Cookies and Rum, Airport Exile

President José Manuel Zelaya Rosales, tinkers with the Honduran constitution to continue his rule over one of the poorest and most corrupt countries in the Americas. The Supreme Court rules for an immediate military coup and the President is woken up at gunpoint and flown to Costa Rica. One of the most respected leaders in Honduras’ history is threatened into exile, while wearing his pyjamas.

In a country where children play with guns as toys, protests begin on a Sunday morning; everyone is told to stay in their homes, but I have a plane to North America.
The ferry docks on the mainland and a bus takes me to San Pedro Sula. With many hours until my flight, I ask a cab driver to make me to City Mall, where they have a movie theatre. We agree on a price for the cab. I duck into the back seat. Three children leech in beside me and a woman holding a baby releases her chair back in the front seat to accommodate her pregnant belly. The family of the cab driver is going the same way as me; better to carpool.
In front of the City Mall, several militants with long guns wave their palms in my face. The mall is closed. There will be no movies, shopping, or looting protestors this Sunday. Next door there is a castle shaped Hilton Princess.
The receptionist greets me cheerfully, without sizing up my dirty jeans, filthy backpack. My expensive shave yesterday reveals my white face which goes a long way in a white face hotel.
I ask about the shuttle to the airport, and the lady asks my room number:

¨220? ¨
¨Senor, Vasquez? ¨
¨Si.¨
The receptionist, Maria, carefully mentions that all flights have been cancelled because of the dangerous protesting in the country.

Senor Vasquez, a well-respected and long-term guest of the decadent Hilton Princess, is granted gratis use of the internet lounge. The internet informs the nervous group of international travellers sharing the lounge that flights have resumed for the rest of the day.
The orange sunset hits the golden arches of McDonalds, the only open restaurant within short walking distance. After a late lunch, the airport shuttle takes off with only one passenger stowed uptight in the back row of the minivan. Two kids hold real guns to each other’s faces, near the freeway turnoff to the airport, a few kilometres outside of the city centre.
There is more militia than tourists, and more police cars than taxis, but they confirm that flights are leaving on schedule, including my midnight departure. I pay the shuttle and walk into the airport.
One solider with a rifle, extra clip taped on, asks to see my passport. He inspects the authenticity under the neutral lighting above. He kindly announces my flight will not be leaving, as the temporary government issues a country-wide curfew. I like the old corrupt government better.
My airport shuttle is gone. I’m told I will have to stay in the airport indefinitely.
“The airport is surrounded by armed military. You’re safe in the terminal; you’re dead in the city.”

A cast of characters forms, all from the same cancelled flight: a young Midwest American couple with stacks of bags recently finished a year of volunteering in Honduras; a friendly black retired postman with a thick gray moustache and a positive view on military overthrows; a German hockey player waiting for the plane that never left Fort Lauderdale; a couple of old vacationers who make a few phone calls and leave on the significantly more expensive earlier flight back to the US.

After a few phone calls our group learns that the flight has been rescheduled for seven the following night, a twenty hour wait. We’re impressed with the quick response of the airport, considering the civil war forming in the country. This Lost group would have to survive a night in an airport without food. There is a vending machine. We all pull out our change and small bills and make out with some cookies and bags of chips. I remember my Flor de Cana rum, aged four years, which I pass around the circle.
Soon I’m tapping my feet and churning my shoulders in cookies and rum joy. The mood lightens. Life gets better when the American couple reveals fresh tortillas and refried beans their home-stay family made for the flight. I invent the Dorritos baliada. And God-damn Bless America, the couple has a laptop filled with movies, speakers, and a mini-projection system. I laugh through most of The Jungle Book.

After the movie, everyone finds their room for the night. The elderly do the classic chair sloop, head in hand drool on shoulder. The resourceful American couple utilize the luggage conveyor. The German has an air mattress. I setup my sleeping back next to the closed cigar shop, and a few metres away from an armed soldier.
I sleep well.
I wake up and the airport is covered with people. A young woman steps over me and opens the cigar shop.

"What are all these people doing in my airport?” says the hockey player. One restaurant opens on our side of the security fence and it's a glorious Wendy’s. I'm in line at eight and trying to decide how many patties to get. Unfortunately burgers aren't fried up until the late morning so I order the biggest breakfast available.

After that greasy morning glory, I find internet at a Budget Rent A Car. Two girls eat home brought breakfast and watching YouTube videos of exiled President Zelaya. He gets exile in Costa Rica. I’m stuck in exile at the airport terminal.

There’s flight from Fort Lauderdale to Boston at seven in the morning, but the airline me on the late afternoon flight. There are still eight hours of aimless before checking in for the first flight.
There are no magazine shops, and I have no book worth reading, so I lounge in the cigar shop. Thick stiff brown leather couches form a circle around a stack of Cigar Aficionado magazine. I read gentlemanly articles while smoking the cheapest cigar in the store and drinking a Sprite.

The afternoon passes easier than the triple-patty burger at lunch. I check-in for my flight after four.

On the plane anxiety grows, expecting more delays.
Take off,
take off,
take off,
take off!
TAKE OFF!
We take off.

The oldest lady in Latin America shivers underneath one thin airline blanket beside me; she’s complaining of air conditioning and headaches. She looks at me, points up with at the roof with a half-extended shaky finger and whispers, “this is not the air of God.” Oh hell, this woman is going down before the plane does.

Everyone arrives alive in Fort Lauderdale at midnight. Computers are down at customs. There are airline representatives at the baggage check. The morning flight to Boston is oversold by five spots but forty-five minutes before the morning flight any seats not accounted for check-in are available to me.
I setup camp behind a flight board, and I sleep well with carpet underneath me; my second night’s sleep in an airport.

At six-twenty in the morning, a lady behind a counter, hands me a boarding pass and tells me to get to the gate, fast! I Home Alone it through the airport, fuddling with the AA batteries in my TalkBack, but always keeping a metaphoric eye on Dad's brown trench coat.

They close the gate door behind me. Civil Wars don’t bother me.

Underwater

I probably shouldn't throw around the term "best day of the trip". But.

I wake up at 8 and went across the street to get a breakfast boleada. It's a freshly baked corn tortilla topped with refried beans, eggs, onions, and hot sauce, and wrapped like a taco. Delicious.

I actually have class this morning. I'm on Utila Island off the northeast shore of Honduras, where diving is what most people come here for. Well, diving and drinking.

Anyway. I'm already on my second day of classes, but have yet to get into the water. My instructor is the very smart, cute, and Vancouver cool Caitlin who I really like. She's actually the one who grabbed me when I got off the ferry, checked me in, and is now my instructor.

In class, we watch movies and go over everything. There's 5 chapters of this Open Waters manual and after going over each chapter we do quizzes which are pretty much idiot proof. Another instructor, Brian, helps out. Not really. He looks exactly like the mean kid in Toy Story, and acts like Paul Rudd's finest character in Wet Hot American Summer.

Morning class ends around 1130 and Caitlin is going out for lunch with Brianne, her best friend visiting for a month, Brianne's younger brother Evan, and Evan's best friend Tyler. Caitlin invites me because she's awesome. The night before she invited me to her place where 10 Canadians sat around a small TV to watch the Penguins win the Stanley Cup in one of the best Game 7s I can remember.

After lunch. It's time to scuba. I won't lie, we have to complete a lot of skills that we go over, and I'm getting a little nervous. Not so much about the scuba, moreso because the list seems overwhelming and that leads to other anxieties.

I get off to a really bad start when we're setting up our tanks, which we learned how to do in the morning. I screw everything onto the tank upside down.

Right as we're about to get in the water all my worries fall away. We have 4 instructors for a group of 8. All help in getting us into the water and into our gear. We play around with the BCD jacket which inflates and deflates for buoyancy and I try using the tank. We swim over about 20 metres to where there's a tarp just less than 2 metres underwater.

With Caitlin and Brian in front, and Corrine and Mark in the back, we're told to deflate our jackets and try breathing underwater.

I have no fucking idea why I've never had an interest in scuba diving before. The feeling of breathing underwater is incredibley freeing, relaxing, sounds dispipate, movements slow, you breath in and out with big breaths. It's like the finest meditation you can do. We start doing our skills, one at a time, in between playing around with buoyancy. If we move out of the semicircle we've created, Corrine or Mark literally grab us and put us into place.

I thought I'd really hate the skill where the instructor turns off your tank, until you run out of air, just to know what it feels like. But it's really scary at one second but as soon as you give the signal your air returns and it's kind of a rush.

I also thought I'd hate the skill where we pull off our mask and breath for 1 minutes with our eyes closed but it was the strangest feeling .Without the mask, with my eyes closed, I felt like I was sitting on a hill with clouds above.

Brian is surprisingly helpful during the 2 hours we spend underwater. The 2 hours goes by so fast. I really never want to leave the water. Every half an hour or so I get a little overwhelmed when I overthink but I just slow my breathing down and tranquillo.

When we all get out, I'm told I owe the instructors a beer. Apparently if you place your goggles above your head that is the sign of a distressed diver so it's forbidden.

After we go back under and our weighted for buoyancy. Again, another beer. Fuck. Brian's really happy about it.

While being checked, I deflate my BCD and go about 2 metres under. Yaaaay. Corrine is instructed to tell me to come up. But now I'm incredibley excited for the following day where we do skills at 3m.

We get out, and clean all the equipment. It's almost 5pm and a bunch of us sit on the top patio at Parrots. Caitlin and Brian already have beers so I get them rum pineapples. Now, Caitlin tells me she's not drinking tonight, but I know what happens when you give anybody a rum pineapple. It can be the biggest drunk or the most conservative drinker, if you give somebody one rum pineapple on an island, 20 more will be consumed thereafter.

I take a nap after my drink, and wake up and it's dark, around 7pm. I walk out onto the street to look for some cheap food as the diving is really expensive. On the ground, 500 limperas, $25. $25 dollars back home doesn't buy much. In Honduras, it covers my dinner, a big hunk of BBQ pork with refried beans, salad, and two fresh tortillas. It also buys more than 20 drinks at 20 limp drink night at Tranquilla Bar. I go there alone, to be fair it is a 6 metre walk from my dorm room. I immediately see Connor, a big jolly American that I took the bus from San Pedro Sula to La Ceiba to catch the early ferry and we sit together and I start ordering 3,4,5 rum pineapples. We're not really friends, but anybody you get on a stressful 4 hour, should be 3 hour, bus at 5am, it's a drinking friend for sure. Brianne's bartending tonight as well and she's fun to look at.

Early enough, Caitlin arrives and sits between myself and Connor. I immediately order her a rum pineapple. She tells me it's going to be her only one, but when she's almost done that one I order her another.

I feel bad, sort of, but Caitlin and myself get into a long conversation about diving, and her ambitions to be a nurse, and Connor is kind of excluded. I really shouldn't be in this scenerio. There was definitely something between me and Caitlin from the day I got to the island. We keep drinking and we're both pretty drunk at this point. At around midnight, a 6'6 massively moustached Alaskan named Kim with short shorts and an open Hawaiian shirt approaches Caitlin and of course I'm ready to bat this weird dude away but this guy used to live on the island and Caitlin taught him to dive and Kim taught her to play guitar.Caitlin tells me he's the best guitarist she's ever met and immediately wants to go back to her place to play guitar. I follow to listen. We kick her sleeping roommate off the couch, and he goes into one of the two rooms. I know three people live there and I'm wondering now how that works. Caitlin's guitaring makes me happy, singing Neil Young with a raspy voice and a guitar innocence. Kim is actually quite good, and I appreciate his love of lyric first music. But I'm falling asleep.

I wake up to Caitlin saying we're all going for a night cap at Tranquilla bar. I pay for it, the last of my 500 limps. Brianne is closing up the bar and wants to go for her night cap at Coco Loco, about a 5 minute walk, a beautiful bar right on the water, as most things are. We obviously go to. I don't have another drink, due to insufficient funds but it's definitely for the best. Caitlin and Brianne start dancing around and then. I've never been so compelled to do anything, so absolutely infatuated. Brianne gives Caitlin an edge of space and I grab her and tell her we're jumping into the water right now. Not now, she tells me. There will be a better time. Better time? We run holding hands and jump in in our clothes. I'm wearing jeans.

Brianne follows in shortly, but gets out fast. I really can't stress how romantic this situation is. In the caribbean at 1 in the morning, a beautiful black sky with stars, the moon halved. Music is playing loud, and I'm grabbing onto the bottom of this litted dock and my legs are wrapped around her, her blonde hair wet and tucked behind her face.

"I have a boyfriend."

Now. In normal circumstances, say over a coffee, "I have a boyfriend" can hold weight in a conversation. In this situation, I kiss her.

It's a small kiss, kind of hard, and she pulls away.

"You know I have a boyfriend."

"Not really, who is your boyfriend."

"Eric."

"Shit." Eric is another instructor at the shop, reminds me of a loveable Degrassi character. But worst of all, the night before during the hockey game, they all make burgers and he offers me the last one and it's absolutely delicious. This makes us friends, by way of man code.

Worst of all, she knows a lot of people on the dock, some of which work at Parrots. I don't really concern myself with this as most people are drunk anyway. Allan, a local at the shop, helps us onto the high platform.

I take off my shirt, and Caitlin pushes me back in. My shirt falls to the bottom, impossible to see in the dark water. I tell her it's actually my favourite shirt, with Batman AND Superman on it. Caitlin tries looking for it but I hold onto her leg and bring her back to the surface. Searching is hopeless, and dangerous. We kind of hug in the water. Nothing happens.

But damn. We get out innocently and I apologize for making a move.

I make friends with Larry, as he tells me, I'm talking to the best, with lots of money, with friends that would kill for him. And he can barely keep his eyes open. I'm a little concerned because he approaches me after seeing me and Caitlin get out. I assume he knows Eric, and this guy is reaching into his pocket. I use my Canadian defence.

"HI, MY NAME'S ALAN. HOW YOU DOIN?"

Within 10 minutes I go from having this guy want to stab me, to telling me if I ever need anything "taken care of" I can ask for Larry. Thanks Larry.

I crossdresser grabs me and it's time to go. As we leave, Caitlin reminds me to have my homework ready for chapters 3 and 4.

Room Rummage in El Salvador

The young owner of the hostel, an El Salvadorian with long dreadlocks and a heavy beerbelly, walks into his office and turns to where I´m sitting. He gives me a stern look like an elementary school principal whose going to deal with me after; the only difference is I´m shirtless and strumming a guitar. I already know what´s going to happen.

¨You have to pay for two rooms!¨

¨Let me get this straight. Your security guard saw ME, leave room sixteen and somehow unlock room twelve at midnight. THEN at four I leave room twelve and return to room sixteen. AFTERWARDS, a key is found in a washroom and you assume I stole? What would compell me to do any of this? Do you accuse all your guests of using two rooms?¨

¨You were with the blonde girl. I been in this business 5 years, friend. I know these things: you have a girl, you want to do the happy. Do I have to call the cops?¨
“This is outrageous!”
“I’m calling the cops.”

¨Look. I´ll pay you the eighteen dollars because I know if the police come and it´s my word against yours I´ll have to bribe everybody fifty bucks¨

Travelling with a girl is a good way to stay out of trouble. Travelling with a girl you have a crush on will do the exact opposite.

In Playa El Tunco, I took hammock naps at all times of the day. Sometimes I would wake up at it would sunset, sometimes I´d close my eyes watching the full moon. At night we would drink rum and beer.

A Long Day In Granada

Friday morning I woke up in a really hot room around 9am. Marni was excited to take pictures of the colourful and colonial city of Granada. I was really excited to get a haircut.

I went down a few blocks to a large barberia and sat down at the first chair. As usual I told my guy that I wanted my hair short and the beard shaved off. He told me it would be 50 cordobas for the cut and 50 cordobas for the shave. That seemed a little excessive but so did my facial hair.

He went to work on my hair with a massive pair of scissors. I hadnt used shampoo in several weeks and the tangles were wild. The haircut only took about 15 minutes and it wasnt bad. Then he asked me if I wanted my beard cut off with an electric razor or a straight knife. Obviously I elected for the clean cut. The barber removed my backwards cap with all the hair and cranked the chair down so I was lying back. He wrapped a yellow towel around my neck and folded a fresh knife into it. He then applied the shaving cream, using his pinkies over the moustache. The cut took about 5 minutes. When he was done, he added another layer of shaving cream and spent just as much time going over my face. He handed me a wicker fan and added a strong alcohol to my face. When the burning set in he fanned my face for a few minutes. After, he added baby powder, brushed it off, then added more baby powder. Then he took a glob of shaving cream and massaged it into my cheeks, neck, and forehead for about 2 minutes. I sat up in a daze like I had just been to the spa.

I walked around for a little, exploring the city. I happened to peek into a cafe and saw Adam and Marie eating lunch. I hadnt seen Adam since Medellin about 6 weeks prior. We both looked a lot healthier.

Marni and myself met for lunch in the central square by the big yellow church, with a cold litre of Victora cerveza. About a dozen kids walked past during the hour asking for money. Granada seems like a small town with money but its really quite poor, with endless amounts of beggars, harassing drunks, and shit sellers, trying to sell you overpriced shit. This is not the same Nicaragua as Isla Ometepe.

I woke up from a nap at 5 and saw Marni had been doing the same. Our new friends Isa and Hannah, two fun girls from Britain, moved into our room and we set out with two German guys to a baseball game that we got word of. We heard it was the playoffs, and fun. Walking over, I grabbed a hot dog along the way expecting it to be the first of many.

At Flor de Cana stadium we had no problem buying the most expensive tickets, at 1.50 US and there were hundreds of seats to choose from behind the batters box. I went down to a woman with a massive cooler and bought 6 cans of beer for the group. They were only 1 dollar each. Surely this wasnt the same baseball as the major leagues. Everything is so cheap.

Now all we wanted were hot dogs, endless amounts of hot dogs. Funny enough, there was everything you could want to eat except hot dogs and it was all cheap so I had most of it. First there was a casillo, a flour wrap with cheese, onions, and sour cream. Then I had a slice of pizza. After was a chicken burger. Isa got a ceviche and it was surprisingly good and we all somehow avoided food poisoning during this entire time. We all took turns buying beer and like in the majors we watched the vendors more than the game. We also had fun watching kids walk around collecting empty cans. By the third inning it was dark and we were down 4 runs. In the 4th inning there was lightning and a few minutes later a heavy rain started. We had a roof but the fans in the cheap seats huddled into the corner. The game didnt pause.

Between innings reggaeton plays and the bat boy dances, stamping his feet in a circle in a salsa type dance. The bag of his jersey reads KitttyTyler.

Then, in the 5th inning, the power went out. A few thousand people remained in their seats waving around their cell phones. I put my arm around Hannah because I was definitely a little worried about the pitch black. We sat like this for 10 minutes. A few emergency lights came on and seemed to intensify the wind now blowing into all of the stands. All of us started climbing seats in a panic like a volcano erupted home plate. When we couldnt get any higher we huddled into a ball to stay as dry as we could.

We sang songs.

The rain died and needless to say the game was cancelled for the evening. We hurried out of the stadium and had no trouble getting a taxi, or fitting 7 people into this little citroen sized car.

We got back to the hostel and went to work on a bottle of Flor de Cana dark, aged 5 years. This is some of the best rum you can have. At points we talk to a guy named Chuy, a 280 pound Nicaraguan who pretends to work at the bar in the hostel but really is a cause of grief for the staff there. He is funny nonetheless.

We go to two different bars, both on our block. Niether are very fun but I have a good time talking with Adam, Elaine, Helana.... ah you know, the usual group. Marie has turned into a really good salsa dancer. Marnis really fun on the dance floor.

Towards the end of the night, Isas dancing with some local who lies through his teeth but plays the psycological game of frustration nearly as good as I do. On the other side Hannah and Marni are being hit on by an old short local who looks like a combination of the egg man, the joker, and the penguin, with the laugh of the riddler. He is the ultimate super villian.

While Im trying to get Isas dude away, Marni and Hannah walk past super villain. Marni says goodbye to the guy, and God bless my friend who has only been in latin America for one week, but the guy waits outside and has two of his friends sitting in a car and starts yelling at Marni about being rude and stupid and he wants to fight me. We walk really fast back to the hostel. This is when we think to ourself, what a crazy night. But Isa is hungry and we all decide to go looking for food. This is a really small town and doesnt have too many late night options but we hear of a place near the cemetario and go looking for a cab. Shopping around, we finally get a guy down to 10 cordobas per person and as we are about to climb in another taxi pulls up. Chuy gets out.

Chuy!

He tells us to get in. Chuy moves into the front seat beside the cabbies girlfriend, squishing her in the middle and the 4 of us in the back. We get to the cemetary but the restaurant is closed. Chuy tells us that the gas station has food so we drive there. Chuy is talking complete rubbish and taking hits of coke out of a small bag and saying something about how his boys roll and all 4 of us are now starting to get that bad feeling you get at 3am on a Friday night.

The Esso gas station does have a good assortment of food. I have a croissant and a juice box. Marni has a old cold meat empanada. Chuy comes in and, grateful for driving us around, I buy him a pack of gum which he opens before I can pay for it and starts grinding the piece in his teeth. The driver and his girlfriend buy beer. Police are in the station and Chuy is talking about how he bribes them and how they wear uniforms and he wears sneakers and hes the one making all the money. That bad feeling grows.

We get back into the cab, and he drives us home. And this is what I was waiting for, and knew was going to happen. Chuy gets out and says okay you gotta pay the guy. This doesnt seem unreasonable. After all, he is a cab. But the driver is asking for 220 cordobas, 11 US dollars, which is easily 7 US dollars more than we should have had to pay. He kept telling us it was 3 seperate rides. One to the cemetary, one to the gas station, and one back. Obviously now we were being taken on the longest ride. Smartly, I tell him we are going to ask the security guard at the hostel if this is a fair price and when he opens the gate I tell the girls to get near the door where Im now standing.

After a few minutes, the driver threatens to call the cops after we pay him 5US, a fair price. I look him in the eye and tell him to do it, knowing what he had been doing all night. Chuy is sweating. The guy makes a fake phone call. I smile. In the end, we wind up paying 140 cordobas to him, but he stares each one of us down before driving away. Oh, travelling.

We get into bed but Hannah and I wind up having a long conversation until 6 in the morning. The heat wakes us up at 9.

10 Days On Isla Ometepe, Nicaragua

By the time I get to Little Morgan's it's nearly 7 and I'm hot, a little curbed by 30 hours of travelling, but I immediately feel like I'm in the place I want to be; on the lake. I climb down to the water and swim out a few metres to the view of the nearly symmetrical Volcan Conception with a large puddle of orange flowing behind. Jumping fish pop around me.

Drying off, I go to the main reception, kitchen, lounge area; an open concept with a high planain roof and hammocks strung to every pole. I'm handed a litre beer by Ty, a fully bearded dude from Kamloops, two front teeth missing, was probably a pirate in a previous life. We're watching the Penguins Carolina game on he SKY satellite. In the kitchen, I get word of a communal dinner of freshly caught fish soup. I'm not even hungry but I tell the chef I absolutely am. The soup is placed in front of me in a family style serving bowl, half filled and you can't hit the stew without a large piece of snapper hitting the spoon.

I go to sleep kind of early, trying to sleep in one of the hammocks by the water. Swinging for a few minutes and settling in like a cat on a pillow, ouch. The hammock falls to the ground but I don't really feel any pain at this tired point. I just walk up all uniquely shaped wood stairs and find a bed on a box spring.

Most of my days were a routine of happiness on the island. I would start by swimming for about 40 minutes, to a point off to the left. I'd come up to reception for coffee, and one of Lyndays's stacked omelette with fresh bread. I'd come to really know and enjoy Lyndsay, but I first bonded with her through her eggs.

Some mornings I would go off the property to a woman running a kitchen off the patio of her house. She owned 2 green parrots and a monkey and would always tell me how hot it was. And damn Nicaragua is hot, with unrivaled humidity. This woman would take at least 30 minutes to make only me breakfast as her solo guest. What would come out in hand with a rolled napkin of utensils would be an omelette, gallo pinto (a dish of rice and lentils), deep fried plantains, and avocado. A fruit shake with any variety you asked for.

After breakfasts, I take a swing in one of the hammocks and either nap, read, or play with my new best friend, Tito. Tito is a 4 week old kitten when I meet her. She's handheld adorable hilarity who loves to gnaw on fingers. I can instantly relate to her. She loves hammocks and as soon as she smells food or hears utensils in the kitchen, she goes to the kitchen to enquire. And often gets a piece of ham in return.

I spend lots of time in this kitchen too. The livein chef of communal dinners is a flamboyant lanky Nicaraguan who goes by the name Chico. He's lived an interesting life, half of which was in Canada where he managed to live in every province from Ontario and onwards west (including Saskatchewan). He was Nicaraguan at birth but Canadian by trade. He even has a spanish word for fuckin' eh... "say it Alan, pronounce this, Dyachachimba!" A former chef, Chico was always making something new and delicious for dinner. He would never tell me what he put in anything so sometimes I would just start watching him, almost every meal served with fresh flour tortillas.

After dinner would be lots of drinking and music, and hilarious conversations. Some nights there would be 3 or 4 customers at the hostel, but 4 staff that were allowed free beer and would take advantage of this 10 or 12 times over over the course of a day.

One girl, Rachel, was a on a bender the entire first week I was there. She would stay up until 3 or later drinking and as soon as she would wake at 8 or 9 in the morning she'd have a beer in her hand. Realizing she probably had a problem, she went straight sober and turned into a ball of emotions.

This was the day after the Sunday pool party we had in honour of Ty, who had spent 3 months working at Little Morgan's in a place that has only been open a total of 7 months, and his girlfriend Malory. Girlfriend, or rather the ex-girlfriend who suprised the man she loved by coming down to stay with him in Nicaragua, with varying success rates.

The pool party was fun. It was the only day I partook in the full day drinking marathons. There actually is a pool that has to be filled manually with a hose. Needly to say it was only calf deep when we stopped filling it. We sat in the cool shallow water for a while.

The next day, tattooing began. Two boys from Managua are trying to relocate to Isla Ometepe and use the patio above reception as a temporary shop. Megan, a chilled out weed farmer from the US who was already tatted up wanted one on her forearm to make a sleeve, below her lochness monster tattoo. Megan is a strange one, would often be elsewhere in her mind, but I really liked her other arm, dedicated to Pink Floyd. She told the tattoo artist that she wanted whatever he felt like putting on her arm that best represented Nicaragua, incorporating birds, flowers and the two volcanoes on the island. Nothing would be preplanned and all of it would be done in free hand. It was estimated that it would take 4 hours but the sun set over the volcano and the boys were still working, using a construction light for guidance. I was sitting up by her with a bunch of Nicaraguan guys who would often hang around the hostel playing pool. Some were tour guides, some worked on the property, and others were just friends of Morgan. We were all talking, when we heard the needle turn off and the artist simply says, "finito". All of us gathered around to one of the most beautiful tattoos I have ever seen. A magnificently coloured bird flying through a multicoloured sunset with the volcanoes in the back, Nicaraguan flowers surrounding. These big tough looking guys all had water in the their eyes and they all agreed: that tattoo IS Nicaragua. Everyone stood there in silence for a moment, like a beautiful child had just been born. It was a beautiful moment.

The next day Rachel got a tattoo that took early 12 hours of pain and the day after that her sister Lyndsay got a smaller but gentle and colourful tattoo which fitted her well.

I always like to listen to Lyndsay tell stories because she would do it with a very soft voice and a smile, gazing off with her aqua eyes into the moment. Lyndsay was a sweetheart, always giving out compliments expecting nothing in return and would call you out for no reason but she was usually right. My favourite moment was lying in a hammock and watching her hulahoop in her Where The Wild Things are dress with a cigarette in the side of her mouth and in the other singing Wagon Wheel.

There were lots of beautiful moments at Little Morgan's but one kind of hard afternoon in one of the nearby towns. We heard there was bullriding an hour away, and Lyndsay had yet to have a cultural experience in the 10 days she had been travelling, nor had she really even been off the property, always stuck looking after the hostel. But Rachel said she could look after the place and me and Lyndsay got onto a chicken bus. We were apparently early so we sat down for a few beers and some strange plate of meat with meat stewed plaintains. Gross. We tried feeding most of it to a dog who sat by us but you couldn't move to fast around this dog because it would back up like you were about to hit it. I found this a little strange but the dog was thin and obviously abused. It made more sense when the bullriding started.

We get chairs sitting unsturdily on uneven planks of wood, behind a mesh cage fence. There's a live band playing on an adjacent side of the square ring. A string of light bulbs are lifted above the arena. 12 or so bulls are in the main ring when one guy starts poking the bulls with a stick to move into a corner. When the lights are strung, they are moved into a connected bullpen. The bulls have no problem with this, they want no part of the massive ring. But they're weak and they move slowly, too slowly for the bull managers who wack the bulls, kick them, slap them, and throw rocks until they're all fenced off. In one part of the ring is a tree trunk, the top sawed off the bark removed. This tree has the same feeling to it as a medieval gauntlet, the pool in San Pedro Prison, or a gas chamber. Before you really know what it does, or what it's for, you get a terrible feeling looking at it.

One bull is selected by a man on a horse. He strings the bulls horns with a fan friendly colourful rope and drags the bull into the ring. The band plays. The bull is unwilling. It does this every weekend. The ring is now filled with 20 or so overgelled teenagers and some of them hit the bull from behind until the horseman can turn the corner on the tree trunk and the bull is then helpless but to move right up against it. Semi secured and pushed into place by the horse. Another man steps in and attatches another colourful rope around the bulls neck, the man pulls on the rope until the bulls neck is now pressed against the trunk, the bull's head can only tilt upwards, it's eyes bulge out of it's skull. A third rope is added and somehow the man finds even more strength with which to lynch the bull to near death. Now they have to get the bull angry, by pulling on it's tail several times, at this time one of the gelled superstars lifts himself onto the animal. All the ropes are removed and at the opposite end of the ring a man with a red cape attracts the bull which starts to gallop. But only for 10 seconds or even less. This bull is weak, as soon as it reaches the fence where the other bulls are, he stops running. Of course kids try pulling its tail and throwing rocks but the bull won't move. No problem, there are 11 other bulls in line to be tortured. After 4 bulls we leave.

Lyndsay and I catch a ride in the back of a truck which takes us along the sunsetted pink lake and cool air, children riding their bikes and waving, smiling.

On Monday, Marni arrives. Although I had seen her ony once in the past 6 years, there is no awkwardness between us. She's as relaxed as I remember her. She enjoys the lake as much as I do and does her own thing. She'll make for a good travel partner for myself. We relax the first full day on the island and I propose that in the morning we head up to a overlook, partway up the closeby Volcan Madreras. And that we wake up at 4am to get there for sunrise. She's game. Waking up after only 3 hours of sleep is surprisingly easy for both of us. We get ready and start walking, aided only by one small flashlight. The stars are still out. The trail runs through the greasy Italian owned Zipolote farm which I had been to before for tasteless organic banana muffins. It is a nice property in the hills, but hard to navigate through. Its not even 5am and we see a bald man in his house starting his day. He obviously sees somebody walking in circles around his property and he comes out, says hola, his long white beard is a black sillhoutte. I approach Mr. Zipolote and he points us in the right direction. It's still a little confusing, trailing through plaintain farms and a woman making breakfast over a tall open fire in her small wooden house, climbing over and through barbed fences. We're not sure where we're going but walking always in the direction of the Volcano seems like a good idea. At this point the sun is starting to rise, and we no longer need the flashlight. Even at this point in the early day it's really hot. We walk past a tree where three monkeys swing, birds and sounds of other animals surround us. We make it to a clearing where we can see the bright orange fire sunrise behind the trees, rise over the other side of the island with smaller islands attatched. Beautiful coastline. From here we can hear Howler Monkeys. There's no seeable trail so we start bushwacking, always following he noise of the monkeys. We don't worry about getting lost because walking 6km in any direction will surely lead to some part of the lake. We actually find a trail. I walk off a little past her while Marni sits in one spot listening to the birds. Walking, I hear a noise from the right which is somewhere between a monkey, a dog, and angry. I walk back slowly to Marni who has spotted a big monkey sitting around on the end of a tall tree branch. We're back at Little Morgan's as everyone is waking up, asking us when we're going to leave for the hike.

Every sunset I was in the water, watching the colours, the clouds, often lightning in the distance, the birds. Every sunset motivated me to stay until the next. But on Wednesday we decided on Thursday to leave, on my 11th day on the island. Wednesday night I started drinking, had great conversations with Lyndsay, Chico, Morgan, and all the others at the hostel. I told Marni we should stay until Friday but she knew it would be hard for me to leave and she told me it would be Thursday and I'm glad she did. I even had some great moments with the spanish older blonde who would come by almost every night with one of the saddest, sunken faces I had come across. Her house was robbed a few days prior. But as everyone started going to bed I got hold of the music and started to play songs that made her happy and ventful and she was dancing around like a little girl to all the old Neil Young, Bob Dylan, Zeppelin. It was really great.

Tito and I slept in a hammock on the last night. In the early morning there was a sunshower. People kept waking me up to say goodbye and at 9am we catch a ride to the ferry by the tattoo artists.

Swami Yoga, El Valle

Day 1

Head into the dead volcano mountain town El Valle de Anton. Swami Yoga camping is an incredibley tranquil farm, a healthy mixture of Panamanians and French. Before setting down my bags Im offered a plate of pasta with lentils by the Belgian Francesco. Reggae is playing.

Im told I can sleep in a tent, the house, or on a hammock. Im hoping I can do all three.

The only downside of the site:no meat, no eggs, no alcohol.

I shop across the street and obviously my options are limited. Oatmeal and orange juice.

Getting back, everybody is standing and they ask if Id like to go for a walk.

Through the quiet, cottage feel streets we reach a point of incline. We walk up 10 minutes, through the strong scent of oranges, to a clearing. On the ground one of the girls finds a small avocado. We look up and see 20 more. With a couple of rocks, sticks, and shoes we get a few more down.

Back down the hill and over 100m we find another uphill. A few minutes up there is a giant rock with what are said to be 5000 year old markings. Its definitely a picture. One part looks like a whirlpool with people around it.

This is us. A few minutes higher up and we can hear a waterfall. Panamanian Alex leads us over a small river crossing and up to the waterfall, Casca de Amore. The small waterfall creates a whirlpool sized lagoon and we all jump in in our underwear. One of the French girls has fantastic breasts and I try not to look. Where are my sunglasses?

Back at Swamis, Elaine and Helena are there making soup. And in the night I read on a hammock.

Day 2

Swami takes a bunch of us to his friends' all organic farm. We taste heirloom tomatoes, green onions, and the greenest basil I've ever seen out of the pot. The owner also does experiments, the most interesting was a lemon infused basil. Smells like lemon, and tastes like basil.

In the middle of the farm is a natural spring where we all drink water. Attatched to a thick branch hanging over the spring is a rope. I figure I would swing for fun and come back. The come back never happens, instead the branch falls into the water along with myself. I laugh. Swami tells me I did a good thing because kids play on that rope all the time and one of them was bound to get hurt eventually. Always positive.


Day 3

Swami, Helena, Elaine and myself walk up a paved road to the top of the mountain where it is possible to see the Atlantic and the Pacific ocean. We sit and lie for a while enjoying the rainless day. At the bottom we eat lunch and then go to the thermal bath with Nathalie, an American girl.

There, we put mud on our faces and I get impatient waiting for the itching to stop so I clean off and go into the pool where I talk with a Venezuelan couple who flew to Oakland to see his daughter and are making their way back by bus. They tell me Hugo Chavez is working out quite nicely, spreading around the oil cash, They both seem incredibly happy.

At night we make dinner, a dish Swami used to make in India: Kefta. One preparation is curry fried rice, another is a reduced soup with cinammon, garlic, and curry, another is shaved plantains, flour, pepper, curry, and water to make fried cakes, and last is a tomato sauce made with paste, a sweet Asian pineapple sauce, soy sauce, and dried chili peppers. I spent a while making this and as Elaine was lifting it off the blender the bottom fell out and the sauce went everywhere but the fried cakes. We still managed to scoop enough onto the plate. Over 20 of us sat outside and there was enough food to satisfy everybody, sitting on cushions and knees around a straw mat.

After we watch a Legend of Bob Marley DVD with a lot of great performances.

Later, I do a midnight meditation with Michael, his girlfriend Pam, Alex, Nathalie, and Sunthi. Afterwards Michael, a former Windsor native who only wears white because he doesnt think colours are necessary, talks about the 7 chakras.

Michael is a hilarious character. You can be having a conversation with him and he'll casually do a 10 minute long handstand with his legs twirling above.

Before I go to sleep Pam gives me a hand massage.

Day 4

Full moon.

Day 5

I finish Every Cowgirl Gets The Blues in the purple hammock while Sunita expertly cleans a pot with the remnansce of chocolate using a spoon.

We all go to Swami´s friends property to cut down bamboo trees to build cabanas on the farm in time for rain season. Small problem when we began cutting just off his friends property but the stranger farmer was very understanding. I was happy taking a machete to a tree of my own, despite it being contraband bamboo.

Carry back two logs in hand, turning frequently to avoid wrist cramps, with Vanessa from BC.

Go for lunch at my favorite restaurant across the street. Spiced chicken, lentils, rice, and plantains, all covered in a spicy sweet homemade sauce. Eating with Swami, everything is half price.

After Swami takes myself, Vanessa, Natalie, and the French guy with a strange name, to his ¨secret swimming spot¨ that everybody with a bicycle in El Valle knows about. Trees form a gate where legend says the devil once seduced 3 sisters. The water is brown, but warm, and there´s an almost impossible to swim to waterfall at one end. I lie with my only my face out of the water, and imagine lying in a smooth morning lake in Muskoka.

Walking back a girl drives onto her ranch with a pickup full of yellow melons. We buy two and eat this very sweet melon, a combination of cantelope and honeydew.

Day 6

Tired all day, I read Motorcycle Diaries through.
I feed a rooster that limps around, one of it's feet is completely mangled. Oatmeal, cashew fruit, and water.
The stars and the fireflies race to make a first appearance. Fireflies win. I lose $50.

Day 7

Still tired, apparently not feeling great, I take naps and read a book by the Dalia Lama through.
I decide tomorrow it's time to leave.

Taking Account

My tent lies between plantain trees and a tree which looks like it could bloom any fruit, but chooses the red sweet cashew fruit. My tent area is surrounded by these fruits, and occasionally when I sleep I'm awoken by the sound of another pepper shaped fragile skinned cashew ball. My tent itself has no rain protector. Instead, a blue tarp is drapped over a bamboo stick resting on the both trees. The tent is sound, no bugs or mosquitoes bother me at night.

The rest of the property has about 7 or 8 tents, each with its own unique form of rain protection. One tent sits alone, behind the tree with a bright red heart painted on it's belly.

There are 4 cats on the property. Two black, and two white with brown spots. I would say there is somewhere between 4-8 roosters but they're always running around. They can be heard 24 hours a day as the cats like to chase the roosters. There are also 4 bunnies attached to the house. The house is primarily used for it's kitchen. The one bathroom doesn't work. A toilet is outside, attached to the house. The door, a blue tarp. At the far end of the property is a mosaic tiled toilet that serves no purpose.

For relaxing. There are 5 or 6 chairs, the cushions on the chair also make for seats on the grass. There's one hammock, and a few straw mats to lie on. Following the trail of white Christmas lights at night, there's an alternate kitchen for anybody who wants to eat meat. The kitchen is completely unused but makes for another spot to hang out.

Swami himself is very interesting. Probably in his 40s. He has two kids, no wife. He's awaiting the arrival of a girl from BC who thinks he could love based on a friends recommendation and facebook conversations. He's always willing to give a massage, read a palm. He spent 8 years of his mid-adult life in India with his guru.

Dream State Paradise, Panama

Captain Fabian tells Yisra to throw the anchor down. We´re at his favorite island, long, with huts at the end. This is the first inhabitated island that we´re taken to in San Blas. A tree trunk canoe pulls up, one paddles, the other bails water out of the boat with a small cup. Between them are 6 live lobster ranging from full meal to light snack and we buy all of them for $20 US and immediately row them to the three hut village with a bag of rice. The sun sets behind a nearby island and we eat lobster tail with coconut rice, drinking cheap beer. A small pig is under the table.

Later all 7 sit in the raft with the dirty plates and paddle back to the boat. We spend 2 hours giggling in the cabin. Captain discusses the problems with his bipolar wife who he will soon divorce and we all question Prince Charles´taste in women.

I find myself sitting on an island surrounded by huts, hammocks, and palm trees. A young girl brings out a plate of 7 fried and lightly curried whole red snapper and a hot black pot of rice, half of which is stuck to the sides. A few Kuna tribe children are yelled at. In the morning they drank a beer. I didn´t know they allowed yelling here.

The Stugeron seasickness pills put all of us into 10 hour dream like states. I wake up periodically to red headlights, Fabian yelling, and falling Boston cigarettes.

As we eat two puppies circle our feet, the sun opens up from behind morning clouds. I feed them the heads.

After we eat I wash my hands off in the clear ocean. My feet are dug into sand with the feel of dry of oatmeal. An orange starfish nearby.

Me and Stuart count the different blues around us. From white, and beyond until the dark ocean reef break 30 metres away. Before that are a few rocks and logs that seemingly float on top of the water. A long coral bed where earlier that day I walked and say a red crab and an orange starfish, not unlike the one I saw a few days before while snorkeling for my first time and swam with a paper thin florescent blue fish and a black one with a yellow tail. Flying fish land in the cockpit throughout the night. We throw them out by the wing.

I walk a few minutes on a different, finer sand to a place where I lie in full heat, and can sit shoulder deep in water and watch 6 islands. Each has their own natural order of palm trees. I admire the one where about 15 stand alone, touched only by heat.

In this water I make life plans.

Nearly a week before its 9pm and everyone is asleep but me and Stuart sit on opposite sides of the cockpit and watch the stars. The silver sliver moon lights our path. The higher sail dips in and out of the water, dripping thick drops when it takes it´s breath. Every meal that day was a ham sandwich. After breakfast a group of Commerson dolphins swam by while Amy and I listen to Bob Dylan on her iPod.

I take control of the wheel for an hour. When the water is choppy I can honestly feel the wind going through the two sails. I move the wheel furiously.

Tomorrow everyone but Yisra gets on a bus to Panama City. I sit on the front of the boat in my shorts, eating pork & beans out of a can, read the first 50 pages of a Tom Robbins novel, and paddle the raft 10m into the historic town of Portobelo. Storm clouds near the bay. Fruit cocktail planned for dinner. I forgot to bring my sandals; I hadn´t worn them all week.

Hikes & Hammocks

Last Friday at 10:30am I get in the front seat of a taxi, a Slovenian couple sitting behind me. The lively driver insists that I dance to the Kumbia music being played and turns it up when he turns off the highway and onto a dirt road, turns up the music and drives 5km an hour past his house which he points out while bumping uphill on a sorry excuse for a road. Along the way he drives a friend 500m. The taxi driver shakes hands with a toothless man holding up a string toll, grocery bags hang along while his 3 year old son has the other end. 2000 pesos. We then drive a woman the whole way to Tyrona Park. We´re taken just over a kilometre into the park.

The trail starts to Arecifes. Easy, flat, well marked. Sweating hard, it´s probably 35 degrees walking towards the caribbean coastline, unbelievable greens and red ants carrying specks of fauna. Find the ocean. Beautiful blue water, quiet sand, smooth round rocks up against the water in the shape of a dentist´s chair. Lie in a hammock before having a full lunch. Get lost walking to La Piscina bay, instead finding a family of huts and hammocks. The sun is hotter where I find the Slovenian couple swimming. Final walk is to Cabo San Juan de Guia. It´s the biggest sit by 15 or so hammocks. Several mounds of rocks create a cove with waveless water. On the biggest rock is a bungalow, 20ft above the waves, where hammocks are set out in a circle. All of them are taken but I find one of two on the second floor, where there are the most amazing views of the ocean. I set my bag down and go to find the nude beach two beaches down.

On the beach with little trail, and a completely dismantled blue and white boat, is an empty, nudeless beach. Figure I might as well get naked. Swim around for 20 minutes or so and still nobody else enters the beach about a half kilometre long. Go back and rinse off, put on my green pants and climb barefoot out to a rock lightly dusted with salt water and I lie down comfortably and fall asleep for a few minutes.

I climb back and meet some of the others in the bungalow. Canadians, Germans, Aussies, and one particularly cute girl with blue eyes from Wisconsin. We all talk as the sun goes. Palm trees turn black. Take our flashlights down the rock, across the beach, and into the restaurant. I have a good dinner and we all have a few rounds of beer. When we all get back I show the girl from Wisconsin how much my hammock is swinging in the ocean wind. Its cold, but alright with a sweater.

I wake up at 130am and I´m shiverring. I put on every layer of clothes but it´s still cold. I look around with my flashlight. There´s a half wall behind me with doors and I think I should hide from the wind on the other side. I look over. Turns out there´s a double bed. Without hesitation I throw all my stuff over and fall asleep in a surprisingly comfortable bed. A bed I would later find out should´ve cost $50. Wake up at 715am and pack up my things, climb back over the wall and start hiking back to the entrance. It´s an easy walk without the midday heat and getting lost. By 9:50am I´m at the entrance of Tayrona Park, with 10 minutes to enjoy a large freshly squeezed orange juice with ice and sugar.

Truck pulls up with a brown bearded Canadian in the back. Doug. 3 others walk out of the park: 2 Germans, Felix and Klaus, and the former´s cute Colombian girlfriend Martha. We drive 30 minutes down the highway and turn off onto dirt where we pass a well armed border with guns, two parrots, and a monkey. A soldier takes attendance and we´re heading up into the jungle mountains. Its like Bolivia all over again with 45 minutes of rocking, bumping, and head hitting, only making 8km of ground. We stop at a restaurant and the last place jeeps are allowed to go. Lunch is full. A donkey takes all of our food and we´re left with our two guides for the next 6 days. Asedro and Gluy, his pseudo friend son.

Gluy is 18 and good fun, running around the trails and singing songs while he cooks. He´s really methodical about things too, apparent when he unpacks the sack of food onto the shelves almost the same way every time and the way he unpacks his personal clothes into piles only to put the piles back into his bag. He is always taking account of us and the food. I told him he could easily come work in a kitchen in Toronto but he told me he´s in tourism school for a year so he can run his own tours to the Ciudad Perdida. I don´t blame him.

Asedro is somewhere between the age of 45 and 60. Dark skin, thick moustache, and an Alfred E Newman simple haircut. He´s lanky as anything, and walks his thin legs up, down, and flat at the exact same speed, usually with a smile. He´s well respected by other guides, as he´s probably been doing it longer than most. Used to work on a marijuana farm, for an American entrepreneur before the military chased away the guerillas (or paramilitary) and stopped all the cocaine and marijuana farms in the area. Always with a smile, a story, or a joke involving donkeys and pigs with surprisingly clean punchlines. Sometimes he cooks with blue flower hawaiian shorts, shirt tucked in, and his yellow hiking shoes or his rain boots. He has a camera phone and he must be one of the only guides in all of South America taking pictures.

(And the rest: Felix is finishing his thesis on the Bogota transit system while living with Martha who is super cute and I don´t think I ever found out what she did. Klaus makes prosthetic feet back in Munich, enjoys his drugs and swimming and is really quite hilarious. Doug is one of the most Canadian guys I have ever met living in a town of 50 and working at a nearby community centre driving the zamboni. He always seems a little sad but is sociable.)

The hike begins fairly flat, if not downhill, but its that strong sun and humidity that has us all seeing through our sweat. Only an hour in Asedro stops and sits on a rock and tells us to jump into the river where there is a deep green lagoon. No hesitation into our swim suits and into the amazingly refreshing cold shower water.

Feel refreshed but a tough uphill starts and it feels like a 60 degree angle, moving closer and closer to the sun. For the most part exposed. Tight zig zag trail. I move past Asedro and Gluy, into a timed rhthym with my breathing, arms still by my side. Make it to a shed where a woman sells drinks and I finish a Gatorade in three gulps. We see black bird with white wings and an orang beak in flight; a Mira bird. Past a camp of military who are on guard to deter illegal grow-ops and also to keep peace among farm owners where there are land disputes with those who lost their farms for one reason or another. Only 20 more minutes of uphill to go.

At the top, and we almost immediately are heading downhill. At the bottom of the hill is our camp. A series of tin covered sheds. One used by the family. One covers a billiards table. We have a long space overlooking the rest of the camp, where Gluy sets up hammocks and Asedro starts with dinner. Gluy tells us about a waterfall lagoon nearby and again without hesitation I get down there and jump in down about 8ft. I swim to the other end and watch the waterfall and by this point the others have found me. Feels like the picturesque jungle. Lagoon, waterfall, vines, rocks, moss, plants, trees, birds, bugs, humidity, everything. When its dark we all sit for dinner using candles to guide our spoons into the chicken. I suppose its to keep the bag as light as possible but we only have spoons to eat with for 6 days. Bugs join us and Klaus rolls something to smoke. Get into the hammock, under the mosquito net which feels like a safety blanket. Sound of the river is heard clearly. The hammock is incredibley comfortable, tied on a horizontal wood post over 2 metres apart.

Wake up to coffee, hot chocolate, omelettes. We hike for one hour uphill, past what we´re told is a still active coca farm but only producing for personal consumption. We hike for one hour downhill. At the bottom is another camp and Asedro lays down his sack. That´s it for the day. I had been told this was a tough hike but so far it´s really relaxing. Soup lunch and then 3 hours napping in my hammock. Wake up around 5 in the afternoon. The others go to swim but only Doug can find the huge lagoon we´re told about with big jumps. Beef and lentil dinner. In bed before 10. Another long deep hammock sleep.

Day 3 is to be a long 7 hour hike to the Ciudad Perdida (Lost City). Starts off with a river cross which I try out barefoot, rapid water pushing us downstream. There´s a big uphill and I do it fast taking advantage of the early morning clouds. Stop over midway beside two huts, straw roofs, wood vertical pillar walls, ¨Casa Troja¨. About 6 kids with black and light brown hair wear white pillow case type garments. They range in age from 2 to 10 with one of the younger wearing animal teeth around her neck. A 14 year old looks after them. The kids swing each other violently on a fishnet hammock for entertainment.

Pass about 12 huts gated off at a distance. Told it was once a tribe of 80 and they live like their ancestors did, being those in the Ciudad Perdida. Stone huts, straw roofs.

Finish the uphill. The water and banana salesmen is closed. It´s not a problem because on the start of the downhill we pass the house of the banana salesmen. Asedro goes up to the house and comes down holding 20 bananas. Gluy cuts up a pineapple that we´ve brought with us. I eat about 6 bananas, feeding the peels to the two horses nearby. Two children watch us from behind a thin tree. I offer one a slice of pineapple and she doesn`t share it.

Downhill, passing a contemporary art ¨Unripe bananas in wood cage¨, a black pig guides me and then runs into the bush when I get close. At the bottom I cross the river and lie against the rock with my feet in the water while the others catch up. By the others I usually mean Martha and Felix who walks aside her. Myself, Doug, and Klaus do hike fast though.

We have to cross about 8-10 more times, keeping my snndals on between which makes hiking over some big rocks a little difficult. The water is always cool, always fast. Before the last crossing Asedro and Gluy stop to make sandwiches for lunch. I love this trip and all it´s eating breaks. After clean up we cross the river and I make out a staircase in the rocks, about 3 ft out of the water. We start to climb these stairs for 40 minutes, at points seeming more like rock climbing using feet and hands. And up the steps, moss covered bricks begin to rise 15 ft out. It´s a platform. It´s the main entrance to the Lost City.

The Lost City really is a magical place. There´s no souvenir shop or admission gate, whisteblowers are armed militia teens. It´s also amazing because nobody knew it existed for a few hundred years. The place is a series of circles and stairs leading up the mountain, most circles representing where a house was, a courtyard, meeting room. One map carved into the stone of the entire Santa Marta region indicates rivers, mountains, leading into the ocean. There are several stars on the map, each representing a city. The only found one is the Ciudad Peridida and the others, if they really exist, aren´t found because there are no guides indicating which river is which, and there are lots of them. Same goes with the mountains. The area is quiet, only 50 visitors allowed per day. This is still new stuff, only discovered over 30 years ago. It was found by two men from Santa Marta. Upon the second time coming up to the city, they brought friends, an argument occured and one of the original founders was killed and buried in one of the circles where we sat for a few minutes. Peculiar. All the dead bodies which would be buried with their fortunes remain unfound. A hut is setup and we´re told the significance. The straw represents the rivers, and the walls represent the mountains. It really feels like discovering this place for the first time when walking around. During our entire tour we don´t see another person. We sleep over one of the circles on the far left end, being certainly one of the coolest places I´ve ever slept. Unfortunately no hammock, mattresses.

Wake up everything is green. Only colour is a blue, yellow, and red bundles of flowers on one bush.

I love this place and don´t want to leave. The indigenous people consider it a holy place and I definitely feel it. All of their ancestors once lived in this city and they protect it well. A Japanese company was going to build a gondola from the city of Santa Marta to the Lost City. All the signatures were there except that of the people. And as of next year tourists can no longer sleep in the Lost City, instead having to sleep at the bottom of the stairs.

I sit for a moment, looking over the sacrifical rock in the shape of a frog, the group seemingly miles away. A 17 year old with an automatic rifle asks me to return to my group. We walk back to the camp from the previous night.

In the morning I´m walking in my green boxers, sandles, and hat with the boys to the big lazy river flowing undisturbed nature lagoon. It rained the day before and its a superiorly muddy 2 hours hiking alone getting to camp first.

Over the black pot first and dim lightbulbs is a total night set of trees where we watch the many fireflies.

Throughout the week in the very infantile mild rocking hammocks I find myself giggling every night at memories, others memories, things I make up. I think about current absurdities, especially those regarding big cities and capitalism.

The final day starts with a rewarding uphill at the top a green mist covered valley, walking along a clay trail which turns to chalk in wind like a summer storm. One hole in the sky is blue.

Before The Rain Starts In Medellin

Under the black marble statue of Simón Bolívar on his horse, one hoof raised. Three seniors play Colombian love songs on weathered guitars. An indifferent saggy cheeked gray haired musician looks outward, while the man in plaid looks into his untuned strings under his chin; the guitar on his gut. He sings one song, forgets the words, and is cued back in, and sings well passionately. Cigarette and coffee break.

"This is music of the mountains," says the one shaking hands. An extra guitar sits in a garbage bag.

The slowest song's long finish--thunder, lightning-- then we run for shelter.

Coffee District

I left Cali early in the morning. Turns out all the busses to Armenia are actually minivans, so the whole family piles in for 4 hours of fun. Im sitting with Aunt Lacoste and big cousin Berth. Lac gets the worst of it, sitting in the middle. Im on a proper bus from Armenia to Salento, Zona Cafetera, coffee country.

We pass through a small village called Boguida (?), river, trees, indigenous people, houses with long red roof tiles. Cool. Up into the valley, Sarento. Hotels, restaurants, fake crap, English everywhere. What a tourist shithole. The hostel I want to stay at has no room, so they walk me to a hosperdaje, where they walk me to a single room right off the main strip. Works for me. So how do I get my coffee? Im told there is an English friendly farm 15 minutes out of the centre, and there are a few Spanish ones an hour outside of the centre. I start heading down a dirt street, small houses on either side. It doesnt take long to get out of tourist land, and into bamboo, wide leaves on thin brances 60m up. Im walking downhill into a valley, farms everywhere. I dont know where to get some fresh coffee because I dont know what coffee looks like. A white pickup takes me part way down the hill, grandpa driving, grandson in the middle, and father in the middle. Im sitting with two shovels and a torn potato sack. Either Im being driven by three generations of shovellers, or Ill be found next in coffee jars across N. America.

They turn, I continue walking down the hill. I make it all the way to the bottom, where theres a little village called Palestina. This makes total sense. I knew all those VIVA PALESTINA signs around S. America was a plea for fresh coffee.

I ask a kid on the street, do you have coffee? He points uphill, the way I came. ELIAS, he says. ELIAS. I continue walking into this village and sit on a bridge over a rapid cold river with a waterfall, eating Pringles. Then I head back the way I came. I walk 15 minutes, asking around. ELIAS? ELIAS? No se. Eventually I find a woman who points 10 metres away, where I find an 8x11 blue sign with white writing saying something about ELIAS 50m away. I walk slightly downhill, to a house. ELIAS! I say.

From the back of the house, Im approached by a man in jeans, denim shirt, and a dirty white stiff cowboy hat. Elias is probably 60, complete with white moustache. He tells me we can do the whole coffee process for about 2.50. This takes about 10 minutes to explain because his Spanish is very rough behind a deep raspy voice. I get used to it, more or less.

He clips a basket around his waste, puts on an extra pair of socks, and worn out rubber boots. We start walking. Pineapple, he points. Avocado tree, he points. Plaintanes, here, bananas there. Awesome. We get to a bush with red, orange, and green grape sized balls. This is coffee. This is coffee? This is chocolate. He starts getting in there, telling me everything is good except the green ones. He tells me to get in there as well. We start picking away. When that bush is colourless, we head to the next, and the next. At one point he pulls a mandarin off a tree, cuts the skin off and hands it to me. He pops one of the orange pod grapes into my hand, and two wet pea coloured things come out. No smell, no taste, nada.

We make our way back to the house, passing sugarcane, bamboo trees, odd flowers with names I forget. We throw our findings, about 40 pods into a machine that removes the skin. Then he takes me into a green house type room where he shows me how they dry the coffee for 8 days. We take a few of the dry pods and he cracks those open, and out comes the real deal, the coffee beans. We take about 10 of these blackish nuts and throw them in a pan over a hot log. He tells me we need about a full kg and 30 minutes to properly roast the beans, so in Emeril fashion he pulls out a pot of beans that he roasted in the morning. The freshest coffee Ill ever smell. He grabs a handful and slowly drops them into a grinder, the aroma is amazing. After 5 minutes Elias' wife grabs the coffee grinds, throws them into a filter attatched to a beaker holder type contraption, slowly pours hot water over the grinds and out the other end into a bowl comes fresh, pure, Colombian coffee. Elias and I sit outside, SALUD, I try it and its the finest espresso Ill ever have. I drink half the cup before adding sugar. Elias takes off his dirty stiff cowboy hat, I take off my green mesh Billabong baseball hat. We sit for a few minutes. Tells me how he enjoys showing people the coffee process. I write a little message in a book, that I look through. Looks like he gets about 5 visitors a week, lots of Canadians. For just over an hour of Elias time he charges me 3.50. Money well spent.

The clouds have gotten ugly. Elias walks me to the front of his property and tells me I should probably get going. Im walking up the hill with pretty good speed, the dirts getting a little muddy. Halfway up I come to a steel topped bus stop of sorts. 10 minutes later a red truck comes, and drives me into the centre of Salento, the woman in the front passenger seat handing me a yellow-green pomegranate type fruit. A massive peach coloured spider climbs along the roof and nobody pays much attention. In the centre I get out, and go to the window of the driver, half expecting her to ask for money. CIAO, she says. Ciao.

I walk half a block to a lady holding a baby in front of a barber chair. She does an excellent job, and shaves my whole face all for under 3 dollars. Ciao.

I have dinner under an open air tent. Trout is the speciality here and its huge, served with head and tail under mushrooms and cheese, rice on the side. I have a Poker beer. Its like my two favorite things in one bottle.

I walk down tourist lane and right near the end I hear Ella Fitzgerald. Its a candlelight blues bar and I lie in a hammock near the rocking chairs, drinking fresh espresso coffee, with Ella, Joplin, Nina Simone, The Doors. Im in the hammock for so long I start to hear the 40 song playlist over.

Two guys walk in from the hostel in Cali and we start in on some beer. They tell me of a nearby open air bar and we go, spend most of the night with a crazy but fun 32 year old Colombian girl and her friends. She doesnt stop talking and I almost fall asleep at the table just after 2am.

Hikin, Hitchin, & Infected Mushrooms

To mark the halfway point of my trip, in time, money, and distance, I decided I would try to get from Banos to Quito without taking a bus. Woke up this morning at 630 and was on foot by 730. Banos has many great hiking routes and one such took me out of the valley and into the village of Patate. It´s a beautiful route, with great views of the nearby mountain, the only problem is the first 9 km is relentlessly uphill. I knew that going in and that was the reason I started hiking so early but it didnt make a difference. The sun, hot. I have over two litres of water and after 3 hours of walking up a mountain that never ends I´m thinking I´ll run out soon enough. When I got over the hump, I was really happy, walking downhill, making good time. Short lived. The valley just keeps going up and up and my breaks are coming every 3 or 4 minutes. Fuelled on Oreos I make it to a long downhill, and more uphill. There´s an old lady making soup or witches brew and I ask her which way to Patate. She tells me up. But after hiking up for 30 minutes I run into a bunch of guys working on the road and they tell me I should´ve gone down. Damn the witches brew!

My bag is really heavy. 16 KG that weighs heavier and heavier after every hill, every break, every Oreo. Most look at me like I´m completely crazy for walking around like this.

I consider cussing her out on the way back but I´m too tired and I only know so many bad words in Spanish. Walking downhill feels as tiring as walking uphill, after 4 hours of hiking noon is approaching and the sun is getting stronger. After 3 or 4 kilometres downhill I say NO MAS. I jump onto the back of a middle aged couple´s pickup full of 3o or 40 midsized branches, a saw and a machete. They leave me in a really small village where I get into the back of an empty pickup, luxury, driven by a man with a pony tail and he takes me right into the centre of town. Its nearly 1 and I´m hungry. I find a busy little restaurant and the girl cooking has a little avocado on her face which is a great sign. Lunch is fried chicken, rice, a little pasta salad, and a nice chunk of avocado. Now I have no idea where to go, no maps or nothing. I know there´s a town called Ambato north of where I am. Near the restaurant I help an old man lift 40 litres of water into his truck, where he also has three propane tanks. He´s going in the direction of north, just below a large town called Parilla. I sit in the back of his truck, trying to keep my hands away from the rolling tanks of gas. While driving he hand motions a large truck behind us, who pulls over. My guy asks if the other truck is going all the way to Parilla. Sure enough he is and I´m making my way 20km more. In Parilla free lifts seem sparce. I start walking north, using my compass. I notice a lot of people are hitchin rides on trucks with benches and roofs and things. After walking 1 or 2 km a guy takes me between San Andres and Sancredo, a really big city. Where he drops me off I walk 2 or 3 km and I´m really tired, the rain clouds are starting to build. I settle for one of these professional hitchhiking trucks, and find out it´s only 25 cents. Nice. From Sancredo everyones charging 4 or 5 US to Latacunga, a major city with lots of great hiking. I refuse to pay because I know Latacunga is less than 15 km away and they´re just gouging because I´m a tourist. Fair enough, but I´m not paying. I start walking to Latacunga. On the way, I pass a gas station and I creepily approach a family of 5 or 6 including Grandma and ask if they´re going to Latacunga. Sure enough, they´re going in the direction. I start getting hit with small drops of rain.

The city centre, or at least where all the busses are heading, is misleadingly far. The views are amazing though, the great Cotopaxi mountain shadows the city. I get to a bridge leading right into town, and it REALLY starts to shitstorm. Rain, hail, rain, cold. There´s a couple washing windows for change at red lights and they tell me I should cab to this hotel I have the directions to. $1 US. I get shown to my bed and don´t move for 30 minutes. I get into a really hot shower and don´t move for 30 minutes, cursing this idea, the trip, everything. But magically as soon as I´m out of the shower all my troubles slip away.


Wake up Saturday morning after a 10 hour sleep. I take a cab from Latacunga to Pujilo which is directly below a route into some of the smaller towns in the area. I ask how to get to Paolo and Im pointed to a staircase, going up a large hill. 500 fat staircases first thing in the morning. Fantastic. From the stairs I follow the road down into a valley where I dont see any paths, roads, trails leading north. A woman tells me I cant go north, this small town only has routes going west. I take a ride with her back to Pujilo and ask how to get north. Im told by several people that the only way is to go back to Latacunga and take a bus. No. One woman in the centre of town who is a cleaning lady in the biggest church in the square tells me there is indeed a road. With her directions and my compass I take a flat dirt path through mostly corn farms. One girl in particular is carrying a bundle on her back at least twice the size of mine.

I get laughed at by some old guys when I tell them Im walking to Paolo. Keep walking. Make it to a small town up a fair incline and rest in front of the church, drinking some Gatorade. The road that appears to go to the next town is down a long road. Another beautiful day, and Ive walked an easy 6-7 km. For insurance I ask a passing car if Im heading the to Paolo, ¨Vamos!¨, this woman says to me and I cant turn her down. Im in the back of a pickup with what smells like rotting meat in coolers but I dont dare open that Pandoras Box. I never actually wanted to go to Paolo, I was trying to get to Sasquilli. Turns out the truck was heading there too, probably to sell their spoiled meat. Drive past a funeral. Taken 10km past Paolo which is further than I imagined it would be. Get to Sasquilli. Buy a super fresh panada with sugar on top, butter in the middle. How could it be bad?

The walk to the next major town, Tanacuchi, Im told is a 6km walk. I know its the next biggest town because there are busses everywhere. Find the road with my compass. Its just past noon and Im only 2km outside of Sasquilli. I find myself faced with a massive uphill, no shade. Halfway up I spot three girls with pick axes chopping away at the dirt on the side of the road... wearing sweaters and long skirts no less. In a Disney sports movie sort of way they give me the motivation to power up and over the hill. Good thing I ask where Tanacuchi is because in village fashion there are no road signs where the cutoff into town is. I find the centre. WOW. This is the smallest of any of the towns, and completely deserted at 1pm. Where the fuck are all these busses taking people? There are no restaurants. The one chicken restaurant only has soup. Im told the best lunch is inside a long what looks like a community centre. On the inside, stainless white floors, matching walls, sinks. Looks like a butcher floor. Theres a random flower arrangement in a plastic bird pond, streamers overhead. Must be a wedding on this Saturday night. There are 3 woman with setup propane tanks making various foods. I buy the most edible from a toothless lady. Gritty, but creamy, mashed potatoes topped with two fried eggs and I add picante for onion and tomato nutrients. When I finish she hands me the change with her hands covered in potato, mostly from her scooping leftovers from plates into a big bin. Fantastic. Where now? Im really really tired but I cant stay here because there arent any hotels or hostals. Go somewhere else. I pickup one of them pickup truck taxis and for $2 he takes me to the PanAm. I get great views of the mountains, like Cotopaxi. What I cant get is a lift. I find some energy to the gas station but my legs are really stiff. There I get in the back of a pickup truck which takes me, uphill and it gets cold, to some intersection. There I wait an hour and the rains starting to spit a little. I start walking 3 or 4km and finally get a lift to Machiachi (??). Its 4pm. I see no hotels. Im 30km from Quito. I give up. Adventures over. Get on the first bus to Quito after buying an apple and peach juice boxes.

Go the wrong way on the transit system. Tell them I want the international bus terminal to get a ticket to Colombia for the following day. Take a tram to La Internacional, a street. Lost in translation for over an hour, and dont ever get a ticket.

Get to the Blue House Hostel via taxi. The guy at the desk, Santiago, is super cool. When I ask him where to get a massive dinner for around 5 US he walks me over to the Burrito joint and sure enough their biggest double meat double cheese double delicious burrito is 5 US. In front of the take out Mexicali I see two blondish girls speaking English. I ask where they´re going tonight. They tell me there´s a electronic music festival with Infected Mushroom headlining. Great answer.

Sure enough, a bunch of guys from my hostel are going. They´re all Israeli, and all wanting to party with a bottle of vodka pineapple banana smoothie in preperation to see their hometown house Gods.

We get to the show at 10 and we catch the last 15 minutes of the multi-talented super delicious Argentine DJ Camila Diaz.

After are a couple of DJs, one duo in particular Kim and Kox is exceptional and gets the crowd pumped up around midnight. I´m trying to stay awake, drinking some random energy drinks. I wind up dancing with some cute girls, one Irish girl in particular, an indirect friend of the two girls I met in front of the burrito stop.

Next is, and I thought it was Infected Mushroom because the dude was big, ugly, and bald, but it was the amazing DJ Randy Seidman who stole the entire show, great tracks, and he was playing with the crowd dancing around, always smiling, drinking beer.

With little hesitation a full band is setup around him, and the DJ booth is cleared from the stage, Seidman finishing his set from behind the right speaker.

A super pale dude with long hair starts getting on with the guitar in some sort of Van Halelectronica distortion. The singer, who looks identical to the last act, comes up. Behind him, a giant angry faced mushroom starts blowing up, unsuccesfully until 4 crew members help out. The music is kind of rock, kind of electronica, the crowd doesn´t really know what to do. I think Infected Mushroom is really awesome, kind of a less commercial and much better version of Linkin Park. As the set is ending an American friend from the hostel wants to head back, 230am and Im more than ready.