up and down: September 2011

19.9.11

Puerto Viejo

Leaving Bocas with that aching head, and spinning head. Water taxi to the mainland, and taxi, shared, to the boarder. Boring border bureaucracy, bag on back, boiling. Bugger.

Then, Costa Rica

Bus to Puerto Viejo, and a free taxi to a hostel. Rocking J.s. A massive U shaped building with hammocks, everywhere. And mosaic, everywhere. And I can picture the spring break Americans, everywhere. But they aren't, everywhere, its fall. And its pretty quiet.

Walking around town, its a tourist town these days, but quiet too. Tourist towns off peak can be unsettling sometimes. To many hopeful looking businesses sitting empty.

The main street runs parallel to the beach, dotted with kebab vendors, and souvenior vendors, and vendors of other less legal goods. Little restaurants and cafes cater to the wealthier market, and not much caters to the less wealthy. The restaurants all look very nice though. I wonder what the food is like.

Its quiet, but there are people around, and the bar I stop at for a beer fills, and closes in time, and the crowd flows to Johnny's on the beach. My time in Bocas is catching up to me and I hit the hammock.

A lazy day. Often I have lazy days. A small walk, beautiful none the less.

Then an evening, meeting a Mexican, Alexjandro, playing music on the beach, great times.

Another day, a bike ride with Alejandro, to Manzanillo, an nearby small seaside town. Saw my first Howler monkeys, and a sloth, up close. and spiders. The stuff of nightmares. Other people's nightmares.

Relaxed at yet another tropical beach, warm water, more fresh coconut, delicious Caribbean style meal, big and hearty to finish the day off.

And that was Puerto Viejo. Pretty much.

14.9.11

Mouth of the bull

The duck and the goose both broke loose, and the cow came tumbling after. None sense in Bocas

Leaving Bouqete, feeling ready for some socialisation, new places, new people, the basics.

On the bus, over a beautiful mountain pass, listening to Ladysmith black mombosa, with a four year old Kuhna kid.

Stepped off the bus and was shown a short cut by a Kuhn man who walked me through his seaside village to get to the water taxi. Saved five dollars on taxi fare.

The shoreline of the massive bay is covered with mangroves and inlets and people live amoung the mangroves in stilt houses and travel by dugout canoe to visit neighbours and do their errands.

Boarding a water taxi, with apprehension, arriving in another new place, a bustling one.

But then, unloading, and seeing newness, as always, inspired me. I found my hostel, Gran Kahuna, with ease and went looking for a beer to welcome myself to Bocas Del Torro.

The streets are flowing with people, of all sorts and flavours, on bicycle and on foot. Some form of Rastafarianism makes itself felt in colours and dreadlocks, and peddlers on the street. And young people and old people toting bags and backpacks are a common sight. As are hangovers. The buildings crowd one another, one brand new, the next one made of timber, the old way. Bright colours and signs illuminate the shops, but somehow the mainstreet feels dusty. The roads outside of town are beautiful though.

Drink beer on boats, walking and shouting buena vida off of balconies, swimming off the bar, sushi deliciousness, meeting people. Interesting ones. and some annoying ones too, we won't mention them though.

Katie, a roommate, an interesting one, works at EARTH. I plan to visit her later, and do.

Meeting Alejandro the water taxi captain, and chatting in Spanish, and getting a ride back to Bocas on his boat with three Israeli girls and my bicycle. Free boat tour.

And Joanju and Alexandra and Ventolire were three strangers who met and connected, and I met them and we connected too. All travellers, one from Catalan, one from rural Germany and one from Guatamala and Switzerland. All three characters of the top degree, beautiful people.

We spent the night at Bocas Del Drago, a decent drive out of town, away from the crazyness. We camped there, some in hammocks, some in the car. And for breakfast we ate fresh pineapple and coconuts. And the morning was beautiful. And the whole day was beautiful, in that very spot. We did a whole lot of not very much, enjoying company, music and silence, swimming, sleeping, being, living well.

And in the following evening, things being as they are, during the rythm of the night, somehow, for some unknown reasons, we split apart, and I walked the long walk back to the hostel, not seeing the three again.

And the next morning I left Bocas, overwhelmed by hustle, bustle, and dehydration, my head spinning from being thrown around the Mouth of the Bull for a few days.

memorable, beautiful, somehow sad

8.9.11

Volcan Baru

At ten o clock at night I started walking, I had a long way to go and wanted to make it by sunrise. I was expecting to start at twelve, but the taxi showed up two hours earlier. Cheeky bugger wanted to go to bed early and had no qualms about leaving me on a mountain on my own all night. He dropped me at the trailhead, pointed up the mountain and said, "Volcan Baru", with a bemused expression, wondering why these crazy gringos want to walk through the night to get to the top of something. And I started walking. At first it was light from the moon but soon, as I entered the forest, the darkness descended on me and my torch had to come out and lead me onward.

I was attempting to hike the tallest peak in Panama, Volcan Baru, which sits at about 3500 meters above sea level. I wanted to do it at night to get there as the sun was coming up, before the daily blanket of clouds descended on the mountain peak and obscure the views. I had heard you could see both the Caribbean and the Pacific ocean at the same time on a good day.

At one point in the night I took a wrong turn, and it took me two hours of wandering around on paths past houses and pastures and rivers and fences to get back on track. I walked and walked, seeing only what my torch illuminated and the silhouettes of massive trees against the stars. The way was steep, and rocky, and after hours of walking and mental games, I finally made it to the summit of the peak, seven hours and seventeen kilometers later, just as the sky was starting to lighten and glow. My legs felt week, and it was cold, really cold. It was the first time I have had numb fingers in many months. And I felt great.

The sun started creeping up towards the horizon scattering rays of light throughout the sky and I felt euphoria, alone on a mountain top, seeing to infinity. I yelled and whooped a little, and sat and stared, and walked around, and watched, and then started walking back down.

The sun cast shadows off the peak, a perfect triangle dipping off into infinite space, and both oceans lay passive, reflecting the fruitbowl of colours filling the sky and impregnating the clouds.

The landscape was revealed to me for the first time as the sun lit up the hills with a golden glow. I could see into the crater below, where so many years ago an explosive blast had blow away millions of tons of rock.

Self portrait

The walk down was magical, and I took it slowly, admiring the light filtering through the trees, the moisture evaporating from the path, the greenness of everything, the massiveness of some trees and the minuteness of other living things, many of them clinging to the giants.

To have the path that I had trudged up through the night revealed to me under the morning light was energising and mesmerising, and the some of the scenes were inescapably beautiful. The walk was long, but I liked it like that. I got to the bottom of the trail fourteen hours after I had begun, tired but satisfied after covering over thirty kilometers and over a kilometer and a half of vertical ascent. I reached the bottom, drank some water with some construction workers and hitched a ride in the back of a farm truck back to Bouqete.

Coffee growing on the slopes of the volcano, being fed by rolling clouds that sweep up the valley

Magical fields with arum lilies scattered throughout, soft grass and sailing clouds.

5.9.11

Bountiful Bouqete

Bouqete, the mountain town. Over 2000 meters high. Known for its world class coffee, cool climate and beautiful surroundings.

I came here to drink coffee, be cool, and enjoy the beautiful surroundings, surprisingly.

I've been here since... Saturday? Maybe, something like that.

The town is nestled in a valley, surrounded by impossibly steep hills covered in coffee beans, citrus fruit, maize and other crops.

The hills are green and lush, and at this time of year it rains almost every afternoon.

My first day here I rented a bicycle and went for a hairy ride around some of the hills, with breaks that were worn to the metal. I wondered why they were so worn down, but not for long. I got showed up by some local kids with no breaks at all. I asked them something along the lines of "que calle es bein?" or "which street is good?". To them, typical of young boys on bikes, good means steep and rocky, so we raced down a scary steep hill, them hot on my heels. Then we walked the bikes back up, they grabbed a couple of oranges from a tree, and I continued on my ride. Steep hills everywhere. Good for going down, bad for going up. Hence the worn breaks.

Bouqete from above

A river runs through town and one day I followed one of its tributaries far up a jungle choked valley. I followed a small trail through magical rainforest, staring in wonder at the moses, lichens, bromeliads, and massive bearded trees, hanging with growth and some rotting away as they grow due to the humidity.

After walking for an hour and a half I came to a tall waterfall, with water feathering off the top and dusting onto a pile of jagged rocks below. I remained there for some time, listening to its grumble and feeling its mist before heading back down the mountain.

I walked slowly along a mountain road, following a river back to town. On the way I stopped to climb on one of Panama's most famous climbing routes, dark black basalt columns stacked horizontally, great fun. I also stopped at a well known private garden on a massive property which is open for the public to explore, and had two delicious coffees at a world famous coffee production company, Cafe Ruiz.

My final Bouqete adventure will need an entire post for itself, given its magnitude and scale.
To follow shortly.

2.9.11

Santa Catalina

This place is so green, and lush. The soil is a dark red. The clouds, a rich, heavy grey that makes the greens explode.

The coastline, is lined with green hills, spotted with trees, and covered in soft grass. The grass meadows end sharply with rich brown, almost copper, cliffs. The soil has been exposed to, and devoured by, the sea. Trees hang precariously, clinging to the muddy meadow, but being called towards the ocean by the pulling waves. This coastline continues for miles, as far as you can see, coves, inlets and capes wind their way in either direction.

The sucking sea draws back over the volcanic bedrock and black sands, leaving a white trail as it flows and reforms into another rolling wave. Turtles breath just behind the surf line, almost inquisitively, surfacing and looking around before diving. Its their mating season, and females are laying eggs nearby.

The surf is fun, small rights curve off a point with an abandoned house in a once prime position on the cliff watching on.

I surf until my arms are exhausted, and my back is screaming, I haven’t surfed for this long in years. And I want more. In two days the good swell arrives, and this place is going to be incredible. Today I surfed alone, and yesterday, a Sunday, with only two other people, both friends in the water.

Three days later, after many waves, lots of pasta and rice, and some fine times, I paddled out early in the morning to cooking glassy conditions. I tried to get waves and ended up getting frustrated instead. After the surf, I decide to leave. I am not here to get frustrated. Time to move on. Next stop, the mountains of Bouqete. So long Santa Catalina, lord protect you through the times of surging popularity ahead. Stay cool.