Janus Lives Here

Panama City, PANAMA
Feb.25, 2015

Casco Antiguo (or Viejo) in Panama City is why I travel.  It's one of those places that has played a number of different characters through its history, and is in the midst of transforming itself into yet another.  The personalities it takes on are unique, not your typical type-cast small town, gentrified city, old town, etc.  It takes on multiple facets at any given time - tough, pretty, gritty, elegant, proud, unassuming - and it's the unique combinations of those various facets that make it so facsinating, including during transition from one character to the next.

UNESCO World Heritage Site
It is also a UNESCO World Heritage Site (in conjunction with the original European settlement on the other side of the skyscraper business centre of Panama).  This means it is "of outstanding universal value and meet(s) at least one out of ten selection criteria" [1] from the UNESCO criteria list.  For Casco Antiguo, it is its historical/colonial urban planning (ii) and architecture (iv), along with early (although unsuccessful) attempts at establishing a 'multinational congress of the Americas' (vi), prior to UN existence, that allowed it the UNESCO World Heritage status [2].  It also means it is protected and regulated by specific guidelines in order to preserve its cultural heritage.

In addition, Wikipedia tells me the UNESCO World Heritage designation "provides prima facie evidence" [3] through the Geneva Convention that these sites are legally protected during war.  How that would be enforced, or reprimanded if destruction does occur, I have no idea...

The Spaniards arrived in the early 1500's and established the first and oldest European settlement on the mainland Americas - Panama - on top of remnants of pre-Columbian settlements.  After being invaded by pirates in the late 1600's and burnt down, the settlement was moved to the decidedly nicer spot of what is now Casco Antiguo, where it prospered and grew into lovely stately colonial homes, apartments, businesses and churches, as well as home to the Presidential Palace.  After numerous more fires in the 1700's, and decline during urban expansion during the 19th and 20th centuries, Casco Antiguo (which translates to "Old (Historical) Quarter") faded into gang-infested poverty and disrepair. [2]

It's only been in the past 10 years or so that people have been putting money into restoring and revitalizing Casco Antiguo.  Piece by piece, in apparent random order, bits of buildings are bought up by investors for eventual restoration.  Word on the street is that it is most often foreign private investment and business, but the businesses do employ locals.

To find out what it was like 10 years ago, we called up a small venture called Fortaleza Tours to see Casco Antiguo through the eyes of ex-gang members, when this was their turf and most "other" people did not dare pass this way.

The Esperanza Social Venture Club was formed when five gang members from the Ciudad de Dios gang (named from the "City of God" gang in Brazil, on which the movie of that name is based) decided survival depended on cleaning up the neighbourhood rather than shooting it down.  A large police raid had recently invaded their gang base in an abandoned old building, where the gangs and their families were squatting.  When I asked Jafet, one of our ex-gang tour leaders, what in particular brought him to see this change, he said simply that, at the time, he had a new young daughter, and wanted to see her grow up.

American Trade Hotel - originally a business centre for US business and trade, before becoming abandoned
and taken over as gang lookout and squatter local, then being restored and re-opened in 2013 as a fancy hotel

(I did try to find photos of the building pre-restoration, but none surfaced...).

While the hotel's initial history as a trade centre is maintained
through the its name - American Trade Hotel, its gang history during
the 2000's is maintained in a hallway across the main entrance of the
hotel - lined with wallpaper made up of photos of the resident gang
emblems and member "signatures" which once covered the inner
building walls

Translator Saint James

Jafet and Chino (half Chinese, half Panamanian, hence his nickname "Chino"), the other ex-gang tour guide with us, spoke to us through Fortaleza's regular English translator, Saint James.  Saint James was a character unto himself, another Panamanian who lived a number of years in the USA and served in the US Air Force, before retiring back to Panama.  When he heard about the Esperanza Social Venture Club, and their efforts to support themselves and their families through the Fortaleza Tours initiative, he offered himself to them as a translator.  Perhaps through the bond of one battle-weary veteran to another.  He obviously knew them and their story well, for during the tour he quite often added information and insights, and cracked his own jokes.  Jafet and Chino did not smile much.

The walk took us back past our old haunt, the Nefarious Hostel Experience, at the edge of the neighbourhood El Chorrillo, which we were advised by Saint James "one does not go".  Victor, the owner, was outside.  To my relief, he greeted our wave and hello with a wave and hello back.  To my surprise, he greeted Jafet and Chino with handshakes and a quick chat.  A-ha...  The decrepit hostel...  Being restored...  What was Victor's story...?

At the end of the walk, when I thanked each of them, I said to Jafet that I would have liked to hear more about his own personal story.  I later read an article in the Huffington Post about Fortaleza, in which the author experienced the same feeling after going on the tour: "[Jafet] spoke about general conditions for poor people and gang members in the neighborhood, and how things have changed. He didn't speak too much about his own personal activities. A teardrop tattoo next to one of his eyes may be a clue to more of his past." [4]

After the tour, when conducting my regular ramblings, I saw the decrepit buildings next to the shiny sparkly restored ones with new appreciation.  They were the homes of many of the ex-gang families, who squatted there, decorating and furnishing to the best of their abilities with money they might make feeding tourists, perhaps working for the new businesses in town, and the proceeds of the Fortaleza Tours.  They were self-sufficient, figuring out how to get water and power of their own accord (ie. splicing wires into the town's main power lines).  When a new investor came along, and decided this was the building they wanted, the families were turned out and on their own to find and set up again somewhere else.

I didn't take pictures of the squatter homes, bullet-ridden walls, stoic-looking local people going about their daily home lives - although many happily waved to us, some chatted, as we made our rounds with Jafet, Chino and Saint James.

This is Casco Antiguo in character transition.  I'm pretty sure if one day I return, it will not be the same as it is in February 2015.

Postcard - doors of Casco Antiguo

The Downside of Ups and Upside of Downs

Panama City, PANAMA
Feb.25, 2015

Sometimes you take a sip of a cup of coffee, and it's just SO good...

Cafe Sucre - on the left

The blazing hot direct-overhead sun, along with heavy humidity in the air, drains the energy from you.  So, you can either a) take a nap in the afternoon (I actually did that the other day, and I actually even fell asleep), or b) find a good cup of coffee in a cool place.  I found such a place - Casa Sucre - in an old restored 1873 building, refurbished just right with some of the old stone walls still exposed, a few wooden antiques (piano, record player), a couch, chairs, wooden furniture that seemed to all blend, cool temperature just right.  And my "desk" at the window where I could write and watch.

I went there a few times, with the ladies as well as on my own.  But yesterday, on my own and just about to pack up and leave, a very tall, very dark and very handsome stranger asked me what I was reading.  I must have been humph-ing out loud and making lots of "so THAT's why..." faces.  When I told him "the Panama Canal" he said matter-of-factly that ok, he was going to give me a test.

A most scrumptious 'tomale' at my cafe 'desk' - yucca,
sweet potato, chicken, raisins, seasoning, wrapped
and baked in banana leaves

He had walked into the cafe about ten minutes earlier, and was heartily greeted with handshakes and "it's been so long!" by the staff, so I humoured him.  When I answered all his questions about dates and countries involved (to his surprise), I started asking my own questions.  When he answered all my questions about the politics and underlying reasons (to my surprise) and also provided his own theories, I figured he must be Panamanian.  But he spoke English well, which is not as common.  It turns out he had played minor league baseball in Alberta, somehow related to the Toronto Blue Jays farm team - he spoke no English when he first arrived.

How on earth does a Panamanian baseball player end up in Lethbridge, Alberta!?!  "Come and have a drink with me and I can tell you," he said.

Whoop whoop whoop go the alarm bells, fight or flight, fight or flight!?  I'm a slow twitch thinker, don't ever hire me into the secret service or something that requires quick action!  (He was retired from baseball, and now served in the presidential army - the presidential palace was just around the corner).

The solo female traveler connundrum: what to do when a nice man talks to you??  Part of the joy of traveling is talking with the interesting people you meet, because, (hit replay button) everyone has a story, and we all like stories.  A layer of complexity is added though, when the person is of the opposite sex, or same sex depending on your persuasion.  I really enjoy - and can get quite into - good conversation, but I have to be careful not to let that insinuate "I really like conversation with you in particular because I am attracted to you"...  Because that can lead to the eventual "come tell me about yourself" invitation, and the inevitable reciprocal "no thanks - I blah blah blah <insert reason>".  Awkward.  The "I have a boyfriend" response is lame, unbelieved, and often just elicits a response of "So?".

I had already told him I was on my way to meet my friends.  So after minutes of thought (in my head), which was actually only microseconds, I explained my friends and I had lots going on over our last couple days in Panama City, but were thinking of going to the Whiskey Bar around the corner later on this evening - he could come find us there as I was sure my friends would be interested in his stories about a non-English-speaking Panamanian playing baseball in Canada, and enjoy his company too.  I really meant that, but I often fail to recall that subtlety is an art form typically best understood within the female species.  But I really wanted to know the story!

The ladies and I never did make it out - Rasheedah joined Jeannie and I at the table in the hotel lounge where we were logisticizing (travel is regularly interspersed with bouts of logisticizing), and a box of wine was suddenly there too.  We got deep into conversation about the core of our existence: being a woman in a western civilization predominantly created by men.  The three of us were a group representing (not necessarily at the same time):  Chinese, Black, and White;  Baptist, Buddism, Catholicism, Muslim, and Spiritualism; corporate employee, self-employed, and retired; single, partnered, married, and divorced; left-brained, right-brained and combination-brained.  So you can imagine, there was lots to say.

Rasheedah, Jeannie, and a mighty fine box of wine

Anyway, today, I did not feel I could go back to the Cafe Sucre.  So, I wandered the streets
to another place where bonus:  I found one of those coffees where you take a sip, and it's just SO good...  And I guess I will never know from the fellow at Cafe Sucre, as Paul Harvey would say, the rest of the story.

SO good...  (that I bought some of the shade-grown
beans - from Panama - for my mom's birthday)

Canal Geeking

Panama City, PANAMA
Feb.24, 2015

I have been getting seasons tickets with a group of friends to the theatre in Calgary for years - it's as much about going for dinner and wine as it is about the show.  And I never want to know ahead of time what the show is or is about - it's my time not to have to plan or make decisions, I just know I'm going to the theatre to be entertained, to be given something interesting to think about.

I took the same approach with the Panama Canal.  I knew its undertaking and completion were both major feats of engineering, and for that reason I couldn't come to Central America without paying homage.  I didn't know much else.  And that made the trip to the Canal and museum pretty 'awesome' in the true sense of the word.

Watching the ships lined up for the Miraflores Lock, Panama Canal - from the outside observation deck

Pre-History:

Panama isthmus - http://www.billfrymire.com/gallery/
isthmus-Central-America.jpg.html

The country of Panama covers the narrowest section of the land-bridge, or isthmus, that connects North and South America [MAP II].

Incidentally, before the centuries-old canal idea could come to fruition, it was home to the first completed "transcontinental" railroad (47 miles!) of the Americas, 1855 [1].

Previous considerations for the canal had been researched by engineers from Spain (1500-1800's: access to Peru and gold during the explorer days), Scotland (1690's: failed efforts to become a world trading nation), and America (1800's: access to Californian gold rush), before the French took it on (late 1800's) after their previous success with the Suez Canal in Egypt [1].

Characteristics:
Distance:  80 km
Typical transit time:  8-10 hours
Elevation change from sea level:  26 metres
Locks:  3

The alternative - sailing around Cape Horn, the southern tip of South America:
Distance:  a few thousand km
Typical transit time:  2 weeks

Canal Tolls:
Cruise ships:  up to $400,000 US
Cargo ships:  $100,000 US on average
Sailboat/yacht:  $1,200 US
Swimmer:  $0.36 US*

* Richard Halliburton holds the Guinness Book World Record for lowest toll through the Canal, January 1928 [2] - it took him about 10 days, 50 hours total swimming time, and he went through the locks properly as if a ship.  Because the canal tolls are weight-based, his mere man-weight resulted in his $0.36 fee.

History:

The original French Engineering team - the fellow in
the second row, second from right, reminded me of
my friend Joe (photo of a photo at the museum)

Ferdinand de Lesseps, the man behind the Suez Canal, started a Panama Canal Company in 1880.  They began work in 1881 - digging, blasting, carting away the debris - but soon succumbed to poor initial planning and understanding of the geology, primitive equipment, the jungle and rainy climate, and yellow fever, malaria, and other illnesses.

In 1902–4, the United States bought the remaining assets of the Panama Canal Company, and finished the canal in 1914.

The 26 metres of elevation change from sea level, with the potential amount of blasting required to clear the way, was one of the bigger problems for the engineers to solve.  The end result was the three locks installed - one on the Atlantic side, two on the Pacific side.  For the really interested, Wikipedia has a good graphic showing both the route and the canal profile [3].  According to a plaque at the museum, with the amount of drilling that had to be done for the blasting, a hole could have been bored straight through the earth and 900km beyond.

Primitive equipment (photo of a photo at the museum)

Why:
Seems to me there is always an economic reason for the presence of the USA in foreign countries.  So why were they in Panama?

They were looking to build a canal across the Americas - maybe Nicaragua, or take over and hurry up the Panama construction from the French.  At the time, Panama was not a country but rather a state of Columbia, and the Columbian government would not grant the US a lease on the land for building the canal.  In the meantime, a little birdie told the US that Panamanian rebels were planning a revolt in order to separate from Columbia.  "Mwa ha haaa," said the US, "we'll send out the US Army to support the Panamanian rebels, recognize the new Panama, then sign a treaty with them providing access to the land to complete the canal"!  Panama subsequently remained a protectorate of the USA for nearly 40 years [1] - transactions in Panama today can be carried out in both American and Panamanian currency.

So THAT's why...

Owl Butterfly (mounted) - get it?

Butterfly aside:

The canal museum had a floor dedicated to the ecosystem of the canal route.  The name "Panama" has many interpretations, one being from an indigenous word meaning 'many butterflies'.  Given the number of Very Large and beautiful butterflies I was regularly walking with, I'd buy that...

From the canal observation deck:

Ship just entered into the lock

The lock doors (for the adjacent lane) - they are operated hydraulically,
and only when the waters are of equal heigh on both sides; the change
in water levels within the lock is controled by a set of hidden culverts

The ship, 16.5 metres lower - after less than 10 minutes - ready
to head out into the Pacific

Juxtaposition Face-Plants

Panama City, PANAMA
Feb.21-22, 2015
[MAP II]

Panama City is a fascinating city. The old town, Casco Viejo, is of quaint Spanish colonial buildings with their wrought iron balconies or fancy carved wood, pretty colours, elegant.  Round moorish windows and tile work are subtly integrated here and there.  A second look brings forth the places that once were lovely, but now are decrepit and falling apart - some have fallen apart - with fresh laundry hanging on lines across the windows.  Across the bay is the business downtown, with blocks and blocks of glassy skyscrapers.  Indigenous people in their intricate colourful clothing weave into the crowds of fair Spanish-like to dark indigenous-like faces, along with the occasional whitey tourist.  I find I am not comfortable in a new town until I walk around and get to know it a little.  Kind of like meeting a new person I suppose.

Iglesia La Merced - dating back to
the late 1600's

Renovated shop below, decrepit abodes above

The Moorish-style lobby in our second hotel -
Hotel Casco Antiguo

Now I can speak architect and use "juxtaposition"

General street juxtaposition

Catedral de Panama - completed late 1700's

Across the bay from Casco Viejo is Downtown Panama City

But I wasn't thinking that when I first arrived.  Our all-day boat-and-bus trip from Bastimentos Island, in Bocas del Toro, ended at midnight, six hours later than anticipated.  When the taxi dropped us off - Jeannie, her roommate Rasheedah, and me - at our little hotel, it was all closed up, nothing but police guards, chest-pounding beats from the nightclub next door, and a few random stragglers in the dark street.  Somehow, we made enough noise and managed to rouse the owner and his English translation-helper.  I was so happy we got in that my first doubts did not register until the young translator opened the door to our, um, room.  Ish.

Bunkbed - that was not in the pictures when we booked online.  Third mattress on the floor.  An old old board floor, crud in the cracks, a thick layer of dirt and dust along the walls where people do not regularly walk.  And then I saw the single chair.  Something out of an old airplane?  Much of the covering missing, a few patches and exposed filling, with a hair brush left on the patched part of the seat (the next morning, Jeannie thought maybe it was art).  If we had glanced up, we would have seen the gaping hole, water stains and cracks in the ceiling, along with the walls that rose only 3/4 of the way to the ceiling - we saw that later when we lay down to sleep.  It was a second to take it all in, but an eternity to try and rectify what we had booked online to the horror that faced us.  A quick tour of the "kitchen", shared toilet room, shower room, and all I wanted was to lay down, close my eyes and hide in my sleep.  What else can you do at 1:30am?  I must have been desperate for escape, because only a few minutes after putting in my earplugs, the next-door nightclub beats were gone and I was waking up the following morning to Jeannie and Rasheedah's chatting.

The chair

The bunkbed

Third mattress on the floor

Unfortunately, everything looked the same in the morning.  The daylight also introduced the broken furniture stacked in various corners of the place, a doorway blocked off with a tarp.  Jeannie and Rasheedah were already well into finding and calling other places, and I worked on cancelling the rest of our 5-night reservation (on the internet which wasn't yet working), still seething, still trying to rectify in my head the images I had seen on the internet with the images that were branded on the "are you <expletive> kidding me" section of my brain.

The ceiling

Victor, the owner, seemed like a nice enough quiet older fellow, and a young child (his grandchild?) was hanging around with him in the morning.  I decided the best thing to do was to talk to him in my still-sad Spanish.  When I relayed (I think) that the room was <ahem> not what we had expected, he showed me the rooms which had been photographed for the online booking tool (AirBnB) - they were currently all booked.  Ah, I see.  I told him I understood, but that based on what we booked and what we got, we were planning to leave.  We would pay him for our night ($14 each), but would like a refund on the rest (AirBnB would normally take the next night too, and only refund the ones after that).  He understood, graciously agreed to refund 4 nights, no problem.

I am still shaking my head, still don't get it - how could he think he could offer up the barely-hostal room in place of the rooms advertised!?  But, I am glad I went to talk to him rather than write up the scathing letter I planned to send with all the photos we took, along with a damning review on AirBnB.  Something about everyone trying to do the best they can with what they've got...  I did suggest that he be careful about what he advertises and delivers, at least until he finishes renovating.  For what it's worth.

The new hotel room -
Hotel Casco Antiguo

The new place we found, the boutique-y Hotel Casco Antiguo, had a room available for the three of us - it looked like a hospital room with its four single beds in a row, crisp new sheets, white walls, and black and white tile floors.  We all let out a big loud "Aaaaah" of relief when we saw it - it was the most beautiful white hospital-like hotel room any of us had ever seen.  And it was only $13.75 each per night, including breakfast, while the hotel was under renovations.

The serenity poem sums it up well:

Grant me the serenity to accept that I cannot always be in paradise,
The courage to seek out new paradises,
And the wisdom to appreciate the juxtaposition of paradise lost and paradise found.

...or something like that.

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.