A moment of Shavasana*

Isla Bastimentos, PANAMA
Feb.19-21, 2015

When fantasizing about leaving my job and traveling, a vision that repeatedly played across my mind was of a smooth, wooden platform overlooking the water, where early in the morning I would be doing some yoga.

With an ongoing flow of young North Americans and Europeans in Central America, and a growing number of retired expats moving there permanently, you will find at least one (likely more) yoga studio in every traveler town.  I was pleasantly surprised.

On the morning I was leaving Bocas del Toro town, I found it - my vision.  Up the stairs to the second level, an open-air studio with a smooth wooden floor, overlooking the waters of the Almirante Bay, boats crossing in and out of the picture, and a good solid hard-work yoga session.  It was dreamy.  But Bocas del Toro town was a dream from which I needed to wake up.

The bank re-opened Wenesday afternoon at 1:00pm.  With only $14 US left in my pocket, I passed by at 9:30am that morning to check on the status of the guaranteed line-up.  There was not a soul around.  Back at 11:00am, there were a couple people sitting on the curb, but no line.  By 12:30pm, the crowds were gathering, although I wouldn't really call it a "line", and I slotted myself into a shady spot with my book.  When the main doors to the bank opened just after 1:00pm, a cheer erupted from those nearby.  It was soon silenced when the guard explained that yes, the bank was open now, but the ATM around the side of the building would not be filled for at least an hour.  I called out to him "Can I help??".  When the bank lady emerged around 2:00pm and headed for the ATM, a cheer erupted and the milling crowd, which had been growing exponentially in the last hour, calmly shaped itself into a proper line.  When the bank lady did not re-emerge from the ATM by about 2:15pm, those at the front of the line began to provide a play-by-play of the ATM failed "self-tests" - the money shuffler gizmo that spits out the bills kept choking.  By 3:00pm, with my stomach-rumbling alarming those around me because I hadn't eaten since an early morning breakfast, I wondered if the $15/night hostel would kick me out if I was $1 short.  At 3:10pm, the bank lady emerged, and the crowd erupted in a resignedly weak cheer, the majority of our day gone.  I decided to take out twice as much money, just in case, and to cover Jeannie in case the ATM ran out again.  I think everyone else had the same idea, because after a third of the line got through, the ATM was out of money again.

With my new found riches, I decided to escape to the calmer Isla Bastimentos.  After the dreamy yoga class, I loaded me and my pack on the 10-minute boat-bus to my next home.

What I did not expect to see on the ride over...

Approaching Isla Bastimentos

My corner room on the second-floor-left of the bright green place; the brown banana-leaf-roof place on
the water in front - Alvin & Ketcha's Kitchen - the nearest place to eat

Alvin & Ketcha's Kitchen restaurant

Jeannie (left), her friend (centre), and her roommate Rasheedah (right)
walking down the main street - no noisy motor vehicles here...

As I walked along the "main street", it became obvious that the children far outnumbered the adults.  And many of the mothers were very young.  But any kid that could walk seemed to be out playing and having a good time.

My initial reaction was to feel bad for these young women, and for their children fated to repeat the same cycle of existence.  What about further education, going out to see more of the world, becoming involved in "bigger" things?  Who was going to stand up for these woman and give them the same opportunities I had been given?

But then, I realized I was looking at Central America through the eyes of a North American - my definition of "progess" is seen through those eyes.  The kids running around looked happy, energetic, free and probably didn't have to wait for their mothers to make them a "play date".  And just because I wanted to get educated and become employed by a big well-paying corporation in order to contribute to an OCD-level-consumer society, all of which would inevitably drain my energy and life via the donation of my brain, doesn't mean that is the "right" path for civilization...

The entrance to Up In The Hill coffee shop, situated a good climb up
the hill when I hiked up and over to Wizard Beach on the other side
of the island

There are many things I like about my North American civilization - the electricity and fresh water generally work when I need them, the bank has money, an orchestra of many instruments can play a complex piece of music, there are libraries and book stores containing information on anything I want to know, I can take a break from day-to-day life necessities and relax in a cozy little shop while drinking a brown liquid someone has figured out how to make from coffee plants, I can travel vast distances in a short amount of time in order to visit the people and places I want, and I can have wine.

But, how often did I give up those things I like about my North America civilization (except the wine) in order to work more?

How often did I miss out on a good time with friends because I was just too tired?  And how often did I skip yoga, which is so increasingly good for my general well-being...

Perhaps I was the one who needed to learn from them.

A rest at Up In The Hill coffee shop

The colourful-eternally muddy trail
to Wizard Beach

Rasheedah and Jeannie cooking me a fantastic fish dinner

The little gecko hitched a ride home
on my collar after dinner

Evening view from Tio Tom's patio restaurant - every night he puts all his restaurant tables together in one long
row so everyone has to sit together and talk to each other - it was great (after a solo day of reading or hiking)

* Savasana: the final pose typically conducted at the end of a yoga practice, known as "corpse pose", with the body laid out flat on the ground, the muscles relaxed in order to regroup and reset

Devils, Deviations and Deviants

Bocas del Toro, PANAMA
Feb.16-19, 2015

It is Carnival in Panama (the beginning of the Catholic season of Lent), and while this means fantastic leaping and athletic antics of red devils in the streets. along with loud music, food stands and no vehicles on the main street, it also means every place to stay is booked.  Why am I here???

Marvelous homemade paper-mache masks, and real live whips

A devilish representation of Spanish colonialism and Black
enslavement, with liberation celebrated on Ash Wednesday
when the devils are finally pacified and excorcised

My new friend Jeannie, one of the ladies running the writing retreat a couple weeks earlier, lives in Panama.  When she heard I planned to make my way down to Panama City (I couldn't come this close and not see one of the greatest engineering feats of the 19th-20th centuries, the Panama Canal), she said let's go together.  She had been here months and still hadn't made it there, and her roommate had lived in Panama City for a few months and would probably want to come too and could show us around.  What fantastic luck!

In the meantime, Jeannie lives in Bocas del Toro province, on Isla Bastimentos, just south of the Costa Rica-Panama border - why not stay a few days there on my way, and then head off together.

By some additional stored karma in my back pocket, Jeannie's friend works at a hostel in the main town, also confusedly called Bocas del Toro, on Isla Colon, and had just had a cancellation the morning of my arrival.  I would not be sleeping on the curb.

I was not, however, excited by the thought of staying in a hostel, although noted right away when I checked in that the grizzly fellow in the kitchen meant I wasn't the oldest one there.  I spent my first night in a dungeon on the main floor with no windows and three full bunkbeds.  I nearly suffocated, and had to go out into the night for some air.  As soon as reception opened in the morning, I secured myself a new spot upstairs, with windows.

Bigger map:  MAP II

Bocas del Toro town is a small town contained on the tip of land jutting out the bottom of Isla Colon.  Like Puerto Viejo, it is a bit of a backpacker-surfer ghetto, the main street crawling with tanned shaggy-haired young North American and European surfers walking barefoot around town, young backpacker couples renting bicycles to ride around the island, gangs heading off on boat tours to other islands to see animals or snorkle.  The main street is a mix of local and expat-owned restaurants, cafes, hostals, souvenir shops and food shops.  The rest of the town contains locals and real life.  And luckily my hostel, which was a couple blocks off the main street.

Carnival means business is closed for three days at the beginning of the week.  On Monday, the only bank machine in town ran out of money.  My hostel is next door to a house with a work shop out front, where strapping young lads have been working daily cutting, sanding, varnishing and putting together bunkbeds.  I've seem them subsequently dismantled, boards stacked and carried over a shoulder to the small speedboat dock, where they are loaded along with passengers onto the boat-bus to Isla Bastimentos.  Most places here don't bother with credit cards.

With only my emergency American cash (which, more luck, is mainly what is used in Panama), I was reduced to budgeting for the necessities of life (food, shelter and wine) until the bank opened on Wednesday afternoon, and my activity was limited to soaking in the town, going for early-morning runs, seeking cheap meals with Jeannie.

Jeannie at La Buguita Cafe on the water, one of my
favourites (next to the speedboat docks)

My kind of beach

My kind of brew pub

Starting with a ginger soda on tap - so fresh when it's 99C out!

One evening, I brought a few groceries home from the store, and perched myself up on the small third floor balcony of the hostel, on my own.  The thing about hostels is that everyone is so damn friendly and wants to know where you're from, where you've been, and tell you where they're from, and where they've been.  And they are at that age where it's about "what did you do", but not necessarily "what do you think" (I know, because I was there once too).  Sometimes, I really just don't want to talk to anyone.

My cup of luck had runneth dry it seemed, and the hostel owner landed on my balcony, chasing off tomcats come to deflower his young lady kitten.  We started chatting, and I found myself with a beer in hand discussing Panamanians and Panama life.  There was a bit of a special relationship between Panama and the USA during the 20th century, while the US fought off the Columbians, and completed and ran the Panama Canal.  As a result, a number of Panamanians served in the US Army, including Stefane the hostel-owner.  Retired now, with a good pension (his Afro-Caribbean roots naturally hide his age - I was shocked to learn he's 51, not the 40-ish I though he was), Stefane moved back to his Panamanian community and now runs a few businesses...

Smart, insightful and a love for sex, he's the town's sole sex shop, hidden in back of the beach clothes shop in the corner of the hostel.  When the local police conduct their rounds (as they did this particular evening), they often stay for an hour or two, each in one of the hostel's private rooms - Stefane charges a minimal fee, and asks only that they are considerate of his cleaning staff.  When Stefane started showing me pictures of himself on his phone (in the pool with his kids, in his army uniform), talking about his girlfriend, describing how they go about exercising their fantasies with a third party, and then asked if I want to join him and his friends later on for some Carnivaling, I decide it was time for me to go to bed.

People are fascinating.  This random conversation would not likely have taken the path it did where I come from.  We are a society of rules and "properness", although we have certainly relaxed over the years of my lifetime.  But no matter where we are from, I can't say that I've ever met, read about or heard of someone who doesn't like good sex.  Yet through "civilized" history, enjoying sex has been turned into a devilish evil.  Slavery is an evil.  The things that make each of us tick are as broad as the colour spectrum.  And rather than making us deviants from what in one person's eyes is normal, as long as it does not hurt or disrespect another it simply makes us one of the infinite shades on the spectrum.

Borderline Madness

Border Crossing, COSTA RICA - PANAMA
Feb.16, 2015
[MAP II]

It's summer in Central America - dry season, and that means hot.  It's supposed to mean no rain as well, but, like everywhere else in the world, the weather is a bit wonky these days.  I don't know what the temperatures are, I haven't checked since I got to the Caribbean Coast.  At night, I sleep with only a sheet on the bed; in the day, my longer-sleeved shirt is for sunscreen purposes only.  The temperature numbers don't matter, it's just hot.

I was beginning to understand why, in these lands, everything moves more slowly during the day - I blink and my eyelids sweat.  People often refer to 'Costa Rican time', which translates roughly to "I'll get there when I get there".

I left Costa Rica and crossed the border into Panama, which was no cooler.  If space is the final frontier, this border must have been the first one...

Before now, the most memorable border crossing I had had was going from Austria into Italy, 1999.  I was sardined on an overnight train, sleeping side-by-side, head-to-foot in a compartment with five other backpackers.  In the middle of the night there was a loud rap at the door, and a gruff voice shouted "Passaporrrtay!  Passaporrrtay!".  Discombobulated, we handed over our passports to a pair of large men.  The door to the compartment was slammed shut, and off they went.  With our passports.  It took a few moments to fully wake up, and realize I'd just handed my passport over to two large, round, bling-clad Italian-looking men in dark clothes.  Not a badge, coat, belt, or hat to indicate that they were anything official.  I got my passport back after a couple of hours (I hadn't been able to go back to sleep), and breathed a big sigh of relief a week and a half later when I was able to successfully exit the country.

This was different.  I took a shuttle van from Puerto Viejo in the morning to the Sixaola border crossing.  Out of the cool shuttle into the intense dusty heat of what looked like a tiny village - artisan craft stands, a couple little tiny restaurants, dogs trotting here and there, a few tiny shops.  The shuttle driver pointed to a window within a row of shops, indicating that was where to pay the "exit tax".  I lined up at the window, with a couple restaurant tables either side of me, and a counter for ordering snacks inside and left of the window.  I paid my "exit tax" and was given a receipt.

Hoisting up my pack, I climbed a set of rather uneven concrete stairs (big steps with a big pack on accentuates the unevenness) to an old railway bed, and walked along it towards the river where the Costa Rican immigration office was situated.  I stood in line again, this time to show the nice man my receipt, and get a stamp in my passport to indicate that I had officially left Costa Rica.  I set off on foot, again on the railway bed, to a bridge over the river, with the heat shimmering above the still-intact rail and ties.  Mostly intact - there were a few holes I stepped over, where I could peer down at the rushing river below.  No crocodiles in view.  I so badly wanted to take pictures of all of this, but, while I know Costa Rica does not have an army, I'm pretty sure Panama does.

I googled images of it, and apparently there are many people not afraid of unknown armies:

Costa Rica-Panama border crossing - a bridge over the Rio Sixaola
http://trans-americas.com/blog/2014/06/border-crossing-costa-rica-to-panama

Once across the river, I descended a steep path of sort-of-stairs from the railway bed to another similar-looking tiny dusty village.  I stood there looking lost, until someone pointed me to the immigration office, next to the liquor store.  This time, before getting stamped, I had to show proof I was leaving the country again soon - perhaps they don't want North Americans and Europeans squatting on their warm beach and jungle-filled paradises.  I had a print-out of my flights to/from Costa Rica, and had to pull out my best Spanish to explain why I answered "Calgary, Canada" when he asked where I was returning to, and why my print-out showed a flight from Costa Rica to Houston, USA - the Houston-Calgary leg was on the back of the page.  I'm not sure he got it, but he distracted himself instead with my middle name on my passport, Linda, which is also my mom's name and in Spanish is a common word for 'nice' or 'cute'.  I flashed him a nice cute smile, and got my stamp for official arrival into Panama.

There was a moment's respite from the sun when I crossed under the railway bridge to the bus stop for another shuttle van.  A short ride gave me my first glimpse of Panama, passing by acres and acres of banana tree rows and a shipping plant with stacks of "Chiquita" containers (grocery store code for bananas: 4011).  I was dropped at the boat docks in Almirante for a final boat ride, out of the smooth estuary to the the rougher bay waters surrounding my destination island in Bocas del Torro, Isla Colon.

Leaving Almirante by speedboat, heading to Bocas del Toro, Isla Colon

I don't think I've walked across a border before.  And I'm pretty sure that if this had been North America, there would have been red tape, blue tape, and yellow tape, signs, rope barriers and arrows, sniffer dogs and cat scans.  There would have been only one stop at the exit country, and one stop at the entrance country, with cameras watching all of us and a "randomly selected" target bag search for me (because I always get "randomly" selected).  And there would have been air conditioning.

Post-border-survival research tells me the Costa Rican exit tax was instated in December 2013.  Much chaos ensued, as the machines required to issue the receipts had not been installed at the borders yet, and people were refused exit until they traveled hours back to the nearest town with a bank which was able to issue the official receipt.  The tax was created to collect funds for border crossing improvements [1].

The Americas were populated first by indigenous people, next by European and African cultures.  How is it that the North turned out so differently from the Central and South??  Is it the difference between the French and English vs the Spaniards?  Or is it just the heat?

Waiting at the dock in Almirante, the locals are not shy

What To Do When it Rains in Paradise

Puerto Viejo, COSTA RICA
Feb.13, 2015

The rain is noisy, can't sleep - get up early.
Have a cup of coffee.
Write some emails to friends.
Let the cat help.
Pet the cat.

Have some more coffee.
Write.
When there's a break in the rain, walk to a cafe.
Have another coffee.

Enjoy the silent company of friends.

Write some more, people watch, yak with friends, watch the rain.
Order some lunch.
Have another coffee, with chocolate and almonds (made with real cacao straight from the plantation up the valley).

Watch the rain.
Go for a run in the light drizzle/mist/humidity.
Put on a nice dress, have a drink with the girls (turn down the offer of a puff from the very lovely 50+ couple at the Jungle Beach House celebrating their 30th wedding anniversary), and go out for dinner.

(Jenny's photo)

Lay in bed and listen to the rain falling on the tin roof.

Malvaceae Theobroma Cacao

Bribri Reserve, COSTA RICA
Feb.12, 2015

Chocolate.  What's the first thing you think of when you hear "chocolate"?  Hard thumb-size squares from a bar wrapped in tinfoil...  Chocolate cake (with chocolate icing)...  Brownies...  Chocolate covered almonds...  Hot chocolate...  But probably not this:

Malvaceae Theobroma Cacao

Meet the source of all that chocolaty goodness - the cacao tree.

The fruit on this tree contains the cacao bean, or seed, from which chocolate is created.  The Central and South American indigenous people first domesticated the tree and started making cacao a couple thousand years ago (must be one of many reasons they are a relatively content people), before the Spanish arrived and brought it back to Europe [1].

The Jungle Beach House gang, all avid fans of chocolate (who isn't?), spent a day inland in Bribri territory, expanding our appreciation for this common staple food by learning where it all comes from.

Upon arriving, we freshened up first with a drive and hike to some spectacular waterfalls, where crossing the river in the van meant driving right through it.  The young man driver then took us on foot over muddy trails, then up through the river to the falls.  While England is the land of ABC's, Costa Rica is the land of ABW's...

Hiking the path of least resistence - the river

The small things always seem to be the dangerous ones
in these lands - he's cute, but poisonous

The next river crossing was over a proper bridge, leading to the cacao farm where we were hosted by the local Shaman-in-Training.  Here, a shaman is one who knows the native plants and how to use them, and combines that knowledge with spiritual knowledge and practice to heal people from sickness and troubles.  Training starts for the chosen shaman when he is a child, and lasts for many years.  Interestingly, for the Bribri, clan lineage is passed down through the women [2], and they alone can prepare the cacao for sacred ceremonies.  However, only men become shamans.

This particular Shaman-in-Training is also an astute business man, inviting people to his clan's plantation, taking them on a tour of his gardens, explaining the cacao process through one of the English-speaking Bribri guides, and feeding them lunch.

The plantation

The cocoa tree fruit is actually a collection of white mini-fruits in the main pod, like a passion fruit, each with their own individual seeds.  The fruit tasted of not much, and was sort of jelly-slimy-ish, like a passion fruit.  I accidentally chewed and swallowed the seed as well - I missed the instruction about spitting it out - and it didn't taste at all like chocolate.  Yet.  

Our man holding the cacao fruit

Crushing the cacao seeds - I suspect the hollowed
stone table is a result of years of crushing

First, the thick rind is removed from the fruit.  The fruit is then roasted in the sun for a few days, where it ferments and falls away from the seeds.  The freed seeds continue to roast in the sun for another set of days.

After roasting comes crushing, which squeezes out oils and results in a chocolate paste.  This is easily rolled into little balls, often mixed with a bit of cane sugar juice, and ginger, cinnamon, vanilla, mint, chili peppers, almonds or other herbs and bits (we did a taste test of many of the varieties).

With no "un-natural" additives, this pure chocolate will not melt in the heat.








The farm does not only have cacao trees.  The Bribri are pretty self-sufficient, growing most of their own food, meat, and shaman plants.  And cosmetics.

The cool thing about Bribri cosmetics - it looks great on everyone, no matter what your colouring

Lunch:  chicken stew with potato, plantain and yucca

Coconut shell tea cups

After getting pretty, having some lunch, and sipping tea, our man took the four of us through his garden.  Each of us was given a leaf (from a plant I can't remember), and told to crunch it into a little ball and hold it squeezed into a hand until he told us to let go.  When he gave me mine, he looked at me and said "ah, you are quite sensitive".  Gak!  If I'm that obvious, no wonder poker is not my thing.

He explained the many uses of his plants, similar to the guide I met in Cahuita - apparently tamarind is a fantastic plant, internal, external, and it tastes real good too.  Again, it made me want to create my own garden!

When we were finally allowed to unfurl our hands, he looked at the colour the leaf had left on each of us.  Joanna's blue indicated she was a calm and cool soul.  My and Jenny's red indicated fiery and passionate.  Marie-Soleil's was colourless, so we all concluded she must be pure.

Red pigment on my hand from crushed leaf

With all of us agreeing (for the most part) that the colours were indeed correct indicators, I wondered: does calm people's blood actually run cooler than fiery people's blood?  A small bit of googling tells me that blood temperature can vary by person, as well for an individual throughout the day, for women and hormonal cycles, with health, with body parts (extremities like hand vs the core)...  What about skin temperature?  Sweat temperature?  Do different temperatures extract different pigments from the crushed leaf?

...I'm hungry - time to go make another feast.