And Then....

It was a pure blessing the rain didn't hit until after I was down the mile and a half steep gravel road from the finca, but it felt far from it when it did. Soaked within seconds, I could hardly see from the rain pounding behind my glasses, with goggles stored away behind me. This was only 1o km from the border, and, thinking I could not make it, pulled into a seemingly empty house porch to wait it out. Within a few minutes a child is screaming something as if to say "whoever's there get out!" I look out and up to the 2nd floor and see him and his mom, and I clamber to explain I'm simply hiding out for a few minutes longer to escape the rain. I'm unable to relieve her concern, and reverse my statement to one of "I'm ready to go thank you".

What was to come next? A routine car line-up again, and electing to pass them as motorbikes do, found that the cars were getting more and more congested on this highway - waiting to get through the border? No, trying, one car at a time, to get past a humongous tree that had fallen right on the road. I shimmy through the line-up, and see a trail off the pavement, only to have a large truck trying to come back my way, with a man violently shaking his hands at me to back up. The edge of the pavement was about 6" higher than the trail I was on, and with highway tires, 600 lbs. of bike, slick, rain-soaked roads, I couldn't get back up on to the road. I waited for him to pass, then kept going on this trail, looking for a low spot to get back up not without some sense of panic. After two nail-biting attempts, I do.

The border was the regular schmozzle, so I took the first person to offer to help me navigate the process. CJ's english was excellent; if you call living in Jersey for 12 years excellent. Turns out he prefers the quieter, slower pace down here and could go back to the states whenever he wants. He had to leave me at the Panama border, with instructions on which door to go through first, second, and third. One of the places was tantamount bureacracy: walking up a flight of circular stairs, a lady was there to stamp my paperwork. That's it. Just a stamp. Honestly, all of the other 4 places were similar, with stacks of paper on tables, and people lined up. I had to go through part of the procedure again because of my registration papers not showing the license of the bike. I tried to stay my old charming self throughout.

Panama seemed to have the same affinity for signs and directions as San Jose. On the advice of Mateo and Erica, I went looking for Boquete, a Colorado-type resort town north of David. Directions: turn left at the mall. It took me a couple tries but I did finally get to the sign that said "Bienvenidos Boquete"........... but there was hardly anything there. Just a few houses on either side of the road. For the next hour, I went back and forth 3 times, into a farmer's yard, into a processing station, and finally got it that the town was much further away from the first sign. Rain-soaked and friggen freezing, I pulled into the first place with a sign of life in it. It was a Chinese restaurant and i found it amusing that it felt like home. The young Panamanian server, and his boss, Chong, introduced me to Jonathan, an American who came down here building houses for doctors and now happened to have built a hotel. We spoke formalities and got down to business. "$60 a night? I thought Panama was cheap?" "That's the going rate around here anyways", Jonathon slightly drawled. I told him $50 and we got a deal. It was a nice room, with fuzzy tv, water sprinkling out of the tap, and 3 minutes of hot water. Couldn't find the front desk so I had to shower without a towel.

This morning involved waking up in a lot of muscle pain, so it was off to stretch and go for a half an hour run. Am I racist for thinking it fascinating to see someone of Chinese descent speak Spanish?