I was banged up, frustrated, on edge, and then I told my boss I'd be taking the next day off. There'd been a couple 4 hour volunteer work days and more than a few consecutive multiple hour work days. It was time for a day of rest. I envisioned writing. And internet. And sunshine gathering. And lounging. I sensed there'd be a problem.
Yes, I had specifically asked if we work, "5,6,or 7 day" work weeks, and received "a happy :) Tico works 6 days" as part of the response. This was all via email, and I only asked so many specific questions. And still, it was more than the "always can be working relaxing enjoying working harder and hustling and/or learning up skills for the future dollar dollar bill hustle and ps - it's not a hustle" attitude presented by the persistently present bossman that had me sensing a problem with the day off I'd ask for soon. That conversation started off something like this:
"Because our guest asked for the turtle walk tour, I've worked 7 days straight now instead of 6, so I figured I'd take tomorrow off."
"So you're going to Puerto Jimenez then?"
"No, I wasn't planning on that."
"Then you'll have to work."
yada yada
we break, reconvene
scene 2
"Why don't you go to Panama tomorrow, get your border run done, and be back here before the wife and I leave for vacation?"
"I think I will."
That night, I went for a night walk with the chef and his wife. For that story, refer to midwives, mothers, and kids.
Next day. One bag packed. Stuffed. And I have shopping lists for myself and the chef and Leigh, his wife.
Bumpy Collectivo ride. No stop in this direction for them delicious empanadas - that's only the 6 AM trip from P. Jimenez to Carate.
I'm stopped over here for a couple hours. I buy a loaf of cinammon raisin bread and 6 bananas. Some are eaten then. All that day except for a third of the bread, which became my first breakfast the following day. I also meet Jaime. For that upcoming story, refer to the as of yet unwritten Jaime of Puerto Jimenez.
A small ferry boat ride across the sweet waters of La Golfo Dulce. The boat has seating for about 26. They've probably been known to squeeze 40 or more, regularly.
I walk up to a bus stop adjoining the pier. I get an affirmative that a Panama-bound bus picks up there. A bus arrives. I get in line and ask a youth of about 20 in front of me if it's headed to Panama. He says yes. I trust. I don't confirm with the driver. An hour-twenty or so later, I'm at the bordertown.
Shady describes it best. It's run down. Dirty. Populated. Energetic. I get the feeling that I could pretty easily acquire anything I might desire here. From cops and criminals. And I could just as easily get roughed up and imprisioned. From cops and criminals.
I haggle for and get a watch with alarm for the price I asked for. Lesson - I could have gotten it for half that price.
Costa Rica stamps me out no problem. Panama stamps me in no problem. No searches of any kind, and only one question regarding how long I planned to stay. Plus, a little laughter over my passport wolfman-like beard versus my clean browned face now.
My first question on the Panama side was from a guy hustling to get people into his bus. Damn near everybody hustles in these two Latin American countries I've ventured forth into. It's all a hustle. Two bucks for a ride to David, Panama, the city I planned to end my lengthy travel day at. Sold. Sometimes we want the hustle, even if we all know there are 1000's of better ways to make the system work.
The bus has air-conditioning. I haven't experienced that in months of regular 80 degree humid heat that I breath easy in because it's often fresh and inviting compared to Chicago's mid-summer I-will-make-you-suffer heat-humidity double whammy. Since I transplanted myself into Carate, I hadn't even the luxory of a fan moving cool air at night. And now I have air-conditioning. Ahhhhh.
David. A decent sized city, from what I sussed out. Spread out. Nothing I recall over two stories, or maybe a small three story.
Lots of casinos. Some with poker. I could get swirly in this town. I'm not caring at this point, but legal prostitution, also; Costa Rica and Panama gots more outward love for their working gals than do we in the USA.
I walk around for a bit, then conclude correctly that the walking directions from the Bambu Hostel's website must be from the primary bus terminal, not the secondary terminal I got off at. I hail a cab. Ceasar answers my hand signal.
He's sweet and older and we talk about his two kids and American football and baseball. He doesn't care for American football or baseball, but he likes America and people and that's what he knows about the good ol' USA that can be easily exclaimed. His kids he seems to love, lots, and I infer that he and the misses have been quality parents. I now kind of love this whole family, too.
Around 7 PM or so, Ceasar drops me at The Bambu Hostel. Pretty cheap. $12 for a bed on a bunk in a room with air conditioning, more for a private, less for no air conditioning, I think. The owner tours me around quickly, from my room to the large backyard pool, patio, garden, and jungle bamboo hut.
After settling in, I put $1 US - America's economic might remains in Panaman even if our military might has moved elsewhere - into an on-your-honor unlocked lock box, remove a Panamanian beer from the fridge, and walk outside.
I think the first words spoken were from another hostel guest, Will, offering me a toke on a joint he and another guy, Fabio, were passing around. Is it on? It's on. Names were exchanged right about now, for the first time, but neither of us remembered consciously a bit later; maybe we as a people do not focus hard enough on name remembrance...maybe we block that because we know names tell unneeded stories.
Yes, I had partially chosen this hostel because of a potential job managing it. Yes, marijuana use from before the word "go" is mentioned just may disqualify me from this gig. Yes, I had introduced myself immediately to the owner as the guy who'd been emailing him and his partner about working there. No, I'm not hiding who I am or in need of justifying or qualifying to him that I rarely thrown down like I would end up doing this night and even the next. Yes I accepted after about 5 seconds of thought or less, and for the next 30 hours or so, I was in a three way circle.
Beers. Joints. Pina Coladas. Rum shots. Cigars. No food. Then we go out to the clubs and keep this going publicly. I walk out with my camera, then decide it would be more bulky and in the way than what I was going for. I also wanted it there. I also wanted to see how much I could trust the hostel, thus I left the camera there, hidden, and my computer and other goods there, in the open of my unlocked public dorm.
Will had stated before we went out in our casual shorts, t-shirts, and such, that he wanted to get "high as fuck." I said no such thing verbally, but I was with him every step of the way. The following day, he'd say he felt that way, but only after I mentioned that there were only two points throughout our whole bender that I actually felt a high. Both those moments were on Panama day 2.
This night's exploits were just happening. Maybe the beer was weak. Maybe same for the bud. Doubtful the rum. I wondered if I'd manifested a state much like some East Asian monks I'd read about, who were given LSD and monitored. They reported no change in mood or affect, and the instruments seemed to confirm this idea. Their normative state was transcendental.
Dollar beers continue at the club. $2 shots. And pumping hip-hop, of which most Latin Americans may enjoy, but which they don't really dance too.
I'd heard this from the 18 year old girlfriend of the Orosi hotel I managed. She told me she used to go clubbing with her mom from a younger age. She and mom would drink. She and mom would dance. Howver they were feeling the music. And they were practically alone with this style.
It seems, these folks dance certain dances to certain songs. When said songs come on, people would dance a dance made up for that tune. If these songs didn;t play, there'd be no dancing. Either way, there's no innovation. Except for she, her mom, and a few others across Latin America that dare to dance how their body tells them too. Call it a comfort zone thing.
Take this girl's word. O don't. Same for my story. It ends basically the same, except that Fabio did get up and shake his moneymaker. Progress. Perhaps.
My friends and I danced inside with the strobe lights and outside in the open air. The whole night, despite there being a decent crowd at this place, I recall only 2 other people dancing. They were girls.
I approched them. They sat down. I attempted to talk to them. They made no effort to communicate verbally. I left and had a nice laugh with my buddies.
Subsequently, I also approached another group of girls that night. Eye contact had been made. Lots. There seemed to be clear universal signals. And yet, the clearest universal signal came less than 2 minutes into me dancing around and talking to these ladies, as one of them waved her hand goodbye and punctuated this non-verbal with an English, not Spanish, "Goodbye."
It was worth it for the memory if not the story.
In between these rejections, we went to some other bar. I had a mixed drink. We left the bar. I left with the mixed drink. I guess there were even less ladies there than at spot 1, now spot 3.
We leave. Hostel. They go to bed, me to the internet on 1 of 2 public computers. 2 girls come into the room.
They're waiting for a taxi. at 3:30 AM. For a 4 AM bus back to San Jose, Costa Rica. Yikes. We talk as they wait. They told me what they did, but like Billy Shakes says about a name, what's in a job, anyway? Mainly, I was simultaneously on facebook and espn and learning that the boxing upset of the year had taken place earlier that night. I figured the loser would be the winner, and I figured the odds would have been about 2:1, maybe 3:1 at the most. I didn't know until reading while kind of listening that odds were as high as 10:1. Had I known that, I would have been willing to part ways with a sizeable portion of my gypsy savings to potentially extend my gypsy travels much longer. Perhaps I'll keep a closer eye on investments, err, bets, like this going forward. And maybe Steven Daniel Hoffman can let me know when there are some whacky odds at play, too.
The heavyset gal offers me a pastry she'd presumably bought for her late night trekking - nothing like sugar for a nice sleep. I break it in half and leave her some potential deliciousness. It's yummy. I offer some of myself in human barter payment.
They like what I give them. They're less-than-short verbal stories on watching turtle baby nests and birthings and such. They must have. And dug my vibe. Must have. Cause monents later, when their cab arrived - Ceasar!?! - 4 AM dessert gal crosses the room and gives me a hug and a kiss, and then the cuter Spanish girl does the same. Thank you, Panama.
Now I am ready for sleep...and to see what I have in store for myself the following day.
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