“Mexican standoff...”

Heading back from Playa Bruja in the evening, we start to encounter traffic as we approach the main part of Mazatlan. As the car rounds the corner I see a police officer walk out from behind a pulled over car and wave me down. Great, I think, here we go again. By now we are very accustomed to being pulled over for no reason as they see us coming and want to check out our papers. But this is Mexico. The officer says I was speeding and that I’ll have to pay a ticket. He’s got my driver’s license and says that I can get it back in a week if I pay the fine, or I can pay it right here. Are we in Acapulco again?

I tell him that it’s illegal to take my driver’s license, that it’s my personal property and that it’s not legal for the police to take my property. So then he tries to explain that it would be very difficult to find the police station and make the payment. He asks us where we’re staying and how long we’ll be here and that we probably won’t have time to pay the fine properly. I then proceed to tell him that we have driven all the way down to Panama and all the way through Central America, and are now on our way back to Canada. I tell him that we’re only in Mazatlan now because we are waiting for our headlight to show up at the Toyota dealership so we can get out of Mexico. Then the standoff begins. I just stare at him as he asks if we’re going to pay. He repeats himself, and I stare him right in the eyes. I can wait here all day, and you can tell that he’s getting fidgety. So he looks down at his paper pad one last time and then his shoulders drop in defeat as he says be careful and hands back my license. Victory. No ticket.

We managed to arrive in Mazatlan Tuesday night before the Toyota dealership closed, and therefore were able to get two badly needed front tires put on and had the headlight ordered. We have an appointment for Friday morning to put the new headlight in. That should be done by 10:30 in the morning, and since it is now light out until 8 at night, we may still be able to make it to the border on Friday, less than 800 kilometres away. For now though, we’ll spend another day at the beach like yesterday, with some powerful head high surf rolling through. Tyler’s last ride part two and three.

Tyler.

“Vibradores...”

Back in the land of speed bumps, sweet dirty Mexico. I suppose there are pros and cons involved with the speed bumps. While they are extremely annoying and absolutely everywhere, especially when you finally achieve a decent driving speed, they also give an opportunity for passing when there is nowhere else to pass. Leaving Antigua behind that morning, after taking another picture for the "Our Canada" magazine, we soon climbed high between the volcanoes to an altitude of 3015 meters. For those of you keeping score at home, the highest point on the TransCanada Highway is Kicking Horse Pass at 1630 meters. This road is higher than any mountain I have climbed thus far. We zipped along the highways with very little traffic, being limited in speed by the threat of careening off the side of the mountains, and soon arrived at the Mexican border in a mere four hours. The crossing lasted 16 minutes and cost us 6 dollars for fumigation, a new record perhaps, although we did not need to go to the aduana on the Mexican side as we already had the papers.

Just when I thought the roads could not become any more tortuous and twisty than those of northern Guatemala, we entered the mountains of southern Mexico, climbing high into the hills and descending deep into the valleys. Dry pine tree forests soon gave way to thick carpeted greenery as the humidity level rose with our descent towards the Gulf of Mexico. Eleven and one half hours later we are now sitting in a hotel, somewhere in Mexico that starts with a P, just south of Villa Hermosa, about 650 kilometres outside of Mexico City. Soon we will join up with the toll highways and will be cruising towards the capital, which I might add has more people than all of Canada in one city. I’m a little scared about getting around that monster, but we’ll burn that bridge when we come to it. No luck yet in tracking down a headlight, but we keep driving in the dark for some reason.

Tyler.

“Nine dollars and twenty four minutes...”

The day started out with a trip to the local cafe for some papaya smoothies and some internet. We needed to phone to extend our travel insurance and Denielle needed to figure out why Star Choice Satellites, now owned and operated by Shaw, decided to place a seven hundred and twenty dollar charge on her credit card on March 19. Several calls later, a dispute was made on the charge, along with the typical who knows what is going on attitude from Shaw. The highlight of the morning was when the horse tour guy with one cloudy eye fell into the room and knocked over a chair because he was that drunk at nine in the morning.

After sending off and email to the Toyota dealership in Mazatlan for the possibility of getting a headlight for the car, we returned to our hotel and began the wait for our car to be ready. When high noon came around, the prearranged time, I strolled through the hot streets down to the auto body shop. One and a half hours I was told, so I went back. Then, at 1:30, I returned to find the car not done, so I sat in plain view and tried my best to look antsy. By 2:30 our car was done, minus the headlight, and we were packing up the car. We filled up with gas and then made the short drive to the border, arriving right at 3. Twenty four minutes and nine dollars in fees, a new record on both accounts, and we were through both sides of the border. Alas, we soon encountered some traffic, a nasty motorcycle versus big truck accident complete with body bag, and the setting sun just as we pulled into Guatemala City with our one headlight.

Just when I thought we had made it through the bustling Saturday night metropolis, the road curved and led us into two hours of not knowing where the heck we were. A few frustrating marital moments later, culminating with an accidental door to the head, and we arrived in Antigua at ten. A late supper at the edge of the night club scene and then back to the hotel where we are now ready for bed and an early morning to enter Mexico. We’re coming home.

Tyler.

“We can drive it home...with one headlight...”

Stranded in Honduras with nothing to do, when life hands you lemons, you get drunk on two for one Cuba Libras and cheap six packs. We had been told that the car would be ready today at noon, so when we went to check on the car this morning, heavily hung over and trying not to throw up, we received the news that they were still waiting on the headlight from somewhere in the ether north of the border in Guatemala. When we returned later this afternoon, after having a nice hot nap while the power and thus the fan was out, we soon learned that there were no headlights for our car model in Central America. So the husband of the lady who marred our beautiful intrepid matrix offered to give us money to buy a headlight when we returned to Canada or the U.S. of A. So now the car is rumoured to be completed and delivered to our hotel doorstep, the initial scene of the crime, at noon tomorrow, leaving us in Honduras for one more day.

I had begun to worry that if we didn’t leave this town soon that I would have to buy a cowboy hat and buttoned shirt to fit in. But now we’ll be back en route to Guatemala tomorrow to Antigua, and then it’s on to the blistering pace to return us home in a hopeful 8 days. We’ll see how it goes.

Tyler.

“Guatemala must wait...”

Just as we were getting things packed up to leave for Guatemala this morning we heard a loud bang, but thought nothing of it. Having decided to sleep in until almost eight in the morning as our drive for the day was not that long had resulted in us staying in Honduras for at least another day. The maid knocked on our door and said something about the car. I said I didn’t understand what she was saying so she led me to the street. As I descended the stairs I saw a crowd of people standing on the street’s edge, looking at the crumpled front left side of our car. Someone had backed into it, and now the left headlight was smashed, the bumper was hanging a little low, the hood had been pushed in and slightly up, and the driver’s side door caught a little when opening. But the car started up, and although parts were dragging on the tire, we were able to drive it to the mechanic’s who says it will be fixed by noon tomorrow. So here we sit for another day in Honduras. We don’t have insurance on the car, but the husband of the lady who hit it is apparently taking care of it. Hopefully they do a good job and we are able to continue on with our journey safely.

Tyler.

“Where the sun doesn’t shine...”

If the countries of Central America were parts of a body, then Honduras would be completely engulfed in darkness when that body sat upon a chair. There’s not much to like about the country, although I suppose we haven’t given it a fair chance, but first impressions have not been great. The border crossing this morning had Denielle throwing forty dollars in frustration at a man in a shipping container that was typing out our car registration. I won’t elaborate beyond that, but needless to say we spent entirely too long waiting for things to happen, and would later be forced to race across the country to make up lost time. The upside of the whole situation is that we now figured out that “aduana” is Spanish for spending lots of money to sit and wait and not really understand what’s going on.

Later in the afternoon we were soon making sketchy passes on blind corners, following large trucks doing the very same. Weaving in and out of traffic, quick bursts of acceleration were followed by rapid braking to gain space by space as we wound up and down the low rounded mountains surrounding the capital. A quick glance may lead one to believe that we had passed through Kamloops, as the dry mountains were dotted with widely spaced Ponderosa Pine trees with scrub brush and grasses interspersed underfoot. Prior to our adventurous drive however, we became entangled in the mire of road construction that greatly impeded our forward progress. I will say, however, that the capital city of Teguicigalpa was the easiest city by far to pass through, with one thoroughfare winding along the outskirts with nary a traffic light or speed bump to be seen. Immediately upon the other side of the city was where we encountered our first construction-related setback. The precarious roadway is apparently subject to frequent landslides, and as we would soon see, sections of road completely missing, forcing crews to cut a new one out of the mountainside.

Unlike our previous traverse across Honduras during New Year’s Day, this trip had us encounter numerous police check stops, four of which we were asked to stop for. But everything seemed to be in order, and we were quickly back on our way. A brief respite at Wendy’s to refuel, and we realized that we would be squeezing it close with the setting sun, and although I was trying hard to keep an average of eighty kilometres per hour, the heavy traffic was making it difficult. Getting ever so close to our destination of Copan, the evening sun had started to dip below the low clouds on the horizon, setting the heavens on fire in shades of bright orange and yellow. Vampires come out at night, everyone knows that, and here we are in the spooky haunted remains of the Mayan empire. So as the sun crept lower, my foot pressed harder on the gas pedal, and we soon found ourselves safely in the confines of the city without a moment to spare. Tomorrow it’s off to Antigua, Guatemala, so we only have 3 countries left before Canada.

Tyler.

“Tyler’s last ride...”

I could almost hear my joints squeaking out in the water, like a rusty old door hinge that had not seen oil for too long. That’s what I’ve become in the last two weeks with no surfing; a rusty hinge bobbing out in the waves. Two weeks ago I had left Cambutal feeling like surfing was as natural as walking down the street. I felt as though the surfboard was just an extension of my own body, but now after only two weeks without it, it felt obscure and alien to me. Not only that but I had picked up a head cold in the last two days from all the stress of the border crossings and long drives, so the paddle out had already left me exhausted. This was supposed to be my last session out in the water, one last memory of surfing to stay with me, to remind me of our wonderful trip, one last great ride to top off this whole experience. Now I wasn’t even sure if I would catch a wave.

We had finally found Popoyo after getting a little bit lost the day before. Several stops to ask friendly roadside Nicaraguans how to get to where we were going had us pulling up to the beach in the late afternoon. There was plenty of time to unpack and take a quick stroll around the beach to find the waves. We walked south a long ways and found where Popoyo proper was, but it was crowded with people, being a Sunday night. So we returned to the hotel, and I prepared my board, and then walked to the northern point of the beach. The typical offshore winds that we had dreaded a few months ago were nowhere to be found, and replaced with some onshore winds that were making the waves an ugly choppy mess. I was weak with the cold and a little foggy-headed with the cold medication, but this was my second last day of surfing. So I got in the water and paddled out and proceeded to have the Pacific Ocean dumped upon my head with closeout wave after closeout wave. This sucks. What a way to end the trip, I thought. The currents were strong and the waves were very unpredictable. I began to wonder if I would be able to get back in. But along came a wave, about head high, nothing too scary, so I went for it. I popped up to my feet and made the steep drop, only to have the wave break on either side of me. No ride to be had, but I at least felt some vindication for making a late steep drop. I then caught some white water in and called it a day to enjoy the sunset.

That brings us to this morning. After sleeping for a very long time to try and rest up and get rid of my cold, Denielle and I had a late breakfast and packed up the car to drive down to Popoyo. I had her take the camera to get some pictures of my last ride, kind of a special moment, an end to a big part of the trip for me. We parked the car by a restaurant and made the walk along the beach and across the river to break. There were a handful of people out in the water, and a lot of big rock shelves exposed at low tide. The swell was still head high, with some occasional overhead sets pounding in, but the waves were breaking predictably in the same spot, over a submerged rock reef. I paddled out, and while I had initially felt rested from sleeping in, I soon felt exhausted perched upon my board at the edge of the line up. I sat there and watched for quite a while, letting my body recover while I learned where the wave was breaking and what it was doing. A small offshore breeze had the wave breaking relatively late, and you had to catch it fairly far on the inside, but then the wall would hold up for a long ways, giving a very satisfying ride from the looks of things. I paddled for a couple of waves that came further to the outside, but just missed them. I would have to mix it up from the inside with the others. You could see boils in the water with each passing wave as the rocks underneath made their presence known. Not a place to be foggy-headed. Finally I caught a break when all the others were too far inside, so I turned around and got up on a wave. It almost felt like I was controlling my body through strings like a puppet, not quite in control, nothing feeling very natural, but I managed to make the drop and was up riding the wave. This was great. I made a few turns, this way and that while the wave slowly decreased in size as it approached the shore. I turned too far in front and lost all my momentum and fell as the approaching white water was not enough to get me going again.

I paddled back out and soon caught another, this time the puppet strings a little shorter, feeling more natural, I was back in control. This wave was slightly bigger, and I rode it for a long ways, even getting in a roundhouse cutback turn towards the white water and continuing along. I paddled back out again and made the decision to go for one more, one last wave. That’s a lot of pressure to put on one wave. What if the wave is small or doesn’t go anywhere, what if I fall on it too soon? But alas, here it came, after waiting for a long time as the others caught waves in front of me, I was able to paddle inside and get up on this wave. I could see the wall holding up way down the line and knew if I could stay up that this would be a long ride. I turned gracefully back and forth, going with the wave, coming back to the white water to let the wave build again, and rode it all the way towards shore. I got off, and stepped on the rocks just a couple of feet beneath, then paddled further over and exited onto the sand. A very nice three long rides to end what has been a great trip full of wonderful surfing has left me happy, though exhausted with my cold. And now, while I type, we watch perhaps our last Pacific Sunset of the trip, for now we are to head inland and make a speedy return home. So hopefully the border crossings go well and we find ourselves back in home territory before you know it.

Tyler.

“Bridge out...”

The hot sun baked down upon me, standing just in front of the car high atop the old railway bridge, officially in no-man’s land between Panama and Costa Rica. Thankfully I had decided to wear pants that morning, so the heat factor was that much higher. It was still relatively early, far too early for stagnant heat like this. You would think that there would be some kind of breeze in the middle of a bridge, but alas, there was none. So I stood there and waited as the sweat pooled out of every pore in my body. We had gotten up early on the island, trying to make the 8 am boat back to mainland Panama. Arriving just in time, we paid our four dollars each and climbed aboard, making the short trip in. A taxi then took us back to our car, and by 9 in the morning we had arrived at the border crossing.

The exit from Panama went smooth, less than five minutes to hand in our papers and get our passports stamped. I had been a little bit worried that there might be some issues with my unpaid seatbelt ticket, but just as I suspected, technology had not entered this part of Panama yet, and I had escaped as a fugitive. We fetched the car and drove up to the bridge entrance, carefully positioning the wheels on either side of the old railway tracks and slowly crept across the bridge behind a few Costa Rica bound pedestrians. Three quarters of the way across we were forced to stop as a work crew was repairing the very bridge we were driving on, with about a four foot gap missing in the support beams underfoot. How long would this take? We had planned on getting up to Liberia, the far opposite end of Costa Rica so that we could get into Nicaragua in the morning, but the lack of bridge could foil our plans. I got out and asked the workers how long it would be before we would be able to drive across. Half an hour, maybe even fifteen minutes the one worker said. I optimistically gathered the paperwork and left the car behind, hoping that when we had obtained our entry stamp that the work would be done. While waiting in line behind all kinds of hippies and degenerates making the trek into Panama, I could see that a couple of other cars had now pulled up behind ours. So I left Denielle behind to wait in line and get the passports stamped in case the bridge opened up. So now I’m left standing, in front of the car, slowly soiling my clothes with sweat from head to toe as the fifteen to thirty minutes passes.

The lead worker called out commands to the others while they shifted and moved the cover planks around so that he could trim each one with the chainsaw he had in his hand. Giant pry bars were used to move the big support beams into position under the old tracks, and soon everything was in place. I moved the car over the newly repaired bridge and into a little cubby in front of the immigration office just before the fumigation archway. Bewildered hippies shot angry glances as I corralled them against the fence, allowing the other vehicles behind to pass while we proceeded to enter the nightmare of bureaucracy at the border. The problem with these border crossings is that a lot of people don’t know what they’re doing, and this is especially the case at the smaller crossings where they may not encounter things like two Albertans far from where they live with a suspended car import permit so that they don’t have to buy a new one. So the immigration lady got on the phone and made some calls and then told me which forms I would need to photocopy and where to get new car insurance. I walked through the border unabated by any sort of police or security, and walked over to the pharmacy where I was to purchase the insurance and get photocopies. Of course the immigration office that needs copies of everything wouldn’t have a photocopier, that wouldn’t make any sense at all. So the pharmacy told me that their photocopier was broken. Returning to the immigration empty handed and with a small fear resting like a pit in my stomach that we wouldn’t be allowed to enter until we found some magical photocopy machine, I presented my case to the lady. She said there was another copier downstairs of the pharmacy. Of course there is. So back I went, across the border and into the pharmacy. I couldn’t buy the insurance until I had the required photocopies of the sheet the immigration lady had just handed me, so they pointed me towards a building down by the river, below the border bridge. Great.

I walked down below the bridge towards a house with a red roof, where there was a lady cutting a little kid’s hair. Do you photocopy here? Yes she said. So I went in, got my copies for twenty cents, and returned to the immigration office to pick up the other documents I needed for the insurance from our file folder, and crossed through the border once again. I filled out all the information on the pharmacist’s computer for her, all the passport numbers and names and country information, VIN numbers and make and model of the car, just so I could pay her $15 for the effort. I walked back to the immigration office, tired but satisfied, only to be given another copy of our car import permit, the new one, which I needed to go photocopy for them. Of course they needed a photocopy. We got to keep the original, but I had to go get their copy for them. So I walked back under the bridge to get my copy, both sides, when the scanning printer they were using broke down. Meanwhile another guy came in asking for a passport photo, so the Dad that was helping me out this time handed a small digital camera to his son, maybe all of six, who went and took the picture while he fixed my printer problem. I got my copy and wasn’t even charged as I guess the guy felt bad for making me wait. I returned to immigration, handed in the copy and we got into the car and entered the fumigation. Just on the other side the man running the fumigation said something to me about having to go back to immigration. So I waited a while and thought, screw this, so got back in the car and took off into Costa Rica. A couple of glances in the rear view mirror revealed no massed chase, so we were free and clear. What started out as a great early beginning now had us at nearly eleven in the morning Costa Rica time, so three hours were spent at the border crossing.

After a very long drive across the spiny backbone of central Costa Rica, we came into the outskirts of San Jose, the capital city. I told Denielle that it would be nice if we could take some roads around the city to avoid it, so she guided me through some of the suburbs to the north. I was a little apprehensive at first, as this did not appear to be a main road, but we continued along with no traffic lights or stop signs, and were steadily making our way through it all. Then our road ended and the signs stopped, and we soon became engulfed in the unknown. We broke out our GPS to get at least which direction we were facing, and slowly made our way out to the west. Before we knew it, we had passed the airport and were back on the main highway, bound for the Nicaragua border. We arrived in Liberia, just 80 kilometres south of Nicaragua just as the sun was beginning to set. We arrived the following morning and passed through the Costa Rica side of the border with very little trouble, but once into the Nicaragua side, bureaucracy reared its ugly head. Two hours of waiting and no less than 8 different people we had to visit to get various tickets, stamps, pay taxes, insurance, have police sign off on other stampings and have our car inspected. Then we were through, and made the short drive into San Juan del Sur to have lunch and pick up some souvenir t-shirts. After lunch we were back in the car and off to search for Popoyo, our last contact with the Pacific before a gruelling drive back up to Mexico.

Tyler.

“I’m on a boat...”

Just when I had begun to collect all the animals on the island, two by two, the rains let up and the sun came out. Up until that point, I had started to think that “sunshine” on the Caribbean referred to overcast skies, or perhaps a light sprinkling. The other morning we had the mistake of judging the weather from our window before heading for breakfast. The streets were dry and the skies, while overcast, did not look that threatening. So we naively walked down the main street and had a wonderful breakfast on the water. Of course, just as we finished up, the rain started to come. We stood outside, just under the veranda of the store front for a while and weighed our options. We could a) walk home now in the rain and get wet, or b) wait here until the rain let up which probably wouldn’t happen, and then get wet later. Being hopelessly optimistic, we chose option b, and proceeded to wait while the rain grew stronger.

Five minutes later, the rain appeared to let up some, reverting back to a trickle, almost like the clouds were baiting us with a trap. We walked down the street and soon the trap was sprung as we hurried to the next store front shelter. You can judge the strength of the rain by the sound it makes, and this rain was a steady crescendo until peaking at a thunderous downpour. We waited and we waited, and waited some more. While the rain was changing in intensity, it was not going to let up, so we decided to go for it, as we were already wet and could change when we got home. Having begun to formulate plans for what size of ark I would need to get off the island, (it could be a little bit smaller if we left all the spiders behind to please Denielle), we enjoyed a brief reprieve from the rains. We even got a full day of sunshine yesterday, so decided to rent bikes and make the 14 kilometre trek around the island to Playa Drago on the other side.

They say the definition of insanity is to keep doing the same thing while expecting different results. I, by definition, am now insane, as I had expected our rental bikes to guide us safely along our journey across the island. Even though my last bike rented in Costa Rica almost killed me twice, I decided to test my luck once again. This bike after all, had both gears and handlebar-mounted brakes. I soon learned on the first hill descent that the brakes were less than adequate, leaving me unable to stop, but slowing me down enough to only get a little bit scared as my sweaty hands slipped up and precariously close to off with each pothole and bump in the road as I steadily accelerated. But sub-par brakes could be dealt with on a small island with few hills, so we continued along the beautiful countryside, held up briefly at only one point by a goat roadblock. We arrived at the far beach in just over an hour and found ourselves at a nice white sand secluded beach. A little further down the road we found a water-side restaurant and had some lunch. A brief dip in the water after lunch cooled us down and prepared us for the hot sweaty ride back in the sun. At the top of the biggest hill, thankfully not sooner, my bottom bracket broke and my chain came off. This would signify the beginning of my 4 kilometre walk, coast and scoot ride back to town. I was able to coast back to the bike shop and placed my bike in the rack alongside the others, got our deposits back, and left.

Later that evening we had dinner on the water, looking out along the glassy black surface, small wooden ghost boats with no lights guided by noisy outboard motors slipped through the night, illuminated briefly by the restaurant lights. The next day we would be aboard our very own boat, partaking in a two location snorkel tour, with promises of dolphins. We awoke early and boarded the 40 foot catamaran, and were soon sailing throughout the Bocas del Toro archipelago. Waking up to overcast skies, we were sure to pack our rain jackets. It seemed as though throughout the past few days that when we made the effort to take our jackets, it wouldn’t rain. So of course, now that we had our rain jackets occupying the majority of space in my backpack, the clouds soon parted and we were treated to another beautiful sunny day. Not long after leaving, we encountered our first dolphins, breaching the water off in the distance, in the direction that we were heading. I got the camera ready and snapped a few shots. Thankfully, we pulled right up to the dolphins, and they soon began playing around and underneath the boat. Situated at the very front of the right pontoon of the catamaran, we had the pleasure of watching the large bottlenoses gliding just beneath the surface, below our feet. Looking back at it now, it would have been unique opportunity to jump in and ride a dolphin. I could have landed on its back like a cowboy in an old western, but it probably would have taken me down and drowned me.

After the dolphin encounter, we pulled into a sheltered bay lined with mangroves. The glassy water was alive like molten glass, dark and clear, moving ever so gently while we passed over hundreds of moon jellyfish, some of them larger than a dinner plate. We pulled up to one edge of the mangrove, dropped anchor, and jumped into the water. My last snorkelling experience involved both of us losing our mask and snorkel immediately upon entering the water, so this time I carefully held on to both upon entry. We were soon greeted by a plethora of colours with over a hundred species of coral and numerous brightly coloured fish darting in between the coral and mangrove roots. Large sea cucumbers lay on the sandy floor in between the coral amongst the sea grass. It was magical, and before we knew it, we were coming back to the boat, on to our next location. We travelled back across the bay and came to one edge of an island closer to the main island, not without seeing a few more dolphins following along beside the boat. This second snorkelling location had a lot more fish, and I started to dive down lower under the water to get a closer look. Such a unique underwater landscape, with towering coral columns giving so many fish species a place to hide and eat. This was a very fun day, and I’m really glad that we spent the money on the tour. We have only one more day here, then we’ll have to catch a boat back to the mainland, pick up our car from town, and then try crossing back into Costa Rica.

Tyler.

“Waterworld...”

“If it keeps on raining, the levee’s gonna break”. The Led Zepplin lyrics come over the car stereo as we descend down towards the Caribbean, through the thick clouds and heavy rain. It’s difficult to see the road, or more importantly, the sections missing from the road. We left Panama City earlier that morning, without getting lost, and were now on our way towards the elusive Bocas del Toro. As soon as we surmounted the continental divide we entered the clouds, and the rain did not stop. You could cut through the humid air with a knife, and though the windshield defrost was on full blast, we still had to open the windows to see what little road we could. The Caribbean side of the country is much more tropical, having no real wet or dry season as it tends to just rain for most of the year. Although this may not fit the bill for most people’s desired vacation plans, the rain came as a nice change from the months of hot hot sunshine that we had been used to. A nice cool 25 degrees also helped to make the humidity more bearable.

Approaching on our destination for the night, the small city of Changuinola, we pulled into a supermarket to get a snack and something cold to drink. After leaving the supermarket we quickly drove past a police truck that made a u-turn and began to follow us. What now I thought. Earlier that day we had to produce our paperwork and passports to a police checkpoint, but they were quite jovial and even made fun of how dirty the inside of our car was. Up until this point we had not had any issues with the police, perhaps a close call when looking for Gamboa before I pleaded for help with directions, but now it looked as though our perfect Panamanian police record was at risk. But what could it be? I had done nothing wrong, was perhaps only driving 20 kph at this point through the town because of all the roadside pedestrians. The police truck flashed its headlights so I pulled the car to the side of the road and put on my emergency flashers. The officer came up to the window and proceeded to rip off some ultra-quick Spanish in an angry tone. I asked him to repeat himself and he pointed to my seatbelt, which I always wear, and said that I wasn’t wearing it. I looked in disbelief as it was currently buckled in as it had been since we left the supermarket. He said that when he drove by it wasn’t on and that I had put it on after he pulled around. Mierda de toro. He printed out a ticket that he said I needed to pay and went back to his truck. I read over the ticket which indeed indicated that I wasn’t wearing a seatbelt, so I got out of the car and walked over to his truck.

“This isn’t true!” I said, “I always wear my seatbelt.”
“No, I saw that you weren’t wearing it.” He said.
“This is bad, this is not true.” I said, but then he just drove off. I was angry. I didn’t know if he truly believed I wasn’t wearing a seatbelt or if he was just down on his quotas for the day and figured a tourist wouldn’t know what was going on. I’m not going to pay it, and I’m pretty sure that nothing can happen. He took a picture of my passport and driver’s license, but there is no way the facilities at the border will be able to get any information that I have an outstanding ticket. So I angrily got back into the car and we continued along the highway, with my seatbelt on.

We soon arrived in Changuinola, which seems to be run by the Chiquita banana cartel. The whole city is surrounded by banana plantations, and everyone seems to work for the banana farms. We found a nice hotel that was a little reminiscent of the hotel in “The Shining” movie. But if it was haunted, it didn’t haunt us, and we were up the next morning, ready for our island adventure. I went to the hotel next door that had an enclosed parking area with security camera and arranged to keep our car there for the week before catching a taxi to the ferry. We had tried for so long last time to find where the boat for the island left from, that I didn’t want to risk the same frustrations again. Our taxi proceeded to drive the same way we had just came from the day before, well out of town about 20 km, much further than the 5 km the guidebook vaguely indicated. But he drove us right up to the boat terminal, and we unloaded our compacted luggage for the week. We had moved all of our luggage into one bag, and left the rest in the car. The boat trip to the island was only 4 dollars per person for the 45 minute trip which took us slowly at first through mangroves lined with numerous houses on stilts, perched right over the calm waters. The scene appeared to be right out of the movie “Waterworld”, but differed in that it didn’t suck because it was us as the lead role and not Kevin Costner. Once into open waters, the boat engine revved up and we rocketed towards the island. After arriving we quickly bargained for a large room with air conditioning, cable television and hot showers for only 25 dollars a night. So these should be our last 5 nights in Panama before crossing back into Costa Rica, and soon, maybe a day or two later, back into Nicaragua.

Tyler.

“A hard rain’s gonna fall...”

“Oh where have you been, my blue eyed son,
Oh where have you been, my darling young one...”

Bob Dylan’s song may have been talking about a figurative downpour in his song, but we were faced with a literal torrent during our visit to the Miraflores Locks at the Panama Canal yesterday. Whilst in the neighbourhood we had decided to swing by and possibly see a big ship or two passing through the locks. The day had started late with an enjoyable sleep in, and the weather was hot and sunny as always, hence no packing of any rain gear into our bags. After getting lost yet another time trying to exit Casco Viejo, we soon found our way to the visitor’s center and museum, and proceeded to learn all about the excavation of the canal that was completed nearly a century ago.

The French had originally been granted the contract after their work on the Suez Canal through Northern Africa into the Indian Ocean, but after suffering over 22,000 fatalities during construction due in large part to malaria and yellow fever, the Americans took over and finished the job. Working our way up each of the three floors of the museum we then emerged onto the top observation deck just as a large container ship was preparing to cross through the locks. The procedure takes quite a bit of time, time I feared we may not have before the heavens opened up. The southern wind was bringing vast quantities of moisture our way off of the Pacific, and the skies quickly grew dark. Initially, a few sprinkles fell here and there, but this then gave way to a full bouncing off the concrete downpour. We made our way down to one of the covered observation areas, now crowded with others trying to avoid the elements of the weather, but this perspective wasn’t nearly as interesting photographically. I noticed that although the wind was coming from the direction of the darkest clouds at ground level, the clouds themselves were moving in the other direction. From the looks of it, we had maybe ten more minutes of rain before we would hopefully get a dry window to utilize the top deck.

Denielle and I made our way back up the 4 stories of stairs to the now empty observation deck, and with a backpack cover protecting my camera, I went out to the railing to get some pictures. The rain began to let up, but not before I became completely soaked, or so I thought. The site of such a large ship, a Panamax class referring to the maximum size that can fit through the locks, this ship had only two feet of clearance on either side and a few feet front and back (965 by 105 feet ship dimensions). Loaded with containers filled with what I can only imagine, the boat was connected to four electronic train engines that helped keep it in place and move it through the series of three locks. The locks serve to bring ships from sea level in either the Pacific or Caribbean Oceans up to the 27 meter altitude of Gamboa and Gatun Lakes which supply the water for the operation. Each time the locks open their massive steel doors, 197 million litres of fresh water is released into the ocean. That’s crazy. As the giant ship started dropping down, the heavens opened up once again, and I became soaked once again. We retreated to the inside of the building and I dried off with some paper towels in the bathroom, just in time to make the long walk through the even harder rain to the car. This rain was intense, and the walkway leading back to our car became flooded about six inches deep, so now my shoes were completely soaked as well. Denielle was fortunate enough to be wearing sandals, so here feet were dry by the time we would return to our hotel several hours later, while I just started my old man feet wrinkling procedure.

After the Miraflores Locks, we decided to drive the next 28 kilometres up the road past the Pedro Miguel Locks and to Gamboa Lake. We became lost once again because I missed the turnoff sign for Gamboa while I was busy stuffing my face with a peanut butter sandwich. We couldn’t turn around for nearly 10 kilometres, so finally, upon reaching a complicated overpass structure, we pulled over and made a u-turn into a vacant lot/bus stop to gather our bearings. Thankfully a police car had noticed us make the u-turn and came in to the parking area with its siren going. The officer in the passenger side of the police car got out and approached us saying that what we just did was bad and could have caused an accident. This is how it always starts before getting a ticket, so I just thrust the Panama guidebook at him and asked him how to get to Gamboa before he could give me a ticket. I wasn’t sure how this would work, but apparently it did the trick, and they offered for us to follow them there. So we had our own private police escort back to the turnoff, and had the pleasure of not getting a ticket. Bonus. Once in Gamboa however, we realized there wasn’t much to do there, so we turned around and made the voyage back, briefly stopping at the Pedro Miguel Locks to take pictures of a giant crane they were moving along the canal. The crane was one of four of the world’s largest cranes that used to be owned by Adolf Hitler. These cranes were split up at the end of the war with each of the main allied countries getting one. This particular one used to belong to the US, but was sold to the Panama Canal Port Authority to be used to move the giant lock gates for repair. It was quite a site.

We then came back into the city at rush hour, and managed to find our way out to the causeway, built during World War II which connects three islands to the mainland. Walking along the causeway at sunset gave us some great views of downtown, and we enjoyed a nice supper, followed by gigantesque desserts. After returning home, we packed it in early to prepare for our early morning transit of the canal on our boat tour. Thankfully we were awake a full three hours before actually boarding the boat, which left from the causeway we had just visited the night before. So we had ended up taking a taxi from our hotel into downtown Panama, where we waited for almost an hour for a bus to pick us up and take us back past our hotel out to the causeway, where we then waited another half hour for the boat to be ready. But the wait was worth it, and despite the hypnotizing slow soothing voice of our tour guide, the trip was very pleasant and informative. We even made it onto Korean Television as the camera man from the crew filmed us drinking out of tiny orange juice boxes, so if you’re in Korea and watching a show about Panama, keep your eyes peeled as we’re internationally famous. It’s amazing how large the locks actually are from the inside, as I thought our boat was rather large, but it did not fill nearly a tenth of the capacity. Such a waste of water, but a unique experience none the less. Passing by gargantuan ships led by tugboats through the winding canals was also quite the site. They are deceptively quiet as they slowly push through the water. So our boat was raised 27 meters through the series of locks, and we ended our boat ride at Gamboa Lake, then boarded a bus and returned to the city. We just got back to the hotel now after walking around downtown for a while and checking out another shopping centre. There is so much construction going on downtown, with high rises scraping the clouds everywhere you look. Towering cranes swing materials precariously overhead, as you cringe at the thought of the 46 deaths related to construction in Panama City just last year. Even this week while we were here, a large beam was dropped and crushed a taxi cab, killing two people. Anyway, I think this skyline rivals that of any major city in the world.

Tyler.

“Old rocks and expensive frocks...”

Knowing what lay ahead, the apprehension grew thick in my mind. Although we had slept in to avoid the morning rush of traffic, we still needed to navigate across the entire city through the labyrinth of streets that had foiled us just the day before. Our goal was simple, and appeared straightforward on the map. We just needed to get on to Avenida Central, and take it all the way through its three name changes, to the intersection with Calle Brasil to find Exedra Books. I had long ago exhausted our supply of reading materials, and have since been unable to locate even one English language book, so the mission needed to be a success lest my brain rot for the entire trip home.

Our extensive walking tour through Casco Viejo the previous day had us familiar with most of the main routes, so getting onto Avenida Central should have been a piece of cake, as it was only three blocks from our hotel. We emerged onto the street to find our car intact, having survived the night unfettered, so we opened the doors and realised our first complication of the day’s journey. The surfboard bag was occupying the entire right side of the car. Denielle squeezed herself into the back driver’s side seat, along with the camera bag and other supplies for the day. Navigating the city streets would be slightly more complicated when the person with the map was in the back and unable to see. How hard could it be though? We just needed to find one street, an avenue actually, and follow it all the way up to the book store. My high hopes were quickly quashed as we found that Avenida Central was a one way street in the opposite direction. Flashbacks of endless circles, hopelessly lost in the old city flooded my mind and tensions within the car soared. I needed an alternate route and quick. I had analyzed the map the night before quite thoroughly and suggested that Denielle guide me to Balboa Avenue, as we could take it along the shore for most of the way and then connect up to the bookstore on Brasil Street. So a couple of quick turns, a brief volley down a one way street in the wrong direction, and we were cruising along the promenade, well on our way.

Once emerging from the old city, the streets of Panama City proper became quite manageable. It’s the drivers that you have to watch out for. Ample signage had us quickly progressing towards our first goal of the day, but when we arrived at Calle Brasil, we became faced with a no left turn sign. Drats. While the light was red, we weighed our options and decided to continue straight and hope for a place to make a u-turn. The light soon turned green, but for some reason, traffic running perpendicular to us continued through the intersection at a high rate of speed. None of the cars in the lanes beside me even budged as the onslaught of cars proceeded through for a full five seconds through their red light. I guess the signals are just a suggestion that you should maybe think about stopping if you feel like it, and the green light indicates that if you’re feeling lucky that you can give it a go across. Maybe close your eyes for good measure. I waited until my neighbouring motorists entered the intersection before following suit, and soon came across a u-turn sign. Excellent. We made the turn and joined up with Calle Brasil, and entered the parking lot of the book store quite a few blocks later.

After stocking up on a number of books from the limited English Language section, we were back in the car and on our way to Panama Viejo, the original city ruins that were torched and plundered by the infamous Captain Morgan in 1671. On our way over to the ruins we passed an impressively large mall that we would venture to in the afternoon to escape the 38 degree heat. We parked the car next to the visitor’s center and walked along the remnants of history that have not since been pilfered or built on top of. All of the accompanying signs had English translations, which was very helpful, and we learned a lot about the early Spanish settlement, predominantly the construction of churches and conversion of the indigenous heathens. We had to pay to get into the main ruins site, but the four dollars per person seemed reasonable as the ruins were fairly impressive. After desecrating the remnants of the Bishop’s house with my previously full bladder, we decided to go back to the car and into the refuge of the air conditioned mall.

The mall we entered was the most upscale shopping center that I have ever been to. Feeling quite underdressed in my tank top and shorts, we walked around from chilly shop to chilly shop as the well-dressed elite of Panama City strolled casually alongside. Outfits costing more than our trip could be found inside the stores of Dolce and Gabana, Versace, Louis Vuitton, Ralph Loren, jewels from Tiffany’s, and just about every big name store that one could find lining the streets of Milan. There was a machine that measure your height and weight, and I was a little shocked to find out that I have dropped down to 170 pounds, with all my clothes on. This is quite a change from the 190 pounds I began with on the trip. Thankfully my height doesn’t appear to have changed. Perhaps the most impressive site for me was an Audi R8 supercar, the 10 cylinder model, in the main courtyard of the mall. I had Denielle take my picture next to it in all its carbon fibre and aluminum glory. Having exhausted our tolerance for shopping, we moved on to the attached grocery store to pick up some supplies for the next few days. Tomorrow we may rent bikes or just walk along the causeway and hopefully see some of the big ships entering into the canal, and then Saturday we will become passengers ourselves.

Tyler.