group of five young able-bodied adults in our mid-twenties made our labored way to the top, we met a man in his sixties skipping down toward us who, baffled by our red faces and pit-sweat, said, "oh come on, guys, it's only a hill." He was from Switzerland, and according to our guide, the Swiss bound up these volcanoes like gravity ain't even a THING. Get it, Swiss.

Just follow Eian, he knows the way!

We climbed underneath that waterfall!

Because we backpackers love nothing more than navel-gazing discussions of the differences between our respective countries, we got onto the subject of going through customs and immigration at airports. Our guide said that on a trip to Europe once, which included a layover in the United States, he was taken to a private room for questioning by American customs officials, and was asked:

- Are you a terrorist?
- You're planning to kill the president of the United States, aren't you?

The other people on our tour, who were British, said they had been asked the same questions when traveling, not even to America, but through it. I love it. What are we expecting in response to those questions, exactly? Yes? "Ahhh, you got me! I should have anticipated that American questioning techniques would be too cunning for the likes of me!" Forehead slap. It must happen though, right?

Also in La Fortuna was a little waterfall and rope swing nick-named "El Salto" (the jump), where a group of Ticos were jumping and doing tricks and having a blast. We thought we'd hit upon a very authentic local hangout spot, and then we noticed their garish tourist wrist-bands that looked exactly like our own. OH. Nope, we were still tourists palling around with other tourists, albeit Costa Rican ones, so I think we can still collect some points for that. They were from San Jose, and gave us an opportunity to practice our new Costa Rican slang, "tuanis," which is like saying "cool" or "sweet." It comes from saying "too nice" in English. The more you know! Practice it at home and you too can speak like a native Costa Rican!

Merman Lagoon

Me, demonstrating a perfect ten-point landing

Thus concluded our visit to La Fortuna, which as a town we actually really enjoyed, despite everyone telling us it was really touristy and overpriced. Honestly, of everywhere we went in Costa Rica, we found more reasonably priced local food in La Fortuna, and our 'resort' hostel was only $10 a night, which, for Costa Rica is some bargain basement prices. As for "too touristy," all of Costa Rica is touristy, and, like pervasive mold in a humid shed in the jungle, cannot be escaped. As our Tico mountain-guide told us when we mentioned the high prices, "you made us this way."

Before we got down to Central America, our actual plan for this trip was to stay in Costa Rica doing work exchanges for about six weeks, which, in light of how much fun we've had in every country since Costa Rica, and how much more we've been able to experience for the money, is downright embarrassing. This is not to say we did not have a great time in Costa Rica, because we did, with even a couple of stand out high points for the whole trip. But it is to say  -- and this is controversial, try not to riot in the streets over it -- that Costa Rica, just maybe, is a tad overhyped. It is a spectacular and beautiful place, but...so are the less talked-about countries on either side of it.

And so, on to Nicaragua! Let's lose track of time a little bit, NICA STYLE. For real, two weeks blew by and we were like, "bwuh? How did we let this happen? Why are we still on this beach? And why are our chicken and patacones still not ready? We ordered those two days ago. People sure do take a while to fire up their grills here."

Verbatim though, that's what we said.

Thrilling details to follow!

Costa Rica Part 1: Everything We Own Is Covered In Mold

Uvita
Sept 30 - Oct 12

Our next stop was to the town of Uvita, which sits on the Southern Pacific coast of Costa Rica, and where we had lined up a work exchange through a website called workaway.info at a treehouse hostel that was tucked into the rain forest. Below, Eian will recap our time volunteering in Uvita:

After a six hour ride from David, Panama, we arrive in Uvita. The bus ride is like riding in a cramped refrigerator and there's a Jackie Chan movie called A Police Story (in Mandarin with Spanish subtitles) on repeat. When we get off the bus and look around we soon figure out we're in the middle of nowhere. 

Uvita is in the least developed part of Costa Rica. We walk from the bus station/restaurant to the main part of town, which consists of a bank, grocery store, bakery, and a weirdly big appliance store. After stocking up on groceries, which are more expensive than back in the States, we take a cab down a terrible dirt road to our hostel. The road is so bad that drivers charge four dollars just to take you on this five minute drive. We get to our hostel and are taken aback. The hostel is a huge treehouse with a beautiful terrace overlooking jungle all around. There's a waterfall nearby. Minutes after arriving, a howler monkey family starts screeching just one tree away. Our plan is to stay for three weeks, and we're thinking this will be perfect.

The owners are two German ex pats with a two year old daughter. The first thing they say to us is, "you won't be as good as our last volunteer." After a tour of the hostel, they take us to a small shack out back -- this is the "volunteer house." In the center of our room is a moldy mattress with moldy pillows. In fact, all our clothes and our backpacks would also soon become moldy. There's no escaping it.

Moldy pillows

Our living quarters

Our jobs are to clean the kitchen, two hours in the morning, and two hours at night, water the plants, and to babysit their kid for four hours in the middle of the day. And to do whatever else they want us to do, at any time. Six days a week. In exchange for a goddamn moldy mattress!

Baby sitting the two year old is the hardest of the jobs, especially since every side of the hostel ends in a 20 foot drop over the edge. It takes all of our energy to keep her entertained and from falling out of the hostel. She's a smart kid for her age, and she knows three languages, but she also throws tantrums every single day. By the end of a shift I need a beer. The cleaning part of the job isn't that bad, but when we're done the owner always re-cleans everything after us anyway, which is a bit annoying.

We have some free time during the day, but it's hard to go very far, or do much because we're hanging around this place basically doing free work (excuse me, working for a moldy mattress). And just buying food is costing us more than it cost us to travel all over Colombia or Panama for a week. After a week and a half, the decision is pretty easy to never do a work exchange again, and we decide to keep traveling North instead.

But we got some good stuff out of staying in Uvita, like surfing and Spanish lessons. On our day off we went to Manuel Antonio National Park, which is the most famous park in Costa Rica, and it was amazing. The rain forest is alive with sounds of monkeys and birds. After hiking for a half hour the main trail leads out to beaches. White faced Capuchin monkeys play in the trees and try to steal tourists' phones. Huge raccoons roam around and steal bags and food from sun bathers. It's great.

Phone-stealing monkeys

And everyone we met coming through Uvita was awesome, including our fellow volunteers Roxana and Jay, and a tour guide named Nancy who helped us come up with our plan for escaping Uvita and seeing the rest of Central America. Honestly, if our experience in Uvita had been better, we wouldn't have decided to keep traveling, so it all worked out for the best. Our advice about doing work exchange would be to make sure you are 100% clear on what you are giving in labor and exactly what you're getting in exchange for it. Otherwise it can be easy for hosts to take advantage of volunteer labor (and even lean on volunteer labor too hard instead of hiring locals, which they should be doing for most of their work in the first place, the damn cheapskates). Thanks for the life lessons, Uvita.

The sun sets on our time in Uvita

Our next stop would be Puerto Viejo to experience the Caribbean side of the country!

Panama Part 2: Electric Booga-Baru (sorry...)

Boquete
Sept 26 - Oct 1

Panama does this frustrating thing at their bus terminals where, in addition to buying a bus ticket, you also have to purchase a money card, which you then use to pay to enter the parking lot containing your bus. It's not expensive, but it is a hassle, and no one tells you until the moment your hips slam against an unyielding metal turnstile that you need to go to a separate window and buy a separate ticket merely to exit the building. Damnit Panama, why didn't you tell us this an hour ago, when we got here ludicrously early and sat twiddling our thumbs in the food court?

So we bussed from Panama City to David, and then on to the town of Boquete, which is up in the mountains and is a hub for all kinds of adventurous activities, including white water rafting, ATV riding, zip-lining, and of course, the majestic Volcan Baru, which is the very tallest point in Panama, and from which, on a clear day, one can see both the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans. It is a little over 11,000 feet, and, as its name suggests, is a volcano. It is also unquestionably the work of the devil.

We decided that seeing the view from the top of the tallest point in Panama sounded like a pretty cool thing to do, and the helpful front desk staff at our hostel told us that if we really wanted to do it right, we should start hiking at midnight so that we arrive at the summit for the sunrise. They even had a handy shuttle that left the hostel at 11:30 pm (and, in fact, only at 11:30 pm).

So. That's what we did. The shuttle drove us, and three gratingly chipper Peace Corps volunteers, out through miles of open farmland to the base of the volcano in the middle of the night. When we got there, the driver pointed into a void of darkness. 'It's that way.' We switched on our headlamps and began our climb.

I'd love to claim that we are in such peak physical condition that we bounced up the volcano, energized and ready to see an incredible, life-affirming sunrise, a bit out of breath, because we're only human, but not reaching the final summit at a literal crawl, or taking infinitesimal steps and staring slack-jawed into mid-distance.

Unfortunately I was very much a slack-jawed zombie by the end of this hike. Eian, to his credit, fared better, and would have made it to the top earlier if he hadn't had to periodically stop and wait for me to master my urge to ugly-cry. It was absurdly awful. The terrain was almost entirely loose rocks, at a steady 45 degree angle the entire way, in pitch darkness from midnight til six am. There was no scenery to enjoy, being that it was the middle of the night, so we were climbing through a tunnel of headlamp light, the rocks looking like increasingly softer and more pillowy places to take a nap. Every so often the glowing yellow eyes of a sheep in a nearby pasture would scare the hell out of us, as a lot of innocuous things will tend to do when we're stranded on a mountain in a foreign country at three in the morning. There were probably four different crazed moments throughout our climb that I had the unshakeable feeling that we were being watched by someone just beyond the scope of our flashlight, which is terrifying, because everyone here carries machetes. I guess what I'm getting at is that this would be a prime location for an episode of Scare Tactics. Someone get me in touch with Tracy Morgan. 

When we finally limped to the summit, exactly at sunrise, we were relieved to hear that the Peace Corps volunteers, who had left us in their dust at the beginning, had only actually beaten us to the top by about half an hour. They'd also fallen asleep waiting for sunrise, which, fyi, is how you freeze to death. So. Points subtracted for that one. I think we all know who the real kings of the mountain are.

The view from the top was, in all fairness to Volcan Baru, pretty amazing, in the way that being above the clouds just is amazing. Because that was all we could see. We did not see either ocean, or even the town of Boquete, just a rolling, wavy sea of clouds. We were above thunderstorms and lightning, both of which we could see at various points below us in the distance. 

Stunning vista

Exquisite

Black shapes

When we'd seen all angles to be seen of the view, eaten our sandwiches, and drunk our Powerade, we started back down the mountain, a new spring in our step because the sun was officially up and we could actually see our surroundings. We were feeling pretty good! Hey, high fives all around, gang! 

We'd picked our way down one full  kilometer before I fell and twisted my ankle, something that would happen to both of us repeatedly all the way down the volcano. And then it started to rain. Eian shouldered my backpack and helped me down one loose, slippery rock at a time, for the following twelve kilometers. Another six hours later, a small ways from the bottom, a truck from a nearby farm came rumbling down the road. The driver didn't even pretend to be surprised that I'd hurt myself. He just jerked his thumb toward the cab of his truck, where his numerous daughters were already squishing themselves to one side to make room for us.

He dropped us off at the exit, where we had to pay five dollars each for trail maintenance (LOL, good one, Panama). The park ranger did his best to fashion his face into an expression resembling sympathy, but in his head he was thinking "if I have to hear about another damn gringo falling down the mountain..." I'm sure people twist their ankles every day on his watch. He's hardened to it. Can't save 'em all, he says to himself, gritting his teeth and staring over the expanses of farmland at the base of his mountain, watching the sun set on another injured tourist's day. Or something like that.

It was about two pm when we got back to our hostel, took showers and then collapsed into our beds and slept the rest of the day. The folks back at the hostel were excited to hear how our hike had gone. "What about the sunrise?? Was it incredible??" When we told them how much it sucked, they laughed and joyfully exclaimed things like "I know, it's so terrible!" and "The cartilage in my knee is shot to hell!" So, freaks. We took advice for how best to experience Panama from absolute freaks.

A couple of days later we went white water rafting and that made it all better, because white water rafting is a blast, even when you fall out of the boat, which we both did. We GoPro'd the ride, so now we have a stupid amount of footage of a river! Don't you worry, I'll make sure I post all four hours of it very soon! (Okay fair enough, that's an empty threat, as there is nothing 'very soon' about this blog, it's not exactly a live feed, I GET IT)

After rafting we said goodbye to Boquete and that charmer of a mountain Volcan Baru (and to Eian's phone, which he left on the table of a cafe, and which also had more Baru and Boquete pics on it), and bussed over to David to stay the night before leaving for Costa Rica in the morning. Hot tip: there is absolutely nothing you need to see in David! Sorry David.

Coming up: Costa Rica AKA the entire reason for our trip, no pressure or anything Costa Ricans, but we are expecting your country to be the best thing we've ever seen, can't wait to be blown away, okay great, see you soon.

A man, a plan, a canal: Panama

Panama City

Sept 22 - 25

Marbella

If you ever find yourself in need of a hostel in the Marbella district of Panama City, we highly recommend El Machico, which is brand new and is run by two extremely friendly and helpful Italian guys. These guys will wait in the street with you in order to help you negotiate cab fare. They will proudly serve you a free breakfast of white bread and grape jelly. They are eager to provide you with directions, even when those directions all start sounding a lot like "leave the hostel and turn left and then you are there!" They´re stoked about doing your laundry. They are the best and the whole world could benefit from having more effusive Italians in it.

We checked into El Machico on the evening of the 22nd just in time to watch a group of young Australians push each other into the pool and threaten drunkenly for hours to order pizzas from Pizza Hut.

Casco Viejo

The next day our first stop was Casco Viejo, the city's old town. The route that connects Casco Viejo to the towering financial district where we were staying is a walkway along the bay that is exceptionally pleasant and almost aggressively well planned, with its play structures, outdoor gyms, waxy lawns and gardens, and periodic art pieces. Panamanians treat fitness like a religion -- as soon as 5:30 rolls around, those outdoor gyms are full of young business-people just getting out of work, and the walkway looks like the route of a marathon with all of the serious joggers passing through in pristine workout gear.

Casco Viejo is about half beautifully preserved old buildings, and half just old buildings with rusted door hinges that smell a little like urine. It is a UNESCO World Heritage site, so it's slowly working its way toward refurbishing the whole area, and is for the most part very picturesque and not sketchy. And it is home to the absolute best mojito you will ever find, at a cafe called The Da Vinci, where they hand-make their own pasta and the wait staff scare away their customers by hovering austerely over anyone who pauses along the sidewalk to glance at the menu. It is delicious and always empty.

Casco Viejo by day!

 

Casco Viejo by eve'!

The best mojito ever made (ignore the embarassing drink choice to the left)

A second Honorable Food Mention to the restaurant Sake, where they draped sauteed plantains over their sushi rolls and it was so good, even if they DID make us sit on the patio because we were wearing shorts.

Panama Canal

This year is the Panama Canal's 100th birthday! We went to the Visitors Center at the Miraflores Locks of  the canal and arrived just at the right time (9-12 daily!) to see cargo ships passing through. We ate hot dogs and potato chips, and sat to watch boats wedge their robust frames through a gate only a meter wider than their own breadth. Now, the Panama Canal is unquestionably an engineering marvel, and very cool to see in person. Were the hoards of tourists gathered on the observation deck really justified in pushing each other aside to take minute by minute photos of a cargo ship moving at a glacial pace through a 30 meter gap? Jury's still out on that one.

We walked through the four floors of the museum, which in addition to explaining the mechanics and history of the canal, also tries admirably to position it to children as something really fun and adventurous. There is a room devoted to describing all manner of fearsome insects and wildlife that inhabit the surrounding area, an animated 3D video, and a "simulation room" which shows you a captain's-eye-view of a cargo ship moving slowly through a narrow passage. A for effort.

This is a lock

Odd chunks of the canal's history, particularly the parts involving its transferral as a project from one nationality to another, are skimmed over entirely. But one thing is notably clear throughout the exhibit -- the canal may be an incredible feat of engineering, but the truly laudable success is in Panama's triumphant repossession of the canal in 2000 and its recent decision to expand the locks for enhanced commercial prospects. If your knowledge was based solely on the literature of this museum, you would assume an impassioned rebellion on the part of the Panamanian public had forced the grudging hand of the United States to loosen its chokehold on the rights to the Panama Canal, and turn it back to its rightful owner-- the PEOPLE! Its a much better story than saying that Jimmy Carter just signed the handover into motion in 1977 due to boring business matters with China, which is what actually happened.

Amador Causeway

Everybody told us that a really nice thing to do in Panama City is to walk along the Amador Causeway, which is a strip of land that extends out into the bay and is scenic and has little shops along the way. What exactly nobody told us before we stepped out of the taxi that took us to the very end of it and then sped away (presumably laughing) was that the Amador Causeway was under construction, and thus all of the views were obstructed by temporary walls and burlap-covered chain link fence. We walked the length of it anyway, in what was essentially a really hot, paved tunnel. And then, perhaps because Eian just felt a spiritual tug leading him to the promised land, we continued to walk for another two hours, down unpopulated stretches of frontage roads, following some locals over a highway.

"Wait," Eian said at last, his eyes turned toward the water and the setting sun. "Do you see that?" He sniffed the air. Tested the wind.

"What is it?" I asked. "Is this the wrong highway?" I had been suspecting that it was.

"No. A skate park." He broke into a run, the teeth of his backpack's broken zipper tearing away from each other with his every joyous leap. And there, off of the overpass, around the corner, across an expanse of grass, were the trucks of airborne skateboards glinting against cloudless blue sky. As though coming upon an oasis in the desert, Eian's face shone with disbelief and enchantment. Borrowing a board from a Venezuelan teenager, he proceeded to skate the cement bowl for three glorious minutes, torn between concentrating on his craft and gazing happily at the surrounding green hills and the distant pastel walls of Casco Viejo.

And then we stopped on our way home at Da Vinci for celebratory mojitos.

Next stop; Boquete and the worst volcano ever hiked.

Colombia Part 3: Welcome to Panama!

Sept 19 -- Sept 22

Most backpackers, when they need to get from Cartagena to Panama, either fly or sail via one of the many boats that pinball between the two countries. The cost for either option used to be significantly cheaper, but with the rapid increase in tourism to Cartagena, the price has doubled in only the last two years or so. A sailboat ride that used to be between two and three hundred US dollars now costs $550 to get to the Panamanian coast, and a plane ticket isn't much cheaper.

But don't worry guys, because for the low, low price of $150, we can get you not just to Panama! All you have to do is go through the mildly unsavory city of Turbo!

Graphic swiped from panamacolombiasailing.com

Here's the route:
We took a five hour bus ride from Cartagena to Monteria, then a five hour ride from there to Turbo. From Turbo we took a two hour boat ride to Capurgana, and another boat ride, this one only 20 minutes, to the Panamanian town of Puerto Obaldia. In Puerto Obaldia we took a short flight to Panama City. 

Turbo sits right in the Northwestern pocket of Caribbean Colombia, and thus is the only artery through which one may exit Colombia overland to the North. It has a not wholly undeserved reputation for being awful, on account of all the activity there that involves the transport of illegal substances over the border. And if you ask any hostel in Cartagena for information about how to get to Turbo, they will say they don't know, and you shouldn't go there anyway, it's far too dangerous, here, take this brochure about sailing trips.

But of course Cartagena doesn't want you going through Turbo -- they rake in too many pesos selling boozy island-hopping adventures to care about directing you elsewhere. And we are here to tell you, Turbo is not as bad as Cartagena likes to make it out to be. Though still maybe a little rough around the edges.

We left Cartagena the morning of Friday the 19th. The bus station is filled with competing bus companies, and as soon as we stepped inside, an agent from each materialized at our sides to 'help' us make our ticket reservations. Thanks, guys! After painstakingly double and triple checking with the lady at the information desk, we found the right bus, a twelve passenger van. On the way, the driver stopped excitedly to pick up a couple on the side of the road, ushering them over only to realize that, in fact, all of the seats were aready full. He squeezed the woman into the aisle anyway, and the man waited in the rain for the next bus.

The van dropped us off several blocks from where it actually told us it would, but you know, still in Turbo, so points for trying. We only had to ask directions three times before making it to our hotel, Residencias Florida, run by the very helpful and intuitive John Boltero. When making our reservation with John over the phone, at no point did we actually tell him that our reason for spending a night in Turbo was to catch a boat out of there the following morning, but he called the boathouse and reserved us tickets anyway. I think John's been in this business awhile.

Toilet for pillow.

The Residencias Florida is barred at the entrance, and the lobby is guarded by a German Shepherd named Sammy who lies sprawled in the middle of the room, staring at the door. On the other side of Sammy is the door to John's room, and a small balcony where John and his friends sit on plastic green chairs and smoke. The guests' rooms are furnished with a bed beneath a ceiling fan, and a toilet directly behind the head of the bed, next to the shower, which is a bare pipe jutting out from the wall.

Our room smelled overpoweringly of bleach. We went to bed with our pillows covering our faces, our eyes burning. The next morning John poured us coffee into Dixie cups and sat with us in the lobby, and the three of us watched The Dog Whisperer in Spanish until it was time for us to catch our boat to the Colombian coastal town of Capurgana.

Splash zone.

We had heard that one should try to get a seat at the back of the boat, to avoid getting slammed around on the waves up front, as that is allegedly how grievous injuries have happened in the past. Fortunately for us, the waters are relatively calm this season, because guess which lucky people got front row seats! I have a theory about seating on these boats, and that is that if you are a white person, you are not going to get first pick. Fair enough. For your own future reference, here is the trick all the locals know -- when the ticket taker calls for all the elderly and mothers with children to board first, you just go. Every single person in our launch stepped up claiming to be elderly, with the exception of about six of us who were foreigners.

Capurgana's real pretty.

When we reached Capurgana, a fellow passenger, and irritating French woman, told us she'd found the cheapest hostel there, so we followed her to a little jungle fort called La Bohemia (it was French). When I told her I was from Napa, she sniffed and said, as if graciously searching for something kind to say of the new world, 'I've had some decent wine from Chile...'

Charming.

Eian thoughfully snuggles a cat at La Bohemia. 

Capurgana is a little village, five blocks by five blocks. The social center of town is a sports field, and at almost any time of day, there is either a futbol or baseball game being played. Locals sit on the porches of the surrounding restaurants to watch, and blast -- BLAST--their music at insane decibels. We went for a hike into the jungle and were two hours' walking distance away, and one town over, before we could finally no longer hear it.

Oh, it's Anytime O'clock? Time for a village wide soccer game!

Beyond the sports field is a small airport. No one ever talks about this airport. The planes leaving fly only to the United States. Make of that what you will. On the coastline sits a derelict hotel that children play in now. Apparently it was once a magnificent resort, but the owner was arrested for exporting cocaine a few years ago, and no one has done anything with the remains of it.

The place is filled with military personnel, some of them uniformed and on duty, and some of them in swim trunks, twirling semi-automatics as they stroll along the beach.

For breakfast in the morning, we walked to a restaurant called La Arca de Noe, where a woman said 'Do you want breakfast?' We said yes, and she told us to sit down. Ten minutes later she brought us a plate of eggs, white bread, and a slab of cheese. Her kids wandered around our table, trying to stare without actually staring at Eian's guaged ears.

Hiking through the jungle to Sapzurro.

The border of Panama was within hiking distance, so after breakfast we hiked over the hill along the outskirts of the Darien Forest, to the town of Sapzurro, and then into the Panamanian village of La Miel. When we got into Sapzurro, which is sleepier and smaller than Capurgana, a man, without being prompted, simply saw us and pointed: 'La Miel, that way.' At the border a pair of military personnel sat listening to music, and watched with amusement as we took pictures beneath the 'Welcome to Panama' sign. They didn't bother with stamping our passports -- there's not really anywhere we could go beyond La Miel without taking a machete to the forest.

Steps up to the border of Panama

As we made our way down the main street of the village, we passed an awning, under which a group of people were sitting and nodding along to their music that was honestly louder than I had even thought sound could be? It was so loud, I was surprised we couldn't actually see it pushing the air around us. And the people were just listening casually next to the speaker, nodding their heads like, 'great song, right?' The eardrums on this coast are insane.

We sat on the beach and had fish and rice, and watched a boat bring in a whole soccer team of excited little boys holding trophies.

La Miel

Later we grabbed a boat back to Capurgana, and it was fun passing the chunk of jungle we'd hiked through to get there.

Storm's abrewin'

In the morning we took another boat up the coastline for Puerto Obaldia, a border town of Panama where we had heard they take security very seriously. As in, everything must come out of your bags to be checked, they will hold your passport for hours, they'll want to see proof of your intent to leave Panama, and proof that you have enough money to sustain yourself while you are there -- that includes bank statements and at least two credit cards. So we were prepared for the worst.

And all of this is true if you are Colombian. But it turns out Panama doesn't really care that much about what's in the backpack of an American. And when you tell them about your vague plan to be in Costa Rica at some point, they look at each other and shrug, like 'good enough for me! Give these crazy kids a stamp!'

We walked the length of the town, about three blocks, to weigh our bags and check in for our flight. No one handed us tickets. On their receipts for our fares, both of our names were spelled wrong. Not a problem, as no one would trouble themselves with looking at our names for this flight again.

We were early for our 11:50 flight, so we went to a restaurant that was entirely empty except for the cook, who stared us down for several seconds before yelling for her neighbor to come help her in the kitchen and disappearing. We sat down at a table, thinking to ourselves, 'let's eat quickly so we can get over to the airport with enough time to get through security.' LOL.

The airport consisted of one lobby filled with folding chairs, with bars instead of walls on two sides of it. There was one lady inside pacing around, who beckoned us forward when we showed hesitation at moving beyond the 'No Trespassing' sign on the gate. We took seats and hung out until 11:50. And then until 12:50. We went up to ask the pacing lady when the plane was going to arrive. She shrugged and said, 'The plane is in Panama.' 

The plane

Just as we'd been having the eery feeling that we'd be the only people on the flight, Eian looked across the street and realized the nearest restaurant was full of people with suitcases. And when the plane came bursting into view at 1:45, they all jumped up and hustled over to the lobby/jail. The pilots, two high-fiving bros who looked younger than us, left the plane smacking each other with papers and swaggering because they knew they looked sharp in their pilot costumes. They came over to let us onto the runway, and we stepped into the nine passenger plane and climbed over the top of all the seats, and also other passengers, to get to our spots. The pilots hopped in and we left. This plane landed, turned around and took off again in the span of probably ten minutes.

Hola Panama!

The flight was the best we've ever taken, even with the crampedness.The windows were four times the size of a regular plane window, and the view was amazing as we flew right over the Darien Gap rimmed with coastline, and then the dense forest cleared and it was all shiny cars and skyscrapers.

The ride was an hour, and then we landed in Panama City! And then all nine of us waited in a room for five years for our passports to clear. WOO! YEAH! WELCOME TO PANAMA GUYS, SIT RIGHT DOWN AND ENJOY THIS HOLDING CELL, HOPE YOU HAVE A DEEP AND ABIDING APPRECIATION FOR CANALS, BYE!

Next post is going to feature special guest The Panama Canal, with an honorable mention to its museum's barely disguised contempt for America.

Colombia Part 2

Sept 15 - Sept 18

On the morning after we rolled around in mud for twenty minutes and called it an important cultural experience, we woke up at Hostel Mamallena without a plan for the rest of our time in Colombia. We realized that we may have overestimated the number of days we would want to keep blowing money in Cartagena, so we made a split decision to get on a bus leaving twenty minutes later...

For SANTA MARTA. And adventure.

This decision turned out to be an excellent one, but we can't really take all the credit for its ingenuity, because basically we just followed Charlotte and Andreas. They didn't invite us, per se, so much as conversationally share their plans with us over breakfast, but that didn't stop us from suckering on to them like hungry leeches.

Santa Marta is four hours east of Cartagena. After leaving the hostel, the bus stopped for about 45 minutes at a bus station, presumably in hopes of filling that very last seat. Spoiler alert: we did not. Oh, Colombia. So five hours later we arrived at our hostel, The Dreamer, just in time to watch Deuce Bigelow for Monday Movie Night (thank God).

And on Tuesday we spent the day being the stars of our own adventure movie at...

Tayrona National Park

The directions we were given for getting to Tayrona Park by our hostel were, ¨go out to the street and wait for a green and white bus to drive by. You're white, so they'll assume you need a ride.¨ The first green and white bus we saw when we got out to the street was parked, not the correct bus, and the driver was clearly on his break, but we walked up anyway and asked if he was going to Tayrona.  He said no, but that he would take us to a bus that would. This guy drove us to two buses parked on the side of a road. As soon as we got out, one bus driver yelled ¨Tayrona? I'll take you there for 10,000 pesos!¨ The other driver said ¨I'll take you for 7,000! Come with me!¨ We hesitated briefly, thinking maybe the first guy would have a counter offer, but he just shrugged like, ¨fuck it, you win.¨ So we went with the second guy, and looked back to wave to the man who had driven us there, who had even stayed to make sure we got on the right bus. Colombians might take labored, circuitous routes getting from A to B, but they take a genuine interest in helping you get there too.

Our bus was full of Colombians, none of whom were going to Tayrona, and I suspect Tayrona is not even a regular stop for this bus. But I'm not sure that 'regular stops' exist anyway. The bus dropped us at the outside of the park, at which point we could have taken a shuttle to the beginning of the hike. But because we are rugged adventurers, and also because we were unaware of the shuttle at the time, we walked in for about an hour. It was pretty and we saw monkeys, so it was all good.

The real jungle hike, closer to the belly of the park, was absolutely amazing. It's exactly what you would expect a jungle hike to look like if your only frame of reference was Indiana Jones. The hike winds out to the coast, and when you stand on the beach and look back at the forest behind you, with the rows of canopies layered into the hills and deep grey storm clouds rolling over them, it really does look like a movie.

When a dog stares into the abyss, the abyss stares back into him.

The path cuts out to a beach for a moment before continuing on through the trees, and coming from our direction, there was no sign indicating that this wasn't the end of the trail. So we stepped onto the beach, looking for the bar and hammock rental we´d been told would be there. Looking up and down the coast, we saw only a man hurrying over and shouting at us, waving his arms frantically to get our attention. He told us to get off the beach and led us into the trees to where the trail continued. Pointing at a 'Don't go on the beach' sign that we wouldn't have seen until we´d actually crossed the beach, he stared at us and said, incredulous, as though exhausted of explaining this to tourists, 'It's right there. In six languages.' That guy has a thankless role in Colombia's national parks system.

The Forbidden Beach

The park has an option to either hike on one trail to the coast, or to ride horses on another, so on the way out, we chose the horses (which look really healthy and well-cared for, a fact you might doubt if you were looking only at the cheap cost to ride one. But I'm here to tell you, they look good, and that park does not hurt for cash). As we headed out on horseback with a guide walking along beside us, it started to drizzle, and flashes of lightning began showing through the canopy. It took about five minutes for the storm to evolve into thundering downpour. It was absolutely the best. Maybe not the best for all the stuff in our backpacks, but for us it was the best. Because we were riding horses through a Colombian rain forest, in escape from a thunderstorm.

Soaked by the end of the ride, we got in a taxi (which slowed down when we passed pedestrians to ask if they needed a ride -- gotta fill that middle seat), and ate quesadillas at the hostel in celebration of 'Mexican Night.'

Coffee Farm

And what could possibly top that epic adventure but a sedate tour of a coffee farm, amirite? Wednesday we headed to Minca to learn about coffee production. Our tour guide Jorge picked us up, along with a couple from Scotland, Catherine and David (lot of couples going on in the South America backpacking scene), and drove us for an hour and a half in his taxi sedan up mountain roads riddled with potholes and rocks that scraped alarmingly against the undercarriage of the car. People who had done this tour previously said they had gone in a Jeep, which, in retrospect, makes a lot of sense. Our taxi stalled out pretty regularly.

The beans go over here...

Jorge took us first to a waterfall where he allowed us to frolic, while he sat, with an eye on his watch, among the other parents grouped on the banks watching their kids jump off of rocks. After about half an hour he gestured that it was time to go, and we hiked out and drove on to the coffee farm. The guide at the farm said she didn't speak English, and so she gave the tour in Spanish while I translated/grossly paraphrased for the others. Colombians speak Spanish quickly, and kind of slush their words together, which makes them difficult to understand even for other native Spanish speakers, let alone gringos who took high school classes. So my translation went something like: "The coffee....goes over here....and then it goes up there....and then people clean it..." Solid stuff. A+. On the way out I heard her giving a tour in English to another group.

The farm was gorgeous, all hilly and green and Colombian. And I don't really drink coffee, so this doesn't mean a ton coming from me, but that was the best coffee I've ever had! Eian DOES drink coffee, and he says the same thing, but he's been known to exaggerate, so I guess neither of us can be trusted. You'll just have to go to Minca for the truth.

Yes hello, I need coffee please, it´s an emergency.

For lunch Jorge drove us to a tiny, one-table restaurant that was pretty much a guy's living room. He served us juiced mangoes that he'd pulled off the tree outside his house, and some meat with plantains. It was one of the best meals we had in Colombia. When we left, the cook gave me a plastic cup so I could take the rest of my mango juice to go, which became a tricky balancing act every time we hit a massive bump in the road on the way down the mountain.

Enrique Iglesias's "Bailando" came on the radio and Jorge cranked the volume all the way up. The subject of Enrique prompted Catherine and David to ask us, genuinely baffled, where Pit Bull had come from, and why he keeps shouting about being well traveled.

Legit dining establishment

Thursday morning we got on a bus headed back West to Cartagena.  We only drove around in circles for about an hour picking up passengers before we officially left Santa Marta. A little girl in a Rapunzel dress got carsick and vomited next to Eian. And we were off!

Next up is our journey to the Panamanian border, which is nuts.