Isla Mujeres - Mexico

Flowing with the Tradwinds

A mere stone's throw from the glitz and glamour of Cancun and yet a world away, Isla Mujeres is the alternative to the all-inclusive claustrophobia that chokes the mainland. This narrow, 11km long limestone shelf that rises gently out of the sea, only a couple meters above the water at its highest point, is accessible only by ferry and, to give you an idea of what life is like on the island, the main modes of transportation are scooters and golf carts.

Once billed as the backpacker's alternative to the ritzy Hotel Zone in Cancun, Isla is slowly, but steadily, emerging as another world destination in the Yucatan and it's easy to see why. With its piercing aqua-blue surf gently lapping against soft white sand beaches, people here usually spend the daylight hours dozing in shaded beach chairs and eating fresh caught ceviche in shore front bars. Come nightfall, you'll find everyone strolling down Pramanada Hildago, a pedestrian walkway in the heart of town, lined with French and Italian restaurants, souvenir and cigar shoppes and a healthy supply of watering holes. It's got a little something for everyone.

This little island paradise would play the backdrop for my family reunion with my father and sister, who flew down here for their spring break vacation. After 6 and a half months on the road it was great to see the family again. We would spend the week doing little more than the afore mentioned activities which was a welcome pause for both my father, hobbled from a recently torn meniscus, and my sister, just having finished a hellish week of finals at University. To be honest, I was ready for a break myself and that was exactly what I got.

No more dorm rooms and communal bathrooms, I got to stay in a hotel where the sheets where included with bed! No more scavenging for food, surviving on tuna fish and Snickers, I got to eat real three-course meals. No more watered down beer or generic brad alcohol simpled labeled, 'hard liquor' , we drank imported wines and 100% agave Tequila. Oh, the luxuries of the vacationing class.

On rare occasion we did furllow from our sun baking to do some sight seeing and exploring. We rented a car and took a day trip to Tulum, the Mayan ruin, 3/4 of the way down the Mayan Riviera coastline that is situated on a bluff overlooking a Caribbean sea and the cover photo for most history books about the Mayans. You can literally be standing on a powder white sand beach, toes submerged in warm tropical waters, and be in the ruins at the same time. The Mayans sure knew where to pitch a tent!

On another 'break day' we ventured south along the island to Garrafon, an all-inclusive beach club with manicured gardens, shaded hammock groves and small cabiñas overlooking a coral cove. We had read in our guidebooks that you could choose this all-inclusive option, including all you can eat buffets and an open bar, or simply take a basic package including snorkel gear and use of the facilities. Not wanting to be typical overindulging Americans we decided on the second option but when we arrived however, the front desk receptionist informed us that they were no longer offering the basic option and that we would have to take the full package ($50 each). I guess, they figured this would maximize their profits for each ticket sold. They made a mistake.

Having been duped, we were now motivated to get more than our money's worth and the Schambelans went to work. My dad immediately hit up the bar, ordering two bloody marys. I threw my towel on a chair and ran to the buffet. Having been to Vegas more than a few times, I have mastered the art of buffet dining-I once lived off of MGM's brunch buffet for three days!

I basically start in reverse, eating deserts and cheeses as my starters, then move onto salads and soups. I usually break there and do some Yoga and stomach stretches to loosen up the midsection and make a extended trip to the men's room. Then I move onto the next phase, meats, fish and veggies, and conclude with expandable starches like rice and potatoes. And of course, I always try and slip one more desert if at all possible. Yeah, they made a mistake.

After the buffet, we waddled out of the restaurant and gave our legs, aching under the new burden of 30 extra pounds, repreive taking up beach chairs in seaside cabiña. There we spent the rest of the day. We went for a family snorkel in the afternoon (only to try and burn off calories for our second feast) and made sure our next double orders of Mexican beers and bloody marys where always on the way.

In the late afternoon, as a warm Caribbean sun was setting somewhere over the mainland, we hit up the bar for last minute intoxicants and had a light smorgasbord at the snack bar before being kicked out at closing time. All in all we probably ate enough food to feed a large Mexican family for a week and drank enough alcohol for a small Irish wedding. Yeah, they made a mistake.

It was great to see my family and spend some quality time with people who know and love you for who you are. And, when it came time for them to leave, departing on the midday ferry to catch a flight back to San Francisco, I was overcome with a sudden and unanticipated feeling of loneliness. I wasn't ready to be alone again.

That, coupled with receiving news that a good friend of mine´s father had passed away that same day, further isolating me from the people I love, put me in a weird place and I wasn't sure if I was ready to go on. I contemplated buying a ticket home. But I have decided to stick it out for a little while longer. I think that is just a testament to how much these people mean to me and it's good to know that they will be there when I eventually do make it back to the golden state.

Cancun - Mexico

I´m Not as Think as You Drunk I Am

Standing in stark contrast to the quiet, lulling hills of the Costa Rican Highland, Cancun, Mexico is like standing on a Los Angeles highway during rush hour; bumper to bumper traffic, horns, yelling, and thousands of people going absolutely nowhere.

The city itself is composed in two parts. The first being the Hotel Zone, a small narrow strip of land not but 200 meters from the mainland, a quagmire of 4 and 5 star hotels stacked on top of each other all vying for the limited beachfront property. Literally miles upon miles of coast line, track housed with huge monoliths like the Royal Caribbean, the Ritz Carlton, and the Hilton. With all the glittering lights and over-extravagance in juxtaposition to its tranquil surroundings it felt like Las Vegas had been relocated to the beach. The second part is Downtown and, while not as much as a consumerist postcard as the Hotel Zone, is itself littered with American fast food chains and Marriotts and Holiday Inns. Kinda hard to feel like you're in another country when everything around you is American.

I arrived during the tail end of the US University spring break chaos. Each year thousands of co-eds descend upon this high rise resort outpost and spend their time off killing any brain cells they might have accumulated during the preceeding school term. It was a sight to behold. Beach parties during the day time, complete with beer bongs and smashing empty cans on foreheads and huge all-you-can-drink disco parties at night. Girls gone wild was filming in the bars and Cassidy was performing at the concert hall the night I went out... Purely for investigative purposes of course.

When I asked about the nightlife at my hostel, consisting mostly of Aussies and Englishmen, they all responded with the same hesitation, saying it was an experience, but ¨there are a lot of Americans.¨ After witnessing the binge drinking, loud-mouthed, attention seeking attitudes that these kids exhibit over and over again I understood what they meant. They didn´t mean the number of Americans, they meant the type, and it´s not that hard to realize why so many internationals tense up at the sight of a large group of Americans. Kinda like a deer caught in headlights, they don´t know whether to turn and run or freeze in the hopes that they won´t be seen.

It wouldn´t have made a difference with the way these college kids were acting and I was embarrassed. But, I also remember that I was once one of those loud-mouthed drunkards picking fights and pretending everywhere I went was at a Frat party. I guess it´s just a part of our youth culture that we grow out of a couple years out of college. Yet, I still saw men in their 30´s and 40´s slamming down meter high glasses of booze and singing old Fraternity songs.

After two days of reliving my college years, I am ready for a change of pace, which was just around the corner, or off the shore, I should say in the form of the much more laid back Isla Mujeres. My dad and sister are flying in this evening and the next day we'll take the morning ferry over and spend the week there. In the mean time, I'll have to ride out the Sig Ep brotherhood songs and and binge drinking debauchery for at least one more night.

The Final Chapter - Costa Rica

Ok, I gotta warn you, I was reading a lot of Hemingway before I wrote this so it´s not my usual blog style. Like him, I tend to get a little lost in the proes and it goes on for a while. So I won´t be offended if you don´t read the whole thing.

The Young Man and the River

A frigid mountain breeze blew across the valley. In the east, the sun made it´s slow accent above the Talamanca Mountains. As the first rays of light petered down the valley they created a thick sizzling haze as the met the crisp alpine air.

The young man zipped up his nylon jacket and checked to make sure he had everything. Satisfied, he walked up the loose gravel driveway from the Pensón and met up with the old man.

¨Sure is a beautiful day,¨ the young boy said.

¨Yeah, its always like this in the morning,¨ the old man replied. ¨Clouds will come over the pass after lunch, but with any luck, their won´t be any rain.¨

They set out down the road. They walked slowly, the old man´s legs stiff and heavy in the morning chill. The young man was eager to get to the river, but out of respect for the old man, he made sure to keep a slow pace. They descended down the Savegre valley following the winding river along a dirt road. There were no cars. Just a quite lane that linked the spartan collection of houses and Pensóns before it came to an end at the park entrance a few kilometers further down.

The old man was especially slow this morning. He was coughing a lot too. He was always coughing on account of all the cigarettes he smoked. He would go through a pack a day, more if he could get them, which was hard to do here. It would be a least an hour before they got down to the park where the good pools where. But, it was a bright, clear Costa Rican morning, filled with a radiant sun and a fresh forest breeze. It made for a nice walk. The Bellbirds could be heard in the apple orchards.

The young man was happy. He´d been here three days and had already caught over 30 fish. He had spent the last two weeks looking for them, moving from town to town trying to find trophy trout, but there had been nothing to show for it. Every town had been fished out, or the water had been too low to support them.

Then he met the old man in a hostel in Orosi and he had told him about the Rio Savegre, far back in the mountains, on the other side of the 3491 meter high Cerro de la Muerte (mountain of death) and the scores of trout holding in its limitless pools. The young man followed him up here, to the small fruit growing town of San Gerardo de Dota. It wasn´t even really a town, it lacked everything that a town would have, a store, a restaurant, or a bar. Yet, that was its charm and the young boy liked it very much. He would have to leave in the morning to catch a flight in San Jose, but he wasn´t thinking about that now, only of fishing.

They split up when they reached the bottom. The old man preferred to fish the more easily accessible water near the road while the young man walked further down along the broken trail hugging the river bank to less pressured waters where the fish weren´t as skittish.

¨I´ll probably stay near the road today,¨ the old man said before he left. ¨Leg´s bothering me again.¨

¨Ok, I´m heading down toward the waterfall,¨the young man replied. ¨But I´ll be back before the evening rise.¨

He could have stayed back with the old man and still caught a lot of fish. It wouldn´t have mattered this early in the morning, when the fish, docile during the coldness of night, are warmed with the sun and become active again. But in truth, he wanted to fish alone today. He liked being alone here, it was peaceful and he could think. He liked to stare at the olive green mountain tops that towered over the narrow alpine valley, watching the cloud forest sway with the prevailing wind. It was quite too, with no sounds but the gentle rushing of water over granite and the Questals singing in the Pine trees. He could think without interruption.

Now he was thinking of how to fish this stretch of the river. He had tried many different things and each seemed to be equally fruitful. He had used a spinning lure in the deep fast moving pools and that had produced fish. He had used dry flies that he had snipped down so they would sink and floated them in the ripples and tail outs with a bobber and that had enticed a few strikes. When all else failed or he thought there might be a big fish under a bank or in a deep slow moving pocket he would use bait. Either worms he dug up along the trail or yellow cheese rubbed with flower to make it hold the hook, and that would always get him a fish.

He approached his pool. He had spotted it the day before on his way back up from the waterfall, but it was dark then and the old man was waiting for him at the road. He had thought about it all night, trying to visualize the pool in his mind, how the water moved through it and where the fish would be holding. It was hard to remember it clearly because he spotted it from a distance, already behind him down the river and had of only paused for a moment, squinting in the fading evening light to try and see it better.

Now, standing beside it, it was exactly like he remembered. A small cascade cut through a dyke of boulders at its mouth and dropped to a foamy white torrent below. On the southern side, backed by moss covered Evergreens and Ceder trees, a large boulder protruded out into the water and dulled the torrent down creating and a small eddie, water that seamed to be circling in on itself. That fed a deep slow moving pool that sped up again as it tailed out into ripples at its back end. He knew the fish would be holding at the front of the pool just inside the eddie snaping at any small morsels that fed out of the white wash. But he also knew that those were the younger, inexperienced fish with more stamina and moxie and that the bigger, wiser fish. They would be be holding near the tail out, content to sway in the gentle currant and pick and choose what they ate.

He would use his lure and fish from the big rock. He set his backpack down beside a ceder and pulled out his collapsible spinning rod. He had picked it up a few weeks back in a hardware store in Panama and it had quickly become one of his most prized possessions. He quickly assembled its parts and crept along the bank careful not to let his shadow or footsteps alert the fish to his presence. He came to the far side of the rock and set his rod on top and then slowly pulled himself up. From the top he could peer down into the cold, clear water and see the dark shapes swaying like seaweed in the currant. Trout. They all seemed pretty small but he remembered the age old angler´s motto, ´where there´s small fish, there´s big fish.´

He found a spot at the end of the tail out to cast his line without scaring the fish. Having had much time on small rivers with this rod, he knew how to control it and he hit his mark on the first cast. He began his slow retrieve in the back currant and then sped up when he entered the murky purple deepness of the hole. It passed through without a strike but he continued his retrieve, slowing down as he entered the eddie swinging his rod around to the other side and pulling the lure sideways through the rough water. Nothing. He was too shallow, the lure wasn´t able to sink down to the bottom and tap against the rocky bottom. That´s what induced the trout to strike.

He quickly reeled in and added a split shot about a half meter above the lure, it was a bit heavy for this river, but if he sped up his retrieve a bit it might flow nicely through the water. He recast, this time not as accurately as the first and the rig splashed in at the upper end of the ripples and he knew he wasn´t going to get any strikes there. He reeled quickly to the deep part of the pool and then then let the lure sink a bit, jigging it to see if he could raise the predatory instincts of the fish. Again, nothing, but he continued through the pool penetrating the far side of the currant. He got a bite, a fish hitting it hard as it snapped at it. He gave a swift tug on the line trying to set the hook, but there was no weight on the other end and he knew it was gone. It was probably too small to mouth the hook anyway.

He reeled in again. Rather then risk another miscast and scaring off the big fish for good, he decided to change his bait and put on a wet fly. He set up a bubble rig, with the fly about two feet below the bobber and some small split shot to get it down. He would drop it in the current at the top of the pool and let it float down to the tail out, making it look natural long before it reached the big fish. He lowered it into the end of the foam, immediately the bobber dropped below the surface and he gave another quick jerk, this time there was a jerk back and a small juvenile jumped clear of the water trying to shake the hook. The young man kept the line taunt and played the fish out of the fast current and into the shallows.

He came down off the rock and landed the fish in a rocky alcove along the bank. He wet his hands and picked it up out of the water to inspect it. It was a rainbow, a small one at that, only 7 inches. It glistened in the sunlight. Its torso was metallic sliver, its head and back a dark moonstone grey. These colors indicated it was a farm trout. There were several trout raising farms in the area and often times, a few would escape into the river. It was only lightly hooked in the side of its mouth and he pulled it out gently and laid the fish back in the water. After regaining its senses, it lurched forward and darted back into the eddie.

The young man returned to the rock and recast, this time a little beyond the eddie. He had had enough small farm fish , he wanted a Tico Trout. His eyes never strayed as the bobber twirled along in the currant, waiting for any slight twitch or pause that might indicated a fish. He leaned his weight forward on his toes as it entered the tail currant, ready to set the hook if a fish took it. But it just rolled out into the backwash.

He pulled the line in and threw it back, this time a little further toward the opposite bank. He waited for the fly to reach the tail out again and then he held his line causing the fly to cross back across the river in front of the ripples as it rose toward the surface, imitating a nymph rising.

It came quick and hard, he felt the line tighten between his thumb and forefinger and he saw a splash at the bottom of the tail out almost in the backwash. A large fish breached the surface. He didn´t even have to set the hook, the fish had done that for him.

Now it took off in a run up the river. He reeled quickly making sure not to give the fish any slack and a chance to throw the fly. Then the fished jumped again, this time almost right in front of the rock. He saw a rosie pink flash as it re-entered the water and he knew it was a Tico, only the natives had that color. The fish ran all the way to the cascade, cutting through the fast water with ease. Then it reversed directions and made a run down stream. The young man let out some line so it wouldn´t break off, but made sure to keep it tight as well. The fish jumped again and then tried to seek shelter under some underlying brush on the far bank, but the young man turned his rod and, with it, the fish´s direction and brought him back into the deep water.

He jumped off the rock and played the fish back and forth in the pool until he could feel it beginning to tire, not contorting its body every time the young man turned him. Eventually, he guided him into the shallows and came down to meet his prize. He was a fine fish indeed, about 15 inches, not the biggest fish he´d ever caught, but a good size for a Tico. It was similar to the rainbow but with a blood red colored line that ran down its sides that radiated into a soft pink, salmon colored midsection. The rest of the body was a spekeled silver and gray with black and gold dots bridging it´s top section.

He quickly turned the fish upside down, this immediately pacified it, putting it into a trance. This allowed the young man to try and remove the hook without having to fight the fish at the same time. The hook was deep, deeper then it should have been for a fly. He pulled out his needle nose pliers and grabbed a hold of the end of the hook. The fish twitched and squirmed, the feeling of metal in its mouth overpowering its transcendental state. The young man worked quickly, he would have to get it out soon if he wanted to keep the fish alive.

Finally, he was able to get a good hold on the hook and push it out of its crevasse. He quickly turned the fish over and began to push it back and forth in the currant, coaxing it to swim away. It laid motionless and began to tilt back onto its back, belly up. This was not good.

The young man pulled the fish from the water and quickly ran up the bank toward the cascade and the fast moving water. He lowered it in in the currant and allowed the water to pump oxygen rich water through its gills. It began to stir and sway its head back and forth, the young man pulled the fish back from the currant and back into slow moving water, still rocking it back and forth. The fish flexed its gills and laboriously started to pull away. It made a slow decent into the dark recesses of the pool, the young man watched as the last traces of its trail where washed away in the currant.

He sat with his back against the big rock, under the shade of a Almond tree and stared up at the crested peaks of the Talamanc. Heavy clouds were coming in from the north. The old man had been right. But the warm sun was still on his shoulders and he was happy. He listened to the water as it rushed against the granite.

Santa Maria de Dota- Costa Rica

Blazing a trail out of Panama, we landed in the small roadside community of Uvita, reported to have some of the countries best diving. Peter and I made a day trip out to the nearby Isla de Caño and had great dives which included good visibility and a school of white tip reef sharks. After a small fiesta at the hostel to celebrate our time spent together, Peter left the following day and I made my way to the Continental Divide in search of something that, after almost two and half months in Costa Rica, had still alluded me... trout.

After scouring online websites, my three guidebooks, and countless conversations with locals, I still didn’t have a clear idea of where I was going to find these fish. With all the international attention given to sport fishing, most Ticos have little or no idea about fresh water opportunities. Moreover, anyone who had some pretense of knowledge gave me conflicting information. When I was buying tackle at a local sports shop the owner told me that their was fish to be found in the river just outside town, but then the hotel host told me that a storm had washed all the fish away. A waiter at a restaurant told me to head south and fish the valley rivers pouring out to the Pacific but then his co-worker told me that there were no trout in those waters.

I was getting a little frustrated with all the back and forth BS. Then, when I thought I had lost all hope, a guy at a tourist agency told me of a river in a small town in the highlands, on the other side of the Divide, that held 24-30 inch leviathans lurking in its secluded pocket waters waiting for a fight. That was enough to sell me and I boarded a bus that afternoon for Santa Maria de Dota, a small coffee growing community well off the Intermarcada and not even listed in most guidebooks.

I arrived just before sundown, as an orange and yellow sky backlit the towering peaks of the encompassing mountain range. Not having a guidebook to go on, I set out to try and locate a hotel before it got dark. I found the town to be competley devoid of any tourist enimities, restaurants, internet cafes, and even accomodations. Finally, happening down a side street, I found a hotel but learned that, being the weekend, it was booked. I asked the owner if she knew some place else that might have room but she told me that she was the only accommodation in town.

A feeling of desolation came over me as I tried to survey my options. All the buses had stopped running and if I couldn’t find a place to stay I would either have to take a taxi back to San Jose (3 hours away) of face a chilly night on the streets, both of which I didn’t not want to do. She must have seen the desperation in my face because, as I was leaving, she called out and said I might check across the road at the bar, where the owner sometimes rented out a room in the backyard. With no other option I walked over and entered the bar.

A side note here that I was undoubtedly the only Gringo in town and probably the only one to have set foot within its boarders in months. So, you can imagine the attention I got when I entered a noise bar on a Friday night loaded down with a hug backpack slug over my shoulder and another one hanging from my chest. In a classic moment, everyone turned their head a once to look me up and down and I waited for someone to stop the record player.

With the additional weight of everyone’s eyes upon me, I walked up to the bar and met Ita, the owner. She was a weathered, middle-aged women with short hair and a no nonsense demeanor; the type of women who wore the pants in the relationship if you know what I mean. She was going about 100 miles a minute dolling out drinks to the thirsty mob crowding the bar but still took the time to see what I wanted. I asked her if she had a room and she said she did... but it was already rented out for the evening. My heart sank with this realization but then she paused. She gave me a sideways stare, as if she was sizing me up, and then said that she did have an extra room though it was just a bed and not one she normally rented out. I assured her that wasn’t a problem and would love to have it.

She led me behind the bar and down a hallway to the back of the building which, with a couple of bedrooms and a kitchen, served as the house for her family as well. Leading me down another hallway back toward the bar, we entered an Anteroom that was doubling as a closet and bathroom. In the corner there was a ladder leading up to a loft that had open window frames at either end looking down into the bathroom on one side and the bar´s storage room on the other. ¨Es bueno, no?¨ she asked, and without waiting for a reply climbed up the ladder and started changing the sheets. Pondering for a moment if I should take this room, I realized I didn´t have a choice and climbed up and helped her. When we finished she gave me a quick tour of her home introducing me to her three daughters, her sister and brother, and five nieces and nephews, all of whom were also living in the back of the building. She gave me a warm cup of tea and then disappeared back into the bar.

I returned to my ¨room¨ and tried to settle in, or as best I could in a pulsating room with vibrating floorboards from the bar on the adjacent side of the wall. I was just getting ready to go out and try and find some place that might be serving food when Ita bust back into the room and told me she was heading up the mountain to drop some food off for the indigenous coffee workers and that being a good way to see the area, I should come along. Not wanting to be rude to my host, I agreed and before I knew it, we were grinding up a dirt track in her 4x4 through an endless expanse of coffee groves as the last traces of daylight were consumed by the emerging night sky.

Half way up the mountain we pulled off the road and carried the supplies down a path cut into the steep hillside. With the twilight as our guide, we came to a small group of wooden cabins perched on a plateau overlooking the valley below. Here 20 or so Panamanian Indians lived with their families and worked the coffee plantations during the dry season. Again, Ita played tour guide and showed me how these families worked, cooked, and lived in these remote cramped quarters for four months out of the year, before making their long journey back to Panama. It was an incredible experience.

Back at her place, I sat around the kitchen table with a bunch of her friends who had stopped by to see the Gringo and we tried to have a conversation. I say tried, because none of them spoke a word of English, including Ita, and somewhere along the way she got the impression that I spoke fluent Spanish, which I must admit, I do not. So, I tried to catch as much as I could while they rattled off questions about California and the States and told me stories of their town and country. At one point someone asked me why I had come to Santa Maria and I told them it was to fish for trout in the nearby rivers. They all looked at each other and started to laugh. ¨¿Truchas?¨(Trout) Ita exclaimed, ¨no teniamos truchas en estes rios por muchos años¨(We haven’t had had trout in these rivers for many years), and they all laughed again. I laughed too, to keep from crying.

I tried my luck anyway and found that I didn´t have any, but in the end, I didn’t care about the fish; I would have given up 100 trout tugging on the end of my line for the time I spent with Ita and her family. She took me in and treated me like her son. After a very light nights sleep in my loft/closet/bathroom/storage area, she moved me out to the then vacated, and much more agreeable, cabana in the backyard. She then arranged for me to tag along with her kids when a local farmer took them up to his organic vineyard set in the deep recesses of the mountains. There we wandered through his orchards and lounged away the afternoon by his private hand built swimming pool. She fed me breakfast, lunch and diner everyday and talked to me constantly, even though she knew I was probably only getting half of what she was saying. She went out of her way time and time again to make sure I felt comfortable, full, and at home in her house.

The following day when I was getting ready to leave, I tried to pay her for the accommodations and food, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She said that I was an invited guest in her home and needent pay a dime and that I always had a place to stay if I ever came back to Santa Maria and, if everyone else in town is as nice as her, I suspect I will, provided I find my trout stream first.

Boquete - Panama

It was inevitable that, after a highlight like the San Blas islands, Peter and I were setting ourselves up for a let down. That let down would be Boquete. Once a small coffee farming community set in the deep canyons of Volcan Bazu in Northern Panama, it has now become a hot spot for retired Americans who can afford to buy land there and live off there pensions. Not quite at that point in our lives yet, we wanted to go there because was a good base for climbing the volcano and a good place for trout fishing. You can guess who wanted to do what, but it doesn´t really matter, as both of us would be let down.

The town itself was nice enough, though their didn´t seem to be any real sense of a community or even a pulse of nightlife. However, we were quickly turned off to the place when we found that everyone in town was trying to sell us something. When I inquired in a couple tourist offices about fishing in the area, they all tried to sell me on deep sea charters, when Peter asked about hiking the volcano, they listed a bunch of all-inclusive tour operators.

The best was yet to come however, and it did in the shapely form of a young, attractive Canadian girl who approached us when we were having lunch and struck up a conversation. She told us how she had been in Boquete for a few weeks and, loving it, was planning on staying for a few months. Always relying more on fellow travelers for tips then guidebooks or tourist information centers, I listened intently and asked a lot of questions about the area. She told me she was studying at a nearby Spanish school and that they organized great trips in the area and for a good price. I suggested that we go by the school and see what they had to say, Peter seemed a bit more hesitant but came along in the end.

When we got there, one of the teachers, seeming to be expecting us, jumped on us with tour opportunities. He tried to sell us maps, books, tours, the whole bit. Still not really getting what was happening here, I asked him about fishing, and he told me he had a friend who could, for a price, drive us up to a couple good spots along the river. He said it would be $7 there and $7 back, and I though it would be worth it for the fishing info.

In the car, Peter confessed that he thought the whole thing was a ploy and that the girl was working for the school and they were just trying to suck as much money out of us as they could. Finally, I caught on and when the taxi driver, having not told us anything about fishing, dropped us off in the middle of the road and pointed down someone´s driveway saying, ¨fish, that way,¨ we kindly told him we´d find our own way back and that he didn´t need to pick us up.

A little pissed by this treatment after paying extra for the service, you can imagine how mad I was when it turned out that there were no fucking fish to be found anywhere. I dragged Peter up and down the rivers muddy banks, jumping barbwire fences and scaling rock faces seaching out promising holding pools but, to no avail. To top it all off, I broke my camera scrambling over a rock and was a little less then pleased to say the least.

After my blood pressure dropped back below 300, we headed back down the driveway and caught a cab back to town, which cost us a wopping $1 each. This confirmed our conspiracy theory and permanently soured us to the town. Cutting our losses, we decided to brake camp and make a run for the boarder, and crossed back into Costa Rica looking to get a few more rays of sunshine before Peter had to go home.

San Blas Islands - Panama

A Kuna Matata in Kuna Yala

After extensive research in our guidebooks as to figure out what our next destination should be, Peter and I decided on the Archipelago de San Blas, a group of secluded Caribbean islands halfway down Panama's eastern coastline. These islands are a few steps off the beaten track and is accessible only by boat or small aircraft. Only being $35 a pop from the Panama City, we booked a flight in Bocas and headed for the capital. After a boat ride and 11 hrs on a bus, we found ourselves in Panama City at 1am and still only half the way there, still needing to catch a puddle jumper at 6am to complete the journey.

Being the shiest that I am, I didn't see the point in spending money on a hotel when we only had a couple idle hours until our flight took off. So, we opted to pull an all-nighter and took up residence in a booth at a 24 hour cafe in the bus terminal. We were tired. We had hoped to sleep on the bus from Bocas, but between the three screaming babies sitting right next to us, and a blaring Jackie Chan movie -which also appeared to be about a baby, who cried in every scene- there was no chance. Now, beyond the point of exhaustion, we passed the time drinking espressos and playing paper football (I won 27-6).

It was a surprise to us then when, a few hours later, as our plane coasted over the atolls and cayes of the San Blas, we were still not tired, but filled with anticipation. Kusping the shallow waters just off the Colon province and mainland Panama, this postcard worthy sprinkling of islands has a history that is equally as impressive as its vistas. Of the 350 plus islands, only 40 are inhabited by the Kuna, a group of indigenous peoples who pride themselves on being the last pure descendants of the Mayan and Inca nations. The San Blas, or Kuna Yala as they call it, won autonomy from Panama back in 1930 after a bloody uprising against the repressive Panamanian police patrolling the area. Still recognized as an independent comercia, Kuna Yala has its own government, police, and currency.

The Kuna are a very proud people and have gone to great lengths to preserve their culture and heritage. Amazingly, they have managed to resist outside intrusion by foreigners (no one can own land in the San Blas unless they are a native born Kuna) and have maintained there simple fish and coconut biased economy that is generously subsidized by tourism.

That would lead us back to, well... us and as Peter and I rolled our bags off the tarmac we were greeted by a horizon dotted with small white sand isletas, all of which about the size of a city block, completely shaded in palm trees and boasting one or two palm thatched cabanas. It was simply gorgeous, it was a cover photo for Travel Magazine.

We found a good hotel on one of the more inhabited islands, and for a set price, we got three squares a day (consisting of fish, fish, and more fish) and two tours to other outlying cayes. This was a great deal and, even though we were certifiable for want of sleep, we couldn´t pass up on the morning tour. So, as soon as we set our bags down, we were swept off to another small island, no bigger then a football field and solely inhabited by one family living in a small hut on it´s windward side. We spent the afternoon hours dozing under palms trees and snorkeling in the clear Caribbean waters. In the late afternoon we returned to our hostel and I finally got some much needed shut eye.

We had heard that it was possible to stay with families on these more rustic islands and the next day, Peter and I hitched a ride on a yacht to one such island located on the outer ring. The ride out there was pure entertainment as the passengers on the boat were a group of Irish and Australian backpackers who decided that they would dress up like pirates for the voyage and drink like them too. When we got on the boat at 10am in the morning they were already hammered and greeted us with hearty ¨Arrrrr mattiees.¨ They seemed the perfect crew for the captain, Hernando, an ageing Columbian born seamen who was a bit of a pirate in his own right, or at least drank like one. He looked like one of those homeless men you see sucking the last drops out of beers cans they find in the trash can, and I wouldn´t put it past him. He seemed to sway about half-conscious and not entirely sure where he is or who is is talking to. It made for a fun-filled ride and we all arrived at our little treasure island in good spirits.

The location was amazing. Again, a small sand swept caye in the middle of the ocean covered from shore to shore in swaying palms and virtually uninhabited. It was right out of Dufoe´s Robinson Crusoe. We met Antonio, the patriarch of the community living here and he agreed to let us stay, saying he would provide us with food and a place to sleep if we didn´t mind donating a few dollars to the community. It was a bargain, as long as you didn´t mind not having running water, electricity, or a toilet. Yeah, the last one was a bit rough, if you had to go, you just took a walk out to the sandbar and hoped there was a currant. They did however, have a Co2 powered refrigerator fully stocked with enough frosty beer to satisfy an entire fleet of pirates. It´s good to know that no matter where you go in the world, cold beer is always a priority over water and light.

We spent a very agreeable two days there, aside from a rather cold night sleeping in hammocks in their drafty thatched cooking hut. I practiced my Spanish while Peter recited his Chow-Lin meridian points in Cantonese. I lounged on the beach while Peter performed Yoga listening to lectures on tape of Chinese medicine. I played soccer with the local kids while peter watched the pet money jerk off in his tree. Ok, ok, I´m going a bit far with that last one, but just like the homeless captain, I wouldn´t put it past him.

Words can´t fully describe how pure and beautiful the San Blas islands really are. It´s like jumping in a time machine and dialing back to a time when Latin America was free of Agloization. I have been a lot of places in my life, all across the globe; from high mountain kingdoms to Hollywood set beaches, and I think I can safely say that Kuna Yala is the post picturesquely beautiful place I´ve ever seen.

Bocas del Toro - Panama

Returning from our mountain adventures, Simon and I met up with our respective companions in San Jose. Mine was a friend from both high school and college, now finishing up his final year of med school. His name is Peter Gerritz, and quite a character, though words can never fully describe what he really like. In our group of friends he is know as The ´Enforcer´ because he etched that name* in green tape (even though our colors where red and gold) on the back of his football jersey for his first game his freshman year in high school. He is also known as ´Gary´ and teaming up with his college room mate Elan (´Ace´) they form incredible gay duo (here he is in full costume). He is also know as ´the dumbest smart man alive,´ for reasons which will become clearer to you in the following blogs I´m sure, but as for now, suffice to say, he is one of a kind.

Anyway, after and night out on the town with Simon and his friend, the two of headed south toward Panama. We made a stop over in a small Caribbean town called Chauita just north of the Panamanian border and fell in step with it´s laid back alternative vibe, chillin out on the beaches in the afternoon and sipping cervezas in a reggea bar come nightfall. The following morning we rose early and set out on a trek through a national coastal reserve adjacent to the town, where I educated the local animal life on safe sex, before donning our backpacks and hoping a bus to the border.

The crossing was a breeze, particularly since I had done it before with some difficulty and knew how to avoid it this time around. We were in Bocas by early afternoon and waisted no time in booking a dive tour for the following day. It was a full day of activities, starting with a trip to Dolphin Bay, where, as you might surmise, dolphins were to be found. We spotted one pair playing in the shallows but, upon closer inspection it seemed that it wasn´t just a little bumping going on and we were interrupting a little morning sha-bang-bang. But they didn´t seem to mind and kept at it all the while... you know what they say about dolphins.

After that we head out to Coral Caye, which, you guessed it, had a lot of coral on a caye. We made our first dive here and though the visibility wasn´t great and the sea life not amazing, it was a fun dive. Well for me anyway, since it was only my 7th. Peter, an assistant instructor scuba diver, with more than 250 dives under his belt, wasn´t jumping up and down. After that we lunched at a restaurant set out on some mangroves. Well, some of us lunched, willing to pay $9 for a half cooked piece of octopus, the rest of us snacked on crackers I´d brought with me. Afterwards, we made our second dive at Hospital Point, which, need I say, was to be found at the point of an island with a hospital on it. Again, not amazing, though I did see possibly the biggest hermit crab in the world, roughly the size of a large watermelon.

Wiped out from the days activities, Peter and I didn´t feel much like parting, but our dive master, a local Bocaterra, told us there was a Calypso party on a nearby island and it shouldn´t be missed. So, after a feed we took a lancha over to Isla Bastimentos in search of the this local shin-dig. What we found was a very unwelcoming island full of dark allies and shanties and one very unhappening bar. Not wanting to admit defeat quite yet, Peter and I walked around to see if we couldn´t find some hidden street that would lead us to this alleged amazing party. Nothing, just darkness and unfriendly looks. It reminded me a bit of my experiences in Livingston, but this time around I wasn´t alone. We inquired at a local market and the lady behind me in line said she would walk us to the bar, and the store clerk echoed that it would be best if she walked WITH us. Getting the hint, we followed this lady back to the same bar we had just come from and promptly dove on the first boat we saw and made speed back to Bocas.

The following morning, we set out on some rented bikes and made a 13km ride along the belly of the island to the beaches on it´s far southern shores. The ride was amazing, bobbing up and down as the road traversed the hilly lush tropical inlands. Half way along we stopped at a cave, famed as a bat grotto, and took a venture inside. It was absolutely teeming with bats, and I, not one usually frightened by the creatures, was mortified as my flashlight illuminated an entire ceiling alive with the vermin (pictured here). Peter conversely, was in heaven and gasping excitedly as he scampered futher down into the darkness clapping his hands with joy. Bats are his favorite animal. He even used to dress up like one sometimes in college, using mud to draw New Guinian bat markings on his face before he meditated. This of course afforded him another nickname: ´The Fruit Bat.´

After he had communed with his brothers, talking with them and calling each one his ¨precious babies¨ as they shat on his head, we biked the rest of the way to Bocas del Drago, an absolutely stunning beach at the end of the road. We had a brilliant lunch set among the shaded palms on a coral white Caribbean beach and spent the rest of the afternoon trying to break open coconuts and biking along the shoreline. We took a cab back to town, seeing as Peter, a few pounds heavier during med school, almost died during the ride there. I was a little winded too.

That night we met up with some Berkeley high alums, who were living in Bocas town building a vacation home for one of their families. It was good to be around Berkeley people again and for the first time in almost five months, I felt like I was back home chatting it up with old pals in a local bar. But, this feeling was short lived, because the following day Peter and I were off again, headed to Panama city and a flight out to the secluded San Blas Islands.


*He actually etched the name ¨The Barbarian¨on the back of his jersey, but when our college lacrosse coach, after hearing this story from us, was retelling this story to the rest of the team he couldn´t remember the name correctly saying he printed the name ¨The Enforcer.¨ Subsequently, and for the rest of his college carreer, he was always called by that name on the lacrosse field.