“A long way from home...”

Swaying in the late afternoon breeze, high atop the hill, I lay in a hammock, gazing upon the waves breaking far offshore over the rocks of the reef at low tide. I sip a cold Balboa and take it all in. Not more than 300 kilometres from here, Columbus landed during his fourth and final voyage upon what he thought was Asia. Only a few years later, Balboa, for which the beer and currency hold the namesake, became the first European to view the Pacific Ocean, a sight which I currently enjoy from the comfort of my hammock. We’ve been so absorbed in our trip that it almost escaped us that we had already accomplished our goal. After all, the name of the blog was “in search of Panama”, and now here we are, resting comfortably in Panama. While sitting out over the reef this morning I was thinking about just how far we have come, and how long ago it seems our journey began. I remember the cold nights and long hours on the road traversing the US, and the initial fears and uneasiness of our first border crossings. Now we have become part of our journey, and what seemed like it would never happen, now appears to be commonplace. Living in paradise for so long changes one’s perceptions. You begin to expect the unexpected, and somehow experiences that once wowed and amazed, now seldom require a second glance. I suppose it’s the same as driving through the mountains back home and becoming frustrated with the throngs of tourists clogging the highway to get a glimpse of some bear or elk off the side of the road, when such instances are no longer new to ourselves.

Perhaps this means that the magic of the trip is beginning to fade, or that now we have reached the end destination that our thoughts can’t help but turn towards our return trip. I have to admit that I am not looking forward to many of the long driving hours ahead, as a lot of the places will no longer be new experiences and will fail to have that certain shine. But we still have some time in Panama, so I must try not to look too far into the future and focus on all the new wonders that surround us here at the moment. Just yesterday in fact, I marvelled at the sight of a rather large sea turtle that kept breaching the water beside me in the surf line up. The coffee table-sized reptile would emerge just long enough to gulp in a couple of mouthfuls of air before descending into the deep blue once again, as though we weren’t even there. The big swell is continually dropping each day, while the crowds remain, so it is fitting that we are scheduled to leave in a couple of days to explore the next peninsula down. We’re looking forward to getting down further towards Panama City and seeing the large ships go up and down the canal. Perhaps we’ll even take a boat tour and do the trip ourselves. It seemed a little expensive at first, but how often does one find themselves in Panama?

There is also a first class rail tour that you can take aboard the mighty Panama railroad from one end of the canal to the other and back in just 2 hours. During the California gold rush in 1849, this was the most popular route for Americans on the east coast to get to the west coast. They would board steam ships and travel along the coast, and make the 80 kilometre walk or train trip to the other coast, where they would then catch another boat up to California, thereby bypassing the dangers of the Indians awaiting in the central US. There is still a large portion of freight that is shipped along these tracks as an option to the expensive fees and size limits of the canal route. At the time of construction, the railroad was the most expensive line of rail ever built, coming in at just over 8 million dollars, while stocks in the railroad company held the highest price on the US stock exchange. So perhaps we will pretend to be wealthy 19th century industrialists following our expensive cargo, and make a round trip aboard the first class car at a cost of an exorbitant 38 dollars per person. Apparently it’s one of the best ways to see the canal.

A couple of days break from the long paddle out to and back in from the reef each day will do my body some good, and while Denielle is having a nice relaxing time hanging out around the magnificent grounds of our hotel, I think it will do us both some good to get to another place with more of a town atmosphere so we’ll have more to occupy our time with. And hopefully the next place will have more groceries than dried beans and rice. There are a few restaurants here, and tonight I think we’ll treat ourselves to 6 dollar pizzas again after last night’s 3 dollar meals. The food certainly is cheap, and the sun is relentless. It’s tough work living in a Corona commercial, but we’ll keep struggling.

Tyler.

“Heavy...”

Sitting high atop the hill at our Surfer’s Paradise lodging, you watch as the towering waves break over the shallow reef far in the distance. The distance between ourselves and the waves make it seem as though the barrelling giants are not very big at all, but the photo evidence afterwards, zoomed in, show the double overhead monsters churning through. One outside set catches everyone off guard out in the water, with set waves climbing towards the triple overhead mark. Surfers are getting barrelled left and right as the howling offshore winds shape up the peaks. Fear sits like a lump in my belly as I contemplate whether or not I will be going out into the line up. I decide to wait a day and hone my skills a little more at the beach break next door, having not surfed for a few days.

Our little hotel is situated in a very nice spot, on a nice clearing on a cliff overlooking the foreboding wave off in the distance. After walking all over the countryside in the thirty six degree heat that morning, we had packed up from our hostel in town and set up shop in the middle of this surfer’s paradise. After taking pictures for quite some time, Denielle and I take the surfboard over to the beach break, a short fifteen minute walk, where I would attempt to ride closeout after closeout wave. Some brief shoulders appear a little while later and I work on my late drops, getting ready for the reef break the next day. We watched a beautiful sunset, and then went into “town”, which consists of little more than a few houses and a couple of restaurants, to get some supper and go online so Denielle could talk with her sister before their big trip across Australia. We came back towards our hotel after internet and found a nice little pizza place where we tested two of Panama’s beers, Balboa and Atlas, which tasted surprisingly similar.

Bound and determined all night to at least paddle out into the line up if for nothing more than watching, I lay restless in bed. Having watched a few guys stand up after the wave is over in knee-deep water, the consequences were quite large. But in the words of Colin Gustafson, I didn’t come here to watch. So I woke up, had breakfast and made my way out into the water. The paddle out was close to a kilometre, and I donned my reef booties for the walk along the rocks towards the channel before beginning my journey. I kept telling myself that I would just watch, and maybe, if a wave came along that was just right, then I might paddle into it. After sitting amongst a large group of surfers, it became quite apparent that I would not be getting many waves with this many people in the water. There was one takeoff spot, and it was deep, steep and a little scary. The waves were a lot smaller than the day before, but still well overhead.

After getting frustrated for a while, I paddled inside to watch some guys get barrelled from the safety of the channel. This was quite a sight, and one that not many people get the opportunity to have. To see a guy take a late drop on an overhead wave and then tuck immediately into the tube directly across from you is quite amazing. I had just decided to paddle back home across the open ocean to our hotel when the crowds started to leave. Now there were just four people in the water. Well, I’m here, I might as well go back out. So I went into the line up and soon found myself in position for a little overhead wave. I paddled hard, and caught the wave, but knew that I was later and didn’t think I would make the drop. So I leaned back a little too far to await impact, and to my surprise, my board caught an edge and I engaged in a bottom turn. But my weight was too far back and I quickly face planted into the smooth wave face. Fear shot through my mind as I anticipated getting dragged over the shallow sharp rock reef. Boils would rise to the surface as the waves passed over the ever-present rocks. But to my surprise, I came up unscathed. However, I was now in the impact zone.

I paddled out hard towards the line up but took a few waves on the head, even hitting my board on a rock while duck diving under one of the rollers. It was hard, as I was getting pulled further inside with each set wave, but soon paddled out to the side and back out to the line up. That wasn’t too bad, so next wave that came, I went for, and caught early, made the bottom turn and raced down the face. It sectioned off in front of me, so I pulled up early and over the back. What a ride. My adrenaline was pumping. I got back into position and caught one more wave, slightly overhead, with a steep drop in. I made the bottom turn and raced down the face again. The wave face was incredibly steep, and I feared that I wouldn’t make it, but I had a lot of speed, and then I just began to relax. I reached out with my hand and dragged it upon the vertical wave face as I crouched down. I could hear the hollow air behind me, like wind in a tunnel as the wave barrelled over my back. I was in the barrel. Not fully so that I could see it, but it was a barrel none the less. I pushed forward and pumped up the face to gain speed and rode the wave until it ended. There would be no topping this, so I began my long paddle back to the hotel. I’ll have some pictures posted in a few days, as I just got in, so haven’t had time to post them. But there are lots of photos from the day before, of much larger waves, to pass the time until then.

Right now we drove a couple from Australia into town that are staying at our hotel. They flew into Bolivia and are bussing their way all the way to Los Angeles for their honeymoon. We’re going to try and find some groceries at a different store, although the restaurants are pretty cheap. After that we may go to the beach and regain the tans that seem to have faded with all of the sun safety business the past few weeks. I’m looking forward to going back into the water tomorrow and the next few days, and then it’s further west I guess, towards Panama City.

Tyler.

“Racing through the jungle at night...”

Softball-sized cane toads lethargically make their way across the road, while bats swoop just beyond the reach of the car. Everything we read says that you’re not supposed to drive at night, and perhaps this is why. The road really comes alive when the sun goes down. Horses, cows, goats, dogs, cats, and pedestrians of all sorts litter the edges of the twisty road, but we press on. Headlights don’t seem to work quite as well when the road goes up, down and around while shrouded in the cover of large tropical trees that remove the faintest hints of light cast by the sliver of a moon. A real traveller has no set plans, no deadlines, and so we find ourselves screaming across the Panama landscape at night, precisely what we were told not to do.

Earlier in the morning we had taken Nicole to the bus stop for her trip to San Jose, and then on to Liberia. Upon our return trip to the hotel to pack up our own gear into the car, I had noticed a couple of surfers unloading at Salsa Brava. Not ten minutes later we had returned, and I told Denielle that we could watch the infamous wave for a while, as the swell had apparently picked up, and Panama undoubtedly could wait another ten or fifteen minutes. I didn’t mind eating my words about the big wave not living up to its reputation during our brief trip, as it was quite a sight to behold the tiny incoming waves undergo metamorphosis into eight foot barrelling giants in the span of a few seconds from the safety of the reef’s edge next to the road. We waited until we saw a few larger sets come in, and saw a couple of the surfers get barrelled and emerge victorious on the other side. Then we were back into the car and Panama bound.

Soon leaving the rough potholed roads of Puerto Viejo, we were on the number 36 highway south towards Sixaola, deep through the heart of banana country. As the car followed along the edge of a valley, you could look to your left to see vast fields of banana trees as far as the eye could see. If someone were to get malaria in Costa Rica, this is probably the best chance you would have. Just before ten thirty in the morning we arrived to the edge of a very large train bridge that marked the entrance to Panama. A very large black man gestured for us to park our car, so we obliged, and were led towards the aduana to get our car paperwork done and our exit stamps on our passports. Then we were back in the car, straddling the precarious crooked tracks in the middle of the bridge on our way across the river, while pedestrians hugged the sides of the bridge with scantily more than a few centimetres clearance to spare. On the other side of the bridge there was a fumigation area, so we parked the car and had all those pesky critters blasted off with some kind of heinous chemicals. In addition, a gentleman wearing a mask sprayed a container inside of our car. It’s ironic how he is wearing a mask, but its fine for us who have to be in the car for several hours with the noxious fumes. To our delight, the paperwork and entry on the Panamanian side of the bridge goes quite quickly and without concern, except a brief encounter with the overweight migration lady who wants us to buy a bus ticket to return to Costa Rica. It’s the law in Panama that you have to show some way back out of the country, but I told her we have a car and would be driving back, which she only seemed to understand after I stated it a few more times over the next ten minutes. All in all we were just over an hour at the border, paid $15 in fees and $15 in helper fees, probably our cheapest crossing yet.

Our destination for the day was Bocas del Toro, a chain of islands in the Caribbean just below the Costa Rican border. There is also an old Survivor set left on one of the islands from the reality television show. We had planned on leaving our car on the mainland and taking a water taxi to the islands for about five days. Wherever the ferry location is, we were unable to find it after asking directions from several people and driving aimlessly for approximately an hour and a half. When the last set of directions took us to a big highway that crossed the river that we were supposed to be taking out to the Caribbean and further onto the islands, I cut our losses and proceeded to the other side of the country to Santa Catalina. Bocas del Toro would have to wait for our return trip. Having lost an hour entering Panama with the time change, we were not sure how far we would make it, but a lack of suitable lodging along the way had me gunning the throttle and making haste for the Pacific. Swell forecasts had shown a 5 star swell rating all week here, with 21 second periods, making for powerful surf and clean big waves. So the sweet siren song of the ocean called us along the highway.

We climbed quickly up the eastern slopes which were densely vegetated with every kind of tree and plant imaginable. Rain had been sporadic throughout the day, and no doubt they had received the same torrential downpour of biblical proportions that we had awoke to at 5 in the morning in Puerto Viejo, so the roads were all wet and the ditches full of water. When the rain did subside for brief periods, misty clouds clung low to the hill sides, as our elevation steadily rose throughout the afternoon. A couple of pit stops were taken to photograph some of the beautiful landscapes and give relief to the bladder. After it appeared that the road would continue to climb forever, we reached a grand plateau, and everything amongst the landscape was transformed. Gone were the towering canopies of a trillion shades of green, replaced with a mixed open forest dominated by large needled pine trees. If one were to drug someone and bring them here in their unconsciousness, they could easily be led to believe that they were presiding in the interior of British Columbia. The road slowly descended from the plateau towards the pacific, and with the wonderful condition of the highway and lack of any traffic, our intrepid Matrix devoured the kilometres to the coast.

Time was not on our side however, and it became quite apparent that we would not be making it to our destination before the sun had set. In addition to this we were faced with Panama’s decision to not provide any road signs that might indicate which turns we needed to make along the way, so our journey was fraught with stalls and delays while we pulled over to ask the locals the direction to the next town on our route. This brings us to the crazy night driving of a man on a mission, driven solely by the hunger in my belly and need to reach our destination. Just after 8 pm, a full hour and a half after last light, we arrived in Santa Catalina, to find a quiet town nearly shut down for the night. We checked one set of cabinas which were very nice, satellite television, air conditioning, and kitchen, but a little out of our price range at $55 per night. I asked for a better deal if we were to stay for the week, but the girl said she would have to talk with the boss. Not expecting a drastic price reduction, we continued on to the only other lodgings open at that time, and are presently sitting inside our room at the Rojo hostel, just off of the beach. We’ll be here for at least one night, and then check out some other options during the daylight in the morning, perhaps after a surf.

Tyler.

“Salsa not so Brava...”

Salsa Brava is the name of a very heavy wave in Puerto Viejo. The name translates to Brave Sauce, and brave sauce is needed indeed for those that tempt fate by riding this wave. This has been the only place surfing that I have seen people wearing helmets in the water. The wave itself breaks over a very shallow coral reef, just outside of the main town. Swells generated in the Caribbean Sea travel from the east through relatively deep water before encountering the sudden rise in the ocean floor, causing the wave to increase greatly in height and pitch forward onto the reef, often forming perfect hollow barrels. Sometimes the power of the wave sucks the reef dry, meaning that the base of the wave drops below sea level, exposing the sharp reef to the detriment of whoever may be riding said wave. This is a wave for the experienced or foolhardy, and I dare not set foot nor fin upon it as it beckons. Right now however, there is not enough swell to form any waves on Salsa Brava, so I would be content upon the beach brake mush at Playa Cocles down the road.

After enjoying a week in Dominical, we made the cross country trip to Puerto Viejo on the Caribbean side. I had been looking forward to returning to Puerto Viejo nearly ten years later, as I had spent a month here with Ray and Peter, and had many memories of the area. One of the first hotels we checked into was the Hotel Agapi, run by a Greek man and his Caribbean wife, where I had stayed for an entire month with my two friends for $350 or $400. I was very pleased upon returning to find the wife Cecilia still there to show us around. I was somewhat frightened that she may remember me while touring an apartment suite identical to the one that I had stayed in before, as a few nights of mischief and some accusations of missing dinnerware had us leaving on not the best of terms. The price of $85 per night this time around however had us continue on our way for cheaper lodgings. The next day my focus would turn to the surf, although my expectations were rather low after leaving the pacific. My last sunset session in the water before leaving Dominical resulted in an injured shoulder due to some overconfidence in my duck diving abilities. Some overhead sets came through just as the sun was setting and I found myself caught inside. Earlier in the session I had successfully ducked under a rather large wave that broke right in front of my face, so I went into this slightly larger wave with gusto. I’m not sure what went wrong, but the wave forcefully removed me from my surfboard and decided that it would be best if I went tumbling under water in the other direction. The ocean also seemed to know that I hadn’t done any yoga for quite some time, so it took my right arm from off my surfboard and placed it ever so forcefully back behind my head. Ouch. I frantically tried to avoid several more large set waves in the near dark while the pain in my shoulder panged with every stroke. After wondering whether I would catch a wave before it became completely dark, I managed to get aboard a smaller roller that carried me back towards shore. So now I had two injuries in two days, and would become good friends with the ibuprofen bottle.

That morning we had left Dominical just after 8 am, not knowing for sure how long our journey would take us. Creeping up the twisting roads towards the continental divide, the temperature dropped steadily from the 30 degrees that had already accumulated in Dominical when we had left. The lowest the thermometer read was 11, just before we started making our way back down again. Quite a bit before that bone-chilling temperature, we had entered the realm of the clouds, and received a fine mist of rain which we had not been accustomed to for our entire trip thus far. We passed along some amazing views from high atop the mountains, and took a little break in the city of Cartago to look at a church, then continued along our way. We ate lunch just before Limon on a roadside soda for some of the cheapest food that we’ve had during our trip, though Denielle may have paid the real price later in the evening vomiting all over the bathroom. After driving across a couple of old railroad bridges on the wrong path, we soon found the road again and came into Puerto Viejo with a little time before sunset. The temperature was a cool 24 degrees, a nice change from the constant sweat inducing heat, both day and night, of the south western coast.

The water temperature of the Caribbean was cooler as well, as we soon found out the next morning. Overcast skies and cool Caribbean breezes helped to shape the surf into a messy pile of confusion. Nicole took Denielle’s board into the water for a while, but soon became frustrated with the 9 second swell. There’s scarcely time to catch your breath when waves are coming in every 9 seconds and you don’t know which way to turn. It took me a while to figure everything out as you would paddle for one wave, miss it, then turn around only to find another one directly behind it. Some prey confuse their predators by overwhelming them with sheer numbers. There are so many options available that the predator fails to hone in on just one, and ends up getting nothing. That’s the way that I felt out in the water, as though the ocean is throwing everything it has at you in hopes that you leave empty handed. You would try to turn and paddle for one wave, but then another would look better just the other direction and slightly behind, and then another still would be coming a tiny bit later. I soon figured out to select one of a set well in advance and hope that it worked out. The waves grew quickly as the beach was quite shallow, so you had to be on your game to stand up quickly before getting pounded into the sand, but then the wave would quickly fizzle out. So you would jump off into the knee to waist deep water and paddle back out again. There were a few longer rides however, and good times were had despite the ever growing crowds throughout the session.

That night we went into town and caught a movie at the internet cafe. A large screen is set up across the road, and you just have to purchase at least a dollar’s worth of goods from either the internet shop or the liquor store up above. So we got some seats during the last quarter of the new Star Trek movie, and caught Avatar in its entirety. The movie wasn’t the only entertainment, as soon two police on motorcycles came up the street and appeared to be watching the movie. These were soon followed by a police pickup truck full of police that all hopped out and came towards the crowd. They singled out two guys for some apparent reason and handcuffed them to the back of the truck. Then the police hopped in the bed of the truck with them, and drove off.

Today we took the car down to Punta Uva, a small beach about 8 kilometres south for some relaxing and snorkelling, sans snorkel. I remember walking here with Peter about 10 years ago to surf over the super shallow reef. So this time, with flippers and goggles in hand, I swam out and saw a plethora of tiny brightly coloured fish making their way around the different types of coral. Perhaps the most amazing site was a jellyfish about the size of a golf ball, gracefully making its way across the reef. I got close but not too close for fear of a nasty sting. We packed up from the beach and went down to Manzanillo where we had some gourmet French cuisine. Although I’m pretty sure you can’t claim gourmet when you use white bread from a store-bought loaf. Anyway, the crepes we had for desert were quite good. We returned to Playa Cocles, just outside of Puerto Viejo to watch the surfers before sunset. While the waves were less than half the size of the previous day, it was a nice relaxing end to our relaxing day. Now we’re headed back into town for a while, as Nicole is organizing an intra-country bus ride from the southeast to the northwest tip to catch her plane back home the following day. We’ll be heading off to Panama in the morning, and off to Boca del Toro for some island adventures.

Tyler.