Self Isolation

To tie up most of my 4 days on the boat would be to say isolated, self-absorbed depressed self loathing. In a place where most would be in pure heaven I was in pure hell. Sublimed to read Where the Red Fern Grows, didn’t go visit the other boats with my crew, and stayed in bed as long as possible. I was comparing myself to others, specifically those who talked more, who seemed more of the centre of the party you know those who always have something to say. I just felt dumb......... I just felt like I didn’t have anything important or worthwhile to say and I gave into that completely. At my worst I felt like I was in a black hole, and it took some time for me to finally pull myself out of it. I just had visions of me stuck in my head for the rest of my life, unable to get out unable to shine, to live to breath. It was a humbling experience and one I must soon forget and move on. Still scared to push myself, so scared to be tired, so scared to put myself out there and really work at something, to feel uncomfortable. I get in these moods sometimes, and it's hard to get out.

Don't Do This

We had other captains join us from time to time and this story took the books. A year ago, a gringo found a bunch of cocaine, ended up selling it for $27,000 then hid the money on an island. 3 kunas found out about it, tortured his son to death, then tortured and killed him after finding the location of the money. The bodies were found without any arms or legs and head, and horribly mutilated what was left of it. The Kunas, an indigenous group who own the islands off of Panama, decided to do some ethnic cleansing back in the early 20^th century, killing off anyone who was not 100% kuna; moral of the story these guys can be bad ass if they want to. Today, they simply sell amazing artwork, and ask the odd captain to recharge their cell phones (of which we did, and forgot to give it back before heading 4 hours away!)

Anxious to Get Going

Despite hustling back from the shit hole of Colon with $800 in hand, Captain Jack was no where to be found. He had decided to venture to Panama City in hopes of attracting at least one more traveller on our boat to make it a bit more worthwhile of a trip. This meant another night at the hostel, which could have been worse, with a young Canadian bartender I nicknamed Dilly Bar at the helm slinging Cuba Libres. They have a great bar game there involving a hook on the wall, and a ring on a string. This thing was the hit of the party and I got pretty good at it to the point it would only take me a couple tries and I would have it swung and hung onto the wall. I even hit it a couple times in a row a few times. More Canadiana: the massive timber sitting in the middle of their patio was harvested underwater by an enterprising Canadian selling them for $10,000a piece and taken from the flooded area resulted from the creation of the Panama Canal. Finally, there was a string of world flags in the main area and not one Canadian that I could see so I made up for that by stringing about 20 of ‘em across the ceiling. This was one of the gifts mom and jod had sent me in a care package received in San jose, Costa Rica. ¿Overkill>? Nnnaaaahhhh........

Colon

With conflicting views whether there was a ferry to Cartagena Columbia I decide to go into Colon anyways, winding through streets that look like they've been bombed. I luck out and find a cafe to relieve my bloated bladder, and an official looking guy walks out, and I promptly ask him where the ferry is, if it exists. He sent me on my way, and with 2 other helpers found my way to the Raddison, where the local kids resort to rollerblades to get around. So, I am now looking for this ferry, and if I find it, I will be on it for the next 3 days. Love to all.

Everybody's got a story that will break your heart!

Blowing Over

The Policia, with his stern face, gave away some resemblance of humanity when I looked into his eyes. Perhaps this assisted in a positive final outcome. Out of nowhere, at around 7 pm, red pylons show up on the left hand side of the road, and a Policia is standing there in his dark green fatigues and cap. He proceeds to show me his radar, clocked at 76. Limit on the non-existent sign (or a sign that, like other signs here have been worn down to braille) was 60. Three other plainsclothes were there as well, and the one asked me for my passport to which I responded "why are you wearing regular clothes?" to which he promptly unzipped his nike sweater and pulled out ID. The Policia and I walk together into the square office, thankfully getting away from the crowd of others, and I'm definitely feeling the heat in this place right out of the third world. Wires hanging out of the walls, a small desk with antiquated paperwork and books on top. He opens his book to show the fine for speeding: $50. Okay. I got too close.

1/2 hour before, I almost dropped the bike to stop at a place with xmas lights thinking I could grab a bite, only to find they sold alcohol only. Well, what to do? Have a cuba libre, and try one of the local drinks. 2 total. He smelt it on my breath.

So, he pulls out the breathalyzer, an experience to wreak havoc on any Canadian's state of mind. It takes forever and numerous attempts, as he shows me how to breath properly into it. Finally, he gets the reading he wants, and shows it to me: 8. Whatever that meant, he was soon getting quite agitated; we were now both fully putting on our best acting performances of the year: him, trying to extort as much pain and suffering from me as possible, and I, trying to get some connection with this guy as a last resort. He shows me another number in his book for driving under the influence: $1500, with the last 0 blocked out in blue pen, accompanied with a 350 km trip into Panama City.

I ask him if I can pay him here and now. He says if you don't mind I don't mind. So, I ask if $100 is ok, and he replies "too much". I end up giving him what I had on me, 2 crisp twenties and a fiver. Complicating my escape, I temporarily hide my passport and license somewhere and have the whole group assist me in finally finding it in the front pouch of my bag.

So Far Away

A couple days easy drive away from the Panama Canal, and all I can think about is how far i have pushed myself away from me. From spending time doing things I didn't want to, I wreaked havoc on my health; i found the outer limits of being human, and danced on the razor's edge for so long....... it's amazing I still care, still want to live and connect. From 2 decades of trying to be what I thought was expected of me, or what it would take to survive, I completely lost out on the joys of life, of living a life that is truly my own, truly representative of where I light up, where I gain my strength from. It will be a long road back, but I am already enjoying the journey.

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?