The day was Friday, the month February, and the hour nine. The story of Cali begins on a warm evening just outside the Iguana hostel where I am walking out the door to find Anabella in her Hondita and Phil already crossing the gap towards me. Press play and handshakes, hugs, and greetings are exchanged and before I know it I’m in the backseat zipping along the streets of Cali en route to her father’s condo up in the hills. They had stopped at her mother’s bakery prior to picking me up and I feasted as we drove on Cali’s finest empanadas and some pastries as well and we chatted all the way up to the condo. Phil had warned me before I arrived about the house... or should I say penthouse? You get to a big and solid wooden door with an olive tree growing in front of it. Inside, marble floors, large pieces of art, huge windowed doors to a deck looking out over Cali, a room with two beds for Phil and I, daresay, no need to use sandals in the whole place nevermind the shower. If I may indulge in understatement, it was a nice place especially for a backpacker. The weekend in Cali, at the very least, was going to be enjoyed thoroughly. Of course, that’s what Cali is famous for.
It was Friday night but by the time we got back to Anabella’s house and settled it was getting late but we hit the town anyway. The destination was a small strip of pubs and restaurants on or around Calle 18 and Avenida 9, where we met some of Anabella’s friends and had some of this Poker beer we’d been hearing so much about. Apparently it’s brewed by Miller and it’s not bad at all. From the pub, the next stop was a Colombian fast food chain called Super Mario’s (complete with copyright infringing corporate logos) that had a pretty interesting poutine-style dish with corn instead of fries and no gravy. It was tastier than I’ve described. Saturday morning their maid made us breakfast at around 10 which, again, was not something to be taken for granted. Anabella and her father had put together a bunch of cool activities for us to do but we didn’t really get around to them. While they sounded like pretty cool activities (and of the sort that you can only do with a car) we had a pretty good day regardless of whatever else we didn’t do. Anabella took us to Cali’s most famous mall, Chipichape (AKA Silicon Valley for the sheer number of ‘enhanced’ females strolling around) where we had a massive lunch of authentic Colombian food and then strolled around grabbing a few things we needed.
I can’t remember what exactly brought us in there – maybe it was Anabella’s need for unsweetened yogurt – but we went grocery shopping and wound up raiding their fruit department. If it was a Colombian fruit we bought one of two to try. Afterwards we stopped at a fruit stand for one of the “fruits” I had missed. That was what fate had intended. We spit in fate’s eye by purchasing the fruit anyway, and the punishment fell to me as I was the first to try it and it was up on the list of most terrifying things I have ever tasted. I went to the little coffee stand and ate bitter cinnamon powder to get rid of the taste but it wasn’t so easily bested. It didn’t help that I accidentally inhaled a bit of the powder and was not in a coughing fit. Luckily Anabella and Phil were there to laugh hysterically so my misery was not for naught. Time flies when you’re being poisoned. After that excursion, it was off to the airport to pick up Maria and the four of us were reunited again. We brought Maria back to their dad’s so they could visit for a while and divvied up the fruits plus packed up our things as we were to spend the night at their mom’s house.
Their dad came home as we were laying out the fruits to try and before we knew it there was a double shot of Aguardiente (surely by now I’ve told you about this local aniseed liquor) in front of us. A few shots later and he started cutting up the fruit for us and serving and explaining how to eat them. There were too many to remember but my favourite by far were these little orange cherry-tomato-sized fruits that were tart and delicious. Meanwhile, the girls were hard at work: Maria made a version of Lulo, a fruit punch that I spent the rest of my time in Colombia trying to find an equal to and Anabella went to work on her “Arab” style yogurt, cheesecloth bag and all. Phil and I, on the other hand, helped their father clear space in his cupboard one Aguardiente bottle at a time. The stuff’s not so bad if you don’t buy the cheapest: Blanco Sin Azucar was what he served and it was pretty good compared to others we’d tried previously. It was getting late, though, and their mom was waiting for us so we set out across the city to where their mom lives. If the apartment was nice, this place was beautiful. It’s a bit out of the way and in a neighbourhood that used to be occupied by Cali’s drug lords before the Colombian military cleaned them out. Now pretty much all the houses are empty and it’s a little dodgy as a result but inside these are some beautiful homes to be sitting abandoned.
Their mom was really nice as well, so I guess that between her and their father that explains the girls’ excellent attitudes. We were thinking of going out that evening but their mom lived so far away that we just stayed in and chatted. Sunday morning came and it was time for Phil to begin his circuitous journey home via Panama City, Miami, and finally Calgary. Well, a bit later that day. First, their maid made breakfast while their mom made a Colombian delicacy that I believe Ween made popular in North America entitled Chocolate and Cheese. Basically, chocolate melted in 2/3 hot water and 1/3 milk, a sprinkle of nutmeg and cinnamon, and lumps of soft melty mozzarella at the bottom. My second thought upon trying it, after “Yum!” was “This is something I’ll have to make Mariah when I get home.” We hung out at their mom’s for some time and their maid, who is also a pedicurist, insisted on taking a look at my ingrown toenail (I tried to cut but I couldn’t see where the problem was because it was so bad) which had been swollen and less attractive than Barbara Streisand for about a week already. She put it on ice and then hot water and then back again and poured vinegar all over it which was very nice of her but didn’t do anything.
Their mom owns, or rather owned, as that day was the day that she transferred ownership to new management, and we stopped in for some tasty treats then headed to Phil’s favourite Colombian burger joint, El Corral. From there it was all the way back to their father’s to get his backpack with Maria driving. Maria drove because she is a pretty aggressive driver (she reminded me of Nicole behind the wheel) and was making record time zipping us across Cali to catch Phil’s flight. Then from there all the way back to the airport where we arrived about an hour and a half before his flight was scheduled. There, security searched his backpack really really thoroughly because he is not Colombian, all the while the sniffer dog sat beside it in silence. Isn’t the point of a sniffer dog to smell these things out? Maybe he was on a Milkbone break. It took a while especially because we were already behind schedule and then it was time for Phil to check in. But the airline wouldn’t let him check in because he didn’t have proof of onward travel for Panama with him or even on his computer. So he and Maria went to find internet while I attempted to convince and then exhibit my frustration with the airline. Time was ticking by and no progress was being made. The American Airlines office behind us (which was the airline with his flight from Panama City to Miami) was closed but then Anabella spotted someone inside and I managed to get her attention, explain the situation, and get Phil’s ticket printed. Then we showed it to the Avianca agent who finally printed his boarding pass and we went to find Phil and Maria (who’d had no luck) and get him through security onto his plane.
It was weird sitting in the backseat of the car with Phil gone. The girls were talking about the next day: Anabella was going with her dad to their farm for the week and Maria had an early morning flight back to Bogota. The realization that I was on my own again and that by that time tomorrow I’d be alone checking into a hostel in Cali with no more travel friends to bump into or meet up with down the road except for, perhaps, some new ones I might meet from this point forward. That’s backpacking. Sometimes it’s great to be on your own and sometimes you realize that being on your own means being alone. Sitting in that car I was starting to feel depressed. Maria would be trying to get her work caught up so she was as good as gone already but at least I still had a day with Anabella. We wanted to stop to get some Oreo icecream but Maria needed to get back to the apartment and work (though we did stop for some Juan Valdez to go) so we put that on the todo pile. After dropping Maria off, Anabella and I decided her favourite ice cream shop was too far, so I suggested instead a quick trip to the closest grocer and maybe we could make our own. This, too, reminded me of Mariah.
The grocery was all it took to turn my mood back around. Not only did we find Oreos and vanilla icecream, but I discovered something I didn’t expect to see until I returned to Canada: Clamatto! The evening was unfolding before my eyes: get back to the apartment, start downloading the Canada vs USA Gold medal hockey game (being careful to stay away from anywhere that might reveal the outcome), make and eat Oreo Icecream, mix up some Caesars and pop the popcorn then consume both while watching the hockey game and hopefully Canada taking home gold. It didn’t go exactly as planned: their father was home and was making a handful of delicious snacks (grilled zucchini, Italian meat and cheese platters) which I decided would be complemented by a Caesar nicely. I’m happy to say that the Caesars were a hit although I had to use a picante sauce instead of tobacco and thus they were a bit too spicy for my Colombian friends. They had Worcestershire sauce, they had celery, and fresh ground pepper, not to mention ice cold vodka. After dinner, we mashed the oreos into the ice cream and ate far too much of it and then substituted a movie (“It’s Complicated”) for the hockey game as without Phil I was unable to convince them how amazing this would be.
It’s Complicated wasn’t a terrible movie, nor was it amazing. It was just entertaining in the end and it managed to keep the girls awake a couple hours longer which was all that I could ask for. However, at its end it was bed time. For them. For me, I had my Canadian duty ahead of me. I took my laptop into the kitchen, got a bowl of hot water for my toe, and put on the hockey game. I had heard nothing, so the fact that it wasn’t live meant nothing to me. It was as tense and dramatic as if I’d seen it at 3 PM, and perhaps more so because I was unable to shout, call out, or anything. I did all of those things anyway, but in an excited whisper, as Canada scored one and then two goals. The play where the USA tie came, I actually saw developing before they even crossed their blue line and I believe my face was also blue as I held my breath hoping not to somehow disturb the Canadian team or distract their goaltender, but alas. The worst part was watching Canada continue to dump the puck instead of control it, even when the US pulled their goalie, because that strategy just meant a lot of shots on net and sure enough, 20 seconds left and one of those shots went in.
Somewhere around the end of the second period I noticed that I was nowhere halfway through the file which meant that I was pretty sure there was an overtime coming up so I wasn’t as shocked as I could have been when that happened, but somewhere deep down I’d hoped that the file was so long because of a post-game show. Nope, overtime. The ten most tense minutes I’ve spent outside of Orange Walk, Belize. By the way, I never mentioned at the time that the hotel we were first brought to had had a tourist murder a few weeks prior and Phil found a knife in one of the sinks because I wasn’t sure if all of Belize and Central America would be this way and I didn’t want to scare anyone back home. Back on topic, though, that overtime period was without equivocation the best hockey I have ever had the privilege of seeing. When Sid “The Kid” Crosby dropped that puck in the net, I pumped my fists in the air and let out a raspy, whispered, but nonetheless emphatic “YEAH!!!!” and may or may not have jumped up and down, pumped my fists in the air, and done some sort of dance of the sort that I would never attempt, even alone, in my home country or continent.
The next morning we drove Maria to the airport and said goodbye to her and then Anabella drove me to the Iguana hostel where I would spend the rest of my time in Cali. It was March 1 and I wouldn’t leave until March 9, but don’t worry as I won’t be giving you a day by day account of the rest as it was mostly routine. I found a guy named Leandro to give me Spanish lessons for a week and he was excellent. He’s not a professional teacher, in fact, he’s a sociology student, but he was nonetheless extremely professional. He brought exercises, lessons, examples, and homework for me to do that fit with what I needed (past and future tenses) although he came with no knowledge of my current level. On top of that he was a lot of fun to converse with and I had a great time chatting with him not to mention some conversations about more serious issues like politics, the environment, and even religion that I wished my Spanish was better for. If anyone should find themselves in Cali and wanting to learn Spanish, let me know and I know you will be impressed. Generally, we’d start our class at 9 AM and work straight through until 1 PM. I also found some salsa classes and even managed to do 4-5 hours over the course of the week from a likewise professional and really affordable school. Cali is the home of salsa, or at least of Colombian salsa (as distinct from the Cuban variety) and this was the place to do it.
Iguana had some really great people so that my initial feelings of loneliness that day in the car had no chance of resurfacing. In fact, I was in need of some space by the time a week had passed. In addition to my fellow Iguanas, I met up one evening with Veronica, Maria and Anabella’s cousin whom you may recall I met in Bogota, and we went out for dinner. Another evening, which was in fact my final evening in Cali, a friend of my friend Nick in Bogota called me up to meet and we also went out for a snack on some ceviche. I definitely owe Nick some drinks when I go back to Bogota because he’s really been making sure that I have a good time here in Colombia and find great places and meet cool people. The one thing that could’ve been a problem was that Angela spoke almost no English or at least didn’t think she did (after a while of watching me screw up Spanish and not care she was more willing to try her English and realized, I think, that she’s got a pretty good grasp of it). But my Spanish was sharp after a week of lessons and the practice was great, too. I met a German girl in the hostel that was really nice though she didn’t understand that just because I was at the hostel didn’t mean I wanted to socialize around the clock. There were three English girls that were funny and a lot of fun. An American guy from Alaska that I got along with great. A Canadian-Australian couple that were so easy to talk to and came out for drinks with me a couple times. And more.
Aside from the Spanish and salsa, I didn't find much to do in Cali besides studying in the evenings and resting and visiting with the others in the hostel. I went one night to Avatar (again) because I wanted to see it one more time in theatres, there were several people going from the hostel (although it was my suggestion to be honest), and hey, there wasn’t much else to do. I meant to go to the zoo, the centre, and even the waterpark but my classes meant that when people I wanted to go with were going, I was studying and when I wanted to go I was on my own. Friday night, pretty much the whole hostel went to a bar called Fuente that is small and basically on a cloverleaf and as the bar gets busier the salsa spills onto the streets where most people are drinking anyway. I met a few locals there and hung around mostly with the English girls, Teresa, and an English guy named Ed that cracked me up. Some of them went to Menga, an area of town with more pubs and clubs, to go to Lola’s but a miscommunication (I thought Menga was a club not an area and so I didn't know if they’d gone to Lola’s or Menga) meant I didn’t head that way. I remedied that Saturday night (especially after hearing how many amazing girls were there) by going with the English girls, the Canadian-Aussie couple, and a few others.
And that’s pretty much it for Cali. I unfortunately didn’t see Anabella again nor Veronica, the former preparing for a year in France (she leaves in less than a week) and the latter having left for Miami for a wedding. Angela, Nick’s friend that took me out on my final day, gave me a parting gift that is sure to cement Cali in my mind for the rest of my life: a roll of two-ply toilet paper. She works for their marketing department and, I would guess, does a great job at it. Leandro and I went for lunch on my last day as well and visited a little ‘off the clock’ which was nice. I’ve had the good fortune of having two excellent Spanish teachers, one from Guatemala and the other here in Colombia. It’s no coincidence that these are my two favourite countries thus far. I finally decided to grab a bus to Popayan and as I was leaving the hostel, one of the guys came and handed me the phone. It was one of the girls that the two of us had met that night at Fuentes, wanting to do something that night. I almost turned around and stayed but the road is calling me and Cali has had a lot more time than most places get on a trip like this. It occurs to me, with as little as a few hours of hindsight, that Cali’s charm is very true of the country as a whole: it’s not the scenery, it’s the people. And in fear of reaching that Bocas del Toro state of entrapment, I said goodbye to her on the phone and walked through the door for Popayan.
It was a long, all day trip from Santa Catalina to Panama City, but soon suburbs filled the bus windows. I knew for certain we had arrived when the bus crossed the Panama Canal on the friendship bridge and I could see boats coming out of the canal headed for the Pacific ocean beyond. And I knew it was going to be a different experience than the rest of Central America when I arrived at the bus terminal. It. Is. HUGE. Absolutely enormous. But unlike other places, it is well organized (or at least planned) and doesn't involve walking through crowded markets and vegetable stands in the sweating sun. Instead, it is directly across from the very American equivalent: a super mall named Albrook. Yet as well planned as it was, I was having nothing but trouble finding a bus to Casco Viejo, the old part of town. One bus driver would point me right. The next left. Then I'd walk back and the first would ask where on earth I thought I was going and to be honest, I had no idea. My right hand pointed left and my left pointed right with a shoulder shrug was my reply. Even taxis, when I'd say "Casco Viejo" would just say no and drive off. Was I going to a bad area or what? Finally a taxi driver offered a ride for $2 but I had read $1.25 so I passed that up. The next offered for $4 and when I said the other taxi had offered $2 he drove off. Then the next wanted $5 and when I told him about the $2-$4-$5 progression he too drove off. Finally, a bus driving to Panama Viejo (which is actually on the opposite side of the city) told me to get on. At least it was a direction, I thought.
The man next to me on the bus was likewise getting off at Casco Viejo which was helpful although I had no less than 5 people telling me when we arrived at the stop. If one of them could have told me which bus to take an hour prior it would've been helpful but a little help is better than none. I had popped into an internet cafe in Albrook Mall to quickly check with Brian, my New Jersey friend with whom I do the FrankBlack.Net Podcast because one of the reasons I was arriving in Panama City was to interview "Frank" Black Francis and Eric Drew Feldman on their upcoming record, Non Stop Erotik for the March 1 episode. I figured I had just enough time to get to the hostel and hopefully Skype in. Getting off the bus, the man next to me insisted on walking me to my hostel as we were in, he described, a dangerous area to walk alone, especially with your backpack on. Pretty nice as he obviously had no need to do so. But we walked first to Luna's Castle, which was full; it's ALWAYS full I would discover. Then to Hospedaje Casco Viejo, which would be my home for the eight days as I tried to find a sailboat to Colombia. It's not a bad hostel, but it lacks much in terms of common area and social scene, unless you want to hang out in the lobby where there is always, it seems, someone talking way too loudly on Skype. I did manage to do part of the interview, but we had to settle for phone as the internet connection was tenuous at best. As always, it's great to talk with them and their album is pretty exciting.
Coca Cola Cafe
I met a German girl in my dorm named Esther who, in spite of her name, was not an octogenarian, and we went out for dinner at the nearby Coca Cola Cafe. My love of Coca Cola had already sold me on the place, but going in I realized I would have loved it no matter what. The food was decent, the price was right, and the atmosphere was like something out of a movie. Old wooden floors, trodden to a dull earthy tone, bright lighting, a dripping air conditioner, and a blast of cold air greet you initially. Then, as your eyes adjust to the bright lights and more dense cold air, you see in one corner a couple military guards chatting over their bowls of spaghetti, at the table to your left, four old men (who you would come to realize are ALWAYS there chatting over coffees), a local family with the dad setting down everybody's food as the kids tried to wiggle their chairs closer to the tables, then a guy in the corner writing notes and looking up from time to time (probably writing something like this paragraph) while clumps of travellers (never more than three in a place) are interspersed among the locals and three yellow-aproned waitresses are trying in vain (but relaxed and smiling) to keep up with everybody. For this place is always busy and probably has been since 1903 when it opened.
We sat down and ordered. I don't remember what I had, but I remember Esther had Spaghetti con Pollo (Spaghetti with chicken) because when she received it, it was a plate of spaghetti and meat sauce and a second plate with a roast chicken leg on it. Not exactly what you picture but it was tasty (I ordered the same thing a few days later). From there, we went to a place called the Mojito Grill, which is really just a small courtyard in front of an old abandoned building that, ironically, does NOT serve mojitos. Then to Luna's Castle which also has a really great bar in a downstairs courtyard (and an amazing location looking out at the skyline of Panama City over the water). In the end, coupled with a few pre-drinks on our hostel's balcony, it was a pretty fun evening. The next day, the two of us set out on a mission: find me glasses. I had lost mine in Belize and it was time to get some new ones so I didn't have to always use contacts. We set off for El Cangrejo which is supposedly rife with shopping options but instead found ourselves walking all the way to Via Espana (though we didn't really know where we were going at the time) and at last finding some glasses that were cool if different. At least, I hope they're cool. They're a bit more pronounced than my old glasses and I now fear a bit too wide but they do have a style all their own. I also discovered my vision had degraded since my last test or prescription, which is a bit alarming since it wasn't that long ago. After this, we found Esther a cable for her camera and then found ourselves escaping the heat in a supermarket which, unlike everywhere I've been lately, was wonderfully stocked with EVERYthing.
The Darien Gap
That evening, Phil arrived in town, running from Santa Catalina (where he'd bizarrely had somebody sabotage his surf board) like I had run from Boquete. We went out with Esther and an Italian guy to the Mojito Grill again where there was some live jazz that was a bit too mellow for more than a drink or two and went from there to Luna's which likewise felt a bit antisocial. So it wasn't much of a night but it was good to have Phil here especially since that meant I had somebody to look for a sailboat with. I talked to my dad the other day and he asked me why I was sailing and I suppose that's a good question. As I believe I already mentioned, my first stop in South America is Colombia which, as it happens, is also the next country south of Panama. However, between the two countries and continents is a region of Panama called the Darien Gap, one of the most deadly places on the planet. It is largely primeval jungle, filled with all sorts of wild cats, deadly insects, snakes that will choke the life out of you in your sleep, and poisonous plants. "Well, surely you can drive through and not have to worry about all that?" you ask. No you cannot. For there is no road from Panama to Colombia. The jungle wouldn't allow it or perhaps more realistically, it serves to make the flow of drugs and contraband northward much more difficult.
It also serves to fill that same jungle area with many drug traffickers trying to smuggle things in northward. Add them to the list of dangers as down here, nobody (especially in that line of work) would think twice about popping a bullet in your head, especially in the middle of nowhere like that. And because the area is largely untouched and attached to Colombia, Colombian guerrillas also use it to train and escape Colombian authorities, not with Panama's consent obviously but I imagine that guerrillas outnumber law enforcement 1000:1. Add them to the list of dangers. And then don't forget the risks of getting lost, sick (there are all sorts of tropical diseases with cool names waiting for you), or injured in the middle of nowhere, or running out of supplies. It's a long walk. A friend of mine met someone that did it and lived to tell the tale. The highlight, aside from a couple weeks walking through the jungle, was a guerrilla stoned on cocaine with an AK-47 muzzle pressed into his head. But he survived. I obviously can't vouch for how dangerous the area really is myself, and stories of danger tend to be exaggerated, but sometimes it's best not to know. Still, there are two other options. It is, obviously, possible to fly across. But that feels like cheating. Everything from Mexico down has been overland and it feels more like a voyage this way then hopping a plane and coming out of the airport in a new country. Still, for those making the trip, the cheapest flights I've found can be found at AIRES.com. Cost is about $150 tax included.
Sailing, Sailing
Option three is finding a cargo ship heading in that direction. Much more adventurous (AND overland or at least oversea) than flying and generally safer than the Darien Gap. That is, unless you book with somebody that happens to be smuggling drugs and your boat is raided by the police. Your Spanish will have to be much better than mine to explain that one to authorities. Or maybe, and I've read blogs of people to whom this has happened, you pay your money for passage and in the middle of the night you're taken from your room and put on a small 'boat' in the middle of the ocean. "You said you wanted adventure," one of them said to the other. At least they didn't get murdered. But while this way can be an adventure the risks still aren't worth it I think. Generally you can get to Colombia for about $60 from others' accounts. And finally there is option four: sailing on a small boat to Colombia on a 'cruise' of sorts. The generally take 4 days to a week and sail along the San Blas archipelago, a place that many travelers with far more miles than I have logged list as the best place in the Caribbean and some of the most beautiful islands on the planet. If beaches aren't your thing, there is a local tribe that control the islands and still live traditionally called the Kuna. So. Culture, 5 days of beautiful islands, transport to Colombia, food, accommodation, and border fees, how much do you expect to pay? The answer is about $400.
I haven't left yet, so I can't tell you if it's worth it but I'll tell you what I've hopefully paid for. We're going on a 36' yacht called Da Capo sailed by a Swedish skipper named Mats, who is a retired journalist and more importantly, has crossed the Atlantic four times and been sailing for 40 years. AND apparently he has a love for good food which supposedly means we're going to be eating lobster and all sorts of incredible food en route. It leaves from a place called Carti in Kuna territory on the Caribbean coast of Panama (only accessible by 4WD) and after five days in the San Blas islands arrives at the border town of Sapzurro which, as far as I understand it, is only accessible by sea. From there we have to find another boat further down in Colombia (Carpurgana and then Turbo) where we can at last take a bus to... somewhere. The traditional trip sails 2-3 days in the northern San Blas islands only and then cuts across the high seas to Cartagena, but at this time of year the ocean is quite rough and a lot of captains are switching to this route. The next post will have it all charted out on my little map. For those looking to do the trip, the best resource is by far Mama Llena's hostel here in Panama City. Other hostels also have boats but nowhere near as many. Remember to look for reviews and also to take them with a grain of salt. We also tried posting in some sailing forums and emailing captains directly but it seems going through hostels is the only real option.
Sightseeing in Panama City
Eight days is a long time in one city and I'm not bothering to be chronological here, or at least not entirely. Of course the must-see thing on anybody's list, especially if you're an engineer, is the Panama Canal. An incredible feat that today allows boats to cross from Atlantic to Pacific (or vice versa) without going all the way around South America, cutting a 3 week trip into 18 hours. It's not just a really long and high-walled canal however. Instead, ships (and remember that some of these ships, fully loaded, are taller than 10 storey buildings) are raised through a series of locks to an inland lake where they sail through across the continental divide to another series of locks where they are lowered back to sea level to continue their journey. Phil and I arrived at the Miraflores Locks in time to watch the last boat for the day heading towards the Atlantic Ocean and then to see several boats making the journey in the opposite direction. Also, you may not know this, but a new set of locks is being constructed alongside the current ones that will be wider and longer to allow today's much larger ships to use the canal as well. Additionally, the current canal dumps enough fresh water into the ocean to supply all of Panama City for a full 24 hours with every single ship's passage. The new locks will recycle the water and are scheduled to be completed by 2015.
Phil and I also visited Panama Viejo, the original location of Panama before the pirate or at least privateer Henry Morgan came in and leveled the place. This we could have done without as there was little information and not much to see, but it did pass some time. Most of the buildings are now just scattered walls of stone, though there is a tower that was probably rebuilt and a church that is half standing. This is in stark contrast to the rest of the city which is shining steel and glass and all pretty new. There is a huge amount of construction here at the moment including one for Donald Trump (another was completed last year) and the place looks like I imagine Dubai would. Seeing all this modern development, your first reaction would probably be to think that the city had sold its soul but in fact the city is vibrant, alive, and loving it. A walk from Plaza Santa Ana to Cinco de Mayo will confirm that to you, not to mention around Casco Viejo or in numerous other areas around town.
Speaking of around town, I eventually had to pick up my glasses. I had my receipt and their business card but all they had for an address is "Via Espana" which is like saying "Circle Drive" in Saskatoon. It could be anywhere. So we took a bus heading to Via Espana to pick up my glasses hoping to pass by it. Instead the bus went everywhere EXCEPT Via Espana. I don't know how far out it took us, but I know that we spent four hours on the bus driving around Panama City into places where we were definitely not seeing any gringos. Obviously we knew we were long past Via Espana but by then it had become an adventure and we took the bus to the end of the line and then found another bus back. The bus back was awesome. Pumping music, fuzzy dice, and pretty girls everywhere. They should have taken out the back row of seats and set up a bar. The only way I managed to find my glasses was that I had taken a picture nearby on Via Espana of a building which I located by satellite to get a cross intersection. And still that didn't help as my driver didn't understand me. But in the photo was also a name of a mall, Plaza Concordia, and with that I finally made it to my glasses.
The food here is decent but we definitely haven't been eating enough fruits and vegetables. On the walk back through Caledonia to the hostel I passed a cart where a lady was selling cucumbers, which are not that easy to find here, and I decided that I was going to do it: I was going to attempt a Greek salad. I stocked up on tomatoes, cucumbers, couldn't find red onion and definitely couldn't find feta. Some random cheese substituted along with canned olives and decent olive oil (for here), salt and pepper, and I had what is probably the worst Greek salad I have ever made. Pretty much all of the ingredients were sub-par and you can't build a brick house with twigs. But at least it was healthy. Most of my other meals were at a cheap Chinese place down the street from the hostel, of course the Coca Cola Cafe, and, believe it or not, at the food court in either Albrook or Multiplaza Pacific. Sometimes you just need a change from the same discount dishes, and we found some pretty good Chinese food not to mention Philly Cheese Steaks, Wendy's Frostys, and so on.
Subtitlando en Espanol
In fact, I'd be leaving out a pretty significant portion of Panama City if I didn't mention our mall rat pastimes. Did we shop? Yes. Or at least we browsed. I did buy two pairs of shorts and a t-shirt for less than $10, but that was on Avenida Central not in a mall. One thing Phil and I both bought were plain t-shirts. These we took to a lady in the food court and finally finished something we'd been talking about doing for a long time: we got shirts made that said "Mismo mismo, pero diferente" which translated means "Same same but different". If you've ever been to SE Asia you'll know that this expression is ubiquitous there and Phil and I had been attempting to spread it (it was his idea but I latched on immediately) to Central America with limited success. Now, armed with t-shirts, we would be unstoppable. Even though Panama City was our last stop in mainland Central America. Phil had also lost his SURFO hat to an Argentinian girl and was lamenting it, so he was excited to see they had the EXACT same hat with no writing on it. He had them make a SURFO hat but we later discovered they had put it off-centre and whatsmore, refused to fix it. Seriously. We weren't even asked for a new hat, just to add a period or an "S" to the end to line it up again.
But the one thing we did more than anything else here, is catch up on all the movies we'd been missing. Before Phil had arrived I saw Armored, a movie in which one armoured car guard faces off against his friends and co-workers trying to pull a heist that, as always, has gone wrong. It was entertaining but I think this could have waited until I got home. The day after Phil arrived and we got the shirts made, we went to see a movie called Up in the Air, which in Spanish has the name "Amor Sin Escalas" which I think means Love Without Stairs. This was a very ironic movie for two world travelers to watch as it was about a man who has cut all connections to the real world and spends his life on the road, traveling city to city and firing people. All he has in terms of relationships are his loyalty cards at least until he meets a woman. He leads a lonely life and, aside from his considerable frequent flyer miles, his epiphany and attempts to start having relationships with family and this girl end in him sitting alone, too late to repair the damage done and no longer happy in his old life but with no direction for a new one. This sucked the life out of us until we went and picked up our new shirts at the vendor. Ah, materialism.
By far the best movie we saw, and in fact the most astounding movie I've seen perhaps since Star Wars, was Avatar. Yes, we saw it in 3D and in a digital theatre, which was incredible, but I think that even without these things the awe would have been the same. The story, repeated again and again throughout history is of colonization and the things we do to cultures we don't understand, and it may have been done, but never with this level of imagination. A whole new world unfolds in its "Unreal" like quality, and walks the line between surreal and cartoon with incredible deftness. It was also a treat to have Spanish subtitles instead of dubbing not only because every other theatre in Central America is only dubbed, but because when the aliens speak my Spanish is just good enough to make out what they are saying which is how it would be in real life, rather than reading a matter-of-fact account of the dialogue in English. We leave tomorrow morning but may try to see it again tonight, it was that good and it MUST be seen in theatres. Sherlock Holmes (yes, it is a big list, isn't it?) was pretty cool though more action than mystery. I think it would have been aided by Sherlock divulging some of the evidence he was accumulating rather than simply spelling it all out at the end, giving the rest of us the chance to put our minds to work on the mystery. Even so, the dialogue was witty and sharp and Robert Downey Junior is making his way up my favourite actors list.
Finally, the last movie we saw was Estan Todo Bien, which in English means "They're All Fine" though I'm not sure what the English title of the movie is. It starts Robert Deniro as an older man checking to see how all his kids are doing after they bail out on visiting him. Some of the drama was overdone, and actually I can't even say I thought the movie was all that great but nevertheless it was sad and the tacked-on Christmas scene at the end (I really do think it was tacked on - the movie even faded to black) didn't come nearly close enough to redeeming it. Unlike poor George Clooney, Robert Deniro's character actually benefits from the lessons he's learned but the uplifting ending just wasn't that uplifting. Maybe that's a good thing, as it does stray a bit from the "lived happily ever after" Hollywood fairy tale a bit but not too much to make the masses uncomfortable. Still, I'm not a masochist and depressing myself with fictional stories is not my idea of entertainment.
Farewell Central America
Speaking of entertainment, we did finally find a street with a pretty decent nightlife, and that street is Calle Uruguay. It's lined with clubs and lounges and we finally made it there on our second last day in Panama City. We went out with a Brazilian guy who was a lot of fun and also met up with some girls from Colombia that were pretty nice. It was also my first chance to go out with the glasses and one girl really liked them and the other said I shouldn't wear them as my face was too nice which is a very politic way to say "your glasses suck". The lot of us all hung out together (although the Brazilian guy disappeared with the group of Brazilian girls later in the evening) and it was a good night all said. We were supposed to meet up with Eduardo, my cousin Con's friend from here, but never did manage to get a hold of him when we tried to call him back. He'd recommended a bar called Pure but it was $20 cover and didn't seem especially busy so we negotiated another place down to letting us in for $1 and partied there (I think it was called People). Aside from this night, our other attempts had mostly been failures. Luna's had a cool bar but it was just hard to meet people at it, and otherwise there isn't much that's backpacker friendly in this part of town.
Tomorrow I will leave Central America, which was intended only to be a footnote in my journey to South America but has since become so much more. It astounds me how many incredible countries and cultures are packed into this little isthmus and how little we hear about them back in Canada. I shouldn't pin my own ignorance on the whole country, but I suspect that my own knowledge of, say, Nicaragua, was probably around the national average and that is to say that I would probably have to hesitate and consider whether it was in Central America or Africa before remembering a quote from Family Guy where Lois instantly sizes up the price of 2.5 kg of "uncut Nicaraguan" cocaine and concluding it is Central America. Looking at the map, this area is tiny, especially considering it took me three months to see it properly and I have a much larger slate of land ahead of me with roughly the same amount of time allocated and that, I suppose, is a testament to the many experiences to be had in this part of the world even if my blog is not. I have no conclusion for these thoughts, they're just observations, but if I could do it again I would have left three months earlier so I had more time for South America. But I'm looking forward to my next adventures there and hopefully you are too. See you there!
That morning I was in for a pleasant surprise. I checked out of Hostel La Clinica, grateful that they’d taken me in last night but not really eager to spend another day sleeping on stained sheets. It was fine and cheap for the most part, but it was pretty quiet and I was ready to meet some people. So I went to the Bigfoot Hostel and checked in at 11 AM, which has plenty of people everywhere not to mention a layout I feel much more comfortable hanging around in than somebody’s home. And after checking in, I walked out of the hostel and saw a familiar face. There, sitting in Via Via, was Jez waving at me. I went over to say hello and noticed he was sitting next to somebody else I knew - Phil! Who would’ve thought we’d be arriving within 8 hours of each other in Leon, Nicaragua, but here we were again, three of the original four Semuc Champey crew missing only Amanda, who’d gone home to Canada. It was now six days to Christmas and the timing could not have been better. They had just spent a good deal of time at Rancho Tranquilo in a town called Los Zorros near Jiquilillo and it sounds like I missed out, but then that’s how it works on the backpacking circuit. The best places are the ones you hear about, not read about, and of course you need to be spending time with people to hear about them. And now here we were.
The three of us explored the town for the day, keeping our eye out for a volcano-boarding tour. Volcano boarding is basically snowboarding except with volcanic ash instead of snow, and I was determined to try it and also break the 80km/h speed record. Well, maybe. But there were no tours on Sunday and Monday was already sold out. We found nothing but yet more churches and interesting locals, so the day was a success in the end. That evening, after some very delicious mojitos at Bigfoot and chatting with some English crew, we celebrated that success at a little pub where a girl that Jez had met was also celebrating her birthday. However, it was her, her sister, and about 10 guys, one of whom was getting on my nerves. Phil and I decided to venture elsewhere and came across a bar called Bohemoso. It was 150 Cordobas or $7.50 to get in but then it was all the rum, vodka, and beer you could drink. Yeah. A situation like that spells only one thing: trouble.
Phil and I were the only gringos in the place, which was pretty cool. We already had a decent amount of alcohol in our systems but were determined to get our money’s worth. We then took turns getting shot down by all the amazing “Nica Chicas” and wound up sitting with a local couple who insisted on over supplying us with beer. Like two to three beer at a time. I had taken in more than I could handle and had to leave early to go home, but Phil pressed on and wound up at their place for a house party afterwards with some Danish people that came into the bar later. Pretty cool. The next day was a slow start and a ‘chill day’ being that it was a Sunday and there was nothing to do but go to the beach anyway. We hung around the hostel, called home, and managed to get ourselves on a morning trip to the top of a volcano. With snowboards and toboggans. Leon would get one more day after all. That evening, we went out for dinner with a couple Aussie girls from the hostel, Ronja and Fran for some of the best street food I’ve had since Mexico. Some cabbage roll type things, greens and rice, and tasty homemade beef patties. We also had a chat with some travelling El Salvadoreans. And we were joined by a very unfriendly American girl who would always give me a look like I had just killed a puppy. Luckily, she joined us for drinks, but she did warm up after a couple beer.
The next morning was unseasonable and inconceivable rain. It hasn’t rained here in a month but this morning, a freak rainstorm. We were supposed to be volcano boarding but clearly that wasn’t in the cards anymore, so we decided to add yet another night to Leon. The five of us decided to get in something cultural and walked (I should say trekked) across town to a museum only to find it closed. Closed and very uninspiring from the outside. Still, after such a long walk we decided to hang around for another 40 mins until it did open at 2:30, only to discover how uninspiring it was from the inside as well. Uninspiring and/or creepy, worth neither the walk nor the wait but amusing nonetheless and we DID find some Santa hats in the end so it wasn’t a total write off. We were looking for a local restaurant but everything was closed for mid-afternoon siesta, so we found ourselves scarfing down some Hollywood Pizza, which was appropriate as we were heading to the movies after. Or should I say movie. There was only one in English (with Spanish subtitles), The Surrogate. Bruce Willis or not, it wasn’t much of a movie but it was nice to just sit in a theatre with some popcorn and watch.
We did manage to get volcano boarding the following morning – at last! The drive out there is about an hour in the back of a pickup truck but when at last you arrive, you’re faced with a very steep cone of solid black fury towering over you. I had been sandboarding in Australia and it wasn’t really that exciting, so I had my doubts about this, but craning my neck to look up at Cerro Negro disabused me of any notions that this would be a routine box-ticker escapade. We set off climbing, boards and bags in hand, and soon realized that the climb was worth it for the views alone. Lava flows in all direction crept over the land like a shadow on the green landscape while a line of other green domed volcanoes stood in formation ready and waiting for their time. We made our way into the steaming crater, sulphurous gases oozing out of cracks in the earth, escapees of a magma chamber 30m below our feet. The climb continued and there was another yawning crater looming over the crater we’d just climbed into, sticking out like a black and angry red pockmark on the horizon.
At last it was time for final instructions. Weight placement, balancing techniques, I took them all in. But somehow it did me no good. The girls went first and Fran actually went down quite fast – not 84 km/h fast (the current record, set by a German, but a respectable 50-something I’d guess). Some of the other people on the trip went and then Jez took off and was probably the fastest of the day, maybe even flying down the 40 degree slope at over 60 km/h. Finally, Phil and I squared off. The problem, which I discovered as soon as we set off, was that I was not properly centred on the board. I would veer quite a bit to the right and as I stuck my left foot into the air to correct, it would over-correct and start the whole thing again, but at a higher speed. I soon had to start digging my feet alternately into the pebbles to slow myself but it was too late for a weight adjustment. I went for broke anyway, trying my best to keep the board moving down the mountain quickly though Phil was long gone, and just as I got moving at a respectable weight I wiped out. Aside from a few scratches and a damaged ego, I was fine but there was no hope of gaining any speed by now and I limped into the finish line sadly, knowing that I wouldn’t hear the end of this for some time. All I wanted was a second try.
But we were off again, the red truck waiting, first to Leon for our complimentary (and delicious) mojito, then for a quick lunch, a bit of time online booking a place for New Years Eve in San Juan del Sur, and finally a bus to Managua, the sketchy capital of Nicaragua. We arrived in Managua just fine and switched busses for Granada, two drivers vying bitterly for our five butts in their seats. It’s regularly 20 C but the one said 15 and we were sold. Of course, once you get on the bus and are well underway, they don’t remember anything about this arrangement and charge you 20 C ($1) anyway, which upsets me on principle but not economically. We arrived in Granada at night but Ronja and Fran had been here before so getting around was no problem, and we found our way to the Bearded Monkey where we would be staying until Boxing Day, celebrating Christmas, and hopefully meeting yet more cool travellers. We went out with some for dinner where I was again charged more than what I had agreed to because “it was imported”. I did argue the point but I think only succeeded in annoying the others, but it's the principle. Sigh. Different cultures can only excuse so much but I paid the difference which, again, was trifling and we called it a night. Tomorrow morning would bring Granada by day, always an entirely different experience and one I was much looking forward to.
The morning of departure was upon me. Yet another cloudy day with a very high probability of rain. I grabbed some of the free breakfast, which is to say bread and jam, from the hostel and noted with considerable concern that my foot was very itchy. And the bites, which looked like mosquito bites, were in a triangle. I noticed my arm also had two trios of bites and sincerely hoped that these were not bedbugs. Bedbugs, or so I’ve heard in my travels, tend to bite at extremities, to bite in threes, and in lines or triangles, clustered close together. Myth or fiction I don’t know, but I suppose I’ll find out as the days pass. It was now time to pay for the hostel and that meant – for the first time in a long time – cashing travellers’ cheques. The first bank wouldn’t touch them and I can’t remember the name. The second, BanMex, told me I had to bring a photocopy of my passport. I guess they either don’t have a copier or can’t be bothered. Finally, Scotiabank cashed it with no hassle whatsoever. Phil was just getting up (he’s still tired from the adjustment to travelling life) and we walked to the bus station. I grabbed an expensive chai latte (a person has to give in to such comforts from time to time) and then we discovered a food cart doing cuchina, which was basically a roast pork taco. I had three of them, we made our way to the minibuses and, 35 pesos later, were en route to Tulum.
The rain started as soon as we were underway and didn’t abate. So we arrived in the centre of town, at the Weary Traveller Hostel, in a steady, droning rain. We didn’t stay at the Weary Traveller, however. First of all, Phil had heard it was bedbug ridden, and I had enough to worry about on that front. Secondly, when we did go in to have a look, we were roundly ignored not only by the staff (who were nowhere to be found, it appears) but also by the nine or so backpackers sitting at the table. Not a greeting, hello, hola, bienvenidos. We had walked in on their private get together and how dare we? Phil and I exchanged a glance and went back out under the canopy where we used their wireless to find a hostel another friend had recommended. It was more than 3 km away so we bit the bullet and grabbed a taxi. I should’ve known then it was going to be an expensive day. The hostel was full, we were told, until I mentioned that we were looking forward to it as a friend had highly recommended it to us. Then the gate to Pesados Machapas (I think) opened and there was room, but not for two in the same dorm. That wasn’t a problem, and the rooms were clean, the beds comfortable-looking, and were it not for the price – 180 pesos – we would have stayed. But it was a bit too much and we wandered down the highway (for we were now out of town and close to the ruins) to the nearby Lobo Hostel where we settled for 120 pesos. The vibe was not great, the staff not friendly (and downright offended when we checked the mattresses for bedbugs), but darn it, it was affordable and clean enough.
However, this location, out of town 3 km, away from the beach 2 km, and maybe 1 km from the ruins left us feeling very isolated. Not only was the hostel empty, save for a lone Mexican in our room named Paco and a girl who appeared to be a mute. So we left our bags in the lockers and wandered off, hoping to find something better near the beach. But we were at the very outskirts of the beach and there was nothing but expensive huts. A long walk later, we settled for Los Lobos and rested a bit. One thing I will say is that, besides free internet, they lend out bikes for free. We took two into town where we ambled around the side streets into areas where the kids looked at us (well, Phil) really funny and I regretted not having my camera for fear of the rain. We found some great street food, got a couple of police officers to take a photo of us pretending to be playing in a baseball stadium, and then sat at a proper restaurant. Just then, the rain suddenly poured, as though it had been waiting for us to find shelter and now had to release all that built-up rain. It was wicked. An expensive dinner and no cheap looking bars in sight we biked back, now in the dark, along the highway to our hostel – Phil’s flashlight saved the day here.
The next morning we’d planned to go to Coba in the morning (about a 40 minute drive) and then do the ruins at Tulum on our return. However, the sound of howling wind and pouring rain made it look like we were going to experience our first hurricane instead. That was at 8 AM or so. By 9:30, however, there were patches of sun and the wind had died completely, catching us a little by surprise. The altogether unpleasant fellow who runs our hostel told us the bus left at 10:15 so we jumped on our bikes and sped fast as we could to the bus station in town, skipping the included breakfast and everything. It was there we found out that the bus left at 10:57 and we’d be fine until then. We went next store and got some cheap cochinita from Tony (8 pesos for a roast pork taco) then went back to the bus station. It started pouring again while we were eating and Tony gave me a couple small plastic bags to keep my stuff dry, then we got on the bus and headed for the mildly better weather in Coba. It wasn’t raining at least, but I doubt any of my photos are worth looking at from that day. It was overcast and spit from time to time. Still, to see it in person was pretty cool and both Phil and I felt it was worth the trip.
We got back to Tulum at 4:30, too late to see the ruins in town which was just as well. We were both starving. We wandered the side streets looking for a place to eat and came across a woman roasting chicken on the barbecue. Though they spoke no English we managed to order Pollo Asado, which was that same chicken with rice, beans, spaghetti, onions, and an excellent salsa plus side tortillas. We didn’t know what to do with the tortillas so we picked the chicken apart and made our own. It was a feast and for 50 pesos each we also got a large sliced chilli pepper stuffed with cheese and ham. We were hungry enough to have liked anything, so this was simply delicious. After that, there was nothing left but to bike back to our hostel. Darkness had fallen and it was a treacherous drive along the side of the highway, headlamp or no. We made a stop at a grocery store for some granola bars, yogurt drinks, and a six pack of beer before finally getting back home and calling it a day.
The evenings here are pretty uneventful. Perhaps there is some activity in the town (there are some touristy and pricey outdoor restaurant/bars, but they don’t qualify for the backpacker budget) or maybe on the beach (though with the incessant rain this is doubtful) but we generally stayed in the hostel after dinner and passed the time visiting, planning for tomorrow, occasionally studying Spanish (not enough!), and in my case, working on this blog (writing the posts for early-mid 2009) and my photos. It certainly made it easy to get to be earlier than usual, even if Paco (whose name we later discovered was Vincent but I’m not sure I believe that) tried to keep us up all hours with strange and exceedingly loud noises. What we thought would be our last day in Tulum was extended after a conversation about cenotes (cave pools) over breakfast with two Americans. They convinced us that this was something we should do and on top of that, by the time we finished breakfast and got to the ruins of Tulum, we probably wouldn’t make it to the Belize border before dark. If there’s one thing that I’ve come to insist on in my travels, it’s crossing the border by daylight only (with the possible though still not recommended exception of Europe). So the plan for the day? Visit the ruins of Tulum and then go see some cenotes.
The rain had stopped that morning and we very gratefully made our way to Tulum. In fact, I’d say the weather was almost perfect for photos – the clouds were ominously present and dark but the sun was shining too, giving the appearance of sanctuary to these ancient ruins. Or at least of an impending doom, which was as accurate for us today as it was several hundred years ago when the Mayans finally succumbed to European pressures. We wandered along, very happy in the brief glimpse of light bestowed upon us and I took some pictures of Tulum that I’m pretty excited about. And then, no sooner had the hole in the sky been filled with imperious blue cloud than it started pouring rain. We took shelter under a few trees along with several billion mosquitoes and passed the time swatting, slapping, and itching until our patience ran dry and our clothes were soaked. Several more photos in the rain, which did eventually slow to a sprinkle, the advantage now not light but that many of the big tourist groups had run for the buses. And then we left the ruins, returning to the hostel just in time to avoid the next downpour. Phil and I got ready for a cenote swim, grabbed a bit of cash (leaving our valuables in the locker rather than take them and leave them sitting unattended) and when the rain seemed to relent, hopped on our bikes and rode the 7 km to Grand Cenote. Supposedly an underground cavern with waterfalls, lots of pools and stalactites galore. Of course, we needed to stop for lunch first and maybe 100m from the highway crossing to Coba, we found a great little restaurant with excellent food. Spinach & egg tacos, mixed meat tacos, egg and sausage were my three choices and each was better than the last – complemented, of course, by an ice cold Coke in a glass bottle. Viva Mexico.
The total of this very filling taco trio with the Coke was 40 pesos. That left me with 80 in my pocket and Phil with 47. We set off and biked along the highway until finally reaching the Grand Cenote where we were shocked to discover a $10 entry fee. I thought maybe it would be 20 or 30 pesos, ($2-$3) but 100?! The ruins of Tulum cost HALF that. So, yes, we were unprepared, and no, we did not see this cenote after all. I’m not sure I would’ve paid even if I’d had the money. It’s on private land and the owner charges for admission, but you’d think when we showed him all the money we had collectively he’d be better to take it and get ~50 pesos each from us than to just wave us away. Still, all was not lost. We hopped on our bikes, muttering ‘banditos’ under our breaths, and rode back towards Tulum and a small cenote we’d passed on the way. The Calvera Cenote was 50 pesos and the owner did let Phil in with 47 pesos. We were the only ones in there, which is just as well as it wasn’t big enough for more than that. In fact, aside from being a diversion, it wasn’t really interesting. There were scant few cave formations and quite a few bats. Now, if you’re SCUBA diving, that’s a different story – there’s a hole that leads to other caverns and it looked like it would’ve been awesome to dive. In fact, if I’m this way again, I will insist on doing a cenote dive. Still, we swam around, did some jumping, some photography with Phil’s mostly-waterproof camera, and rode back to the hostel.
The lightning earlier had blown up the transformer next to the hostel (man, was that LOUD!) so we had no power. I used the remaining daylight to practice my Spanish, reviewing lesson 3 again (they’re BIG lessons) and going through lesson 4. How’s the Spanish coming? Pretty good, I’m actually surprised with how well I’m doing with my vocabulary. Of course, as soon as the conversation veers from those known topics into others, as soon as the context is not immediately obvious, and as soon as synonyms are called into action, I’m out of luck. But Barcelona wasn’t built in a day, and my comprehension is improving even if I need work on speaking and pronunciation. On other non-travel related notes, I’ve finished reading The Bourne Identity, which is a departure from the movie on a shocking scale. Aside from the base premise – an amnesiac with skills geared towards espionage or assassination – the plot is entirely different. This actually is great, as it means the book is full of surprises and is so different from the movie as to merit no comparison. A great pickup if you’re looking for a page-turner. I still have the book Barb gave me, my first Margaret Atwood novel. Oryx and Crake will come once I complete the Bourne trilogy, as my novel to savour and perhaps trade for other books as I make my way south. Which, in an elegant segue, is exactly what we will do tomorrow. South to Chetumal, where we have to pay our non-immigrant tax and get our card stamped at the bank before hopping another border-crossing bus into Belize. The plan is to reach Orange Walk mid-afternoon and take a river boat down to some obscure Mayan ruins at Lamanai the next day. Hopefully by then, Hurricane Ida will have diminished enough to make a trip back to the Caribbean coast more pleasant in Belize than it has been south of Cancun. Take it Belizey and we’ll see you, Caye (Caulker)? Also, I promise not to do that again so stay tuned.
It was the last city in the last country I was visiting on this so-called "last big trip". Beijing, the 2008 Olympic City was spread before me as I stepped from the train at 7:30 AM on August 1st. Accommodation this time was of a form I'd not used since leaving Australia, Couchsurfing. For those not in the know, a quick rundown is that it is a website full of travelers and people who like to meet travelers, perhaps showing them around, perhaps giving email tips, perhaps meeting for coffee, or, perhaps, offering up a couch or spare bed (or floor) to sleep on. I had vague directions for a guy named Aaron's home. Essentially, a subway ride to Ji Shui Tan station on the circle line, and then I was supposed to say the name of Aaron's apartment complex and a taxi driver would know it and bring me. From there, no idea. And, in fact, the more immediate problem was the same. I was standing outside the west train station with no idea how to get myself to a subway.
Oh, I knew where it was. Somewhere between 1-2km north of the train station if Lonely Planet was to be believed. And I had, I felt, a pretty good feeling of where north was. But I lacked energy or ambition to trek there with my loaded backpacks, so I did what anybody too tired to think clearly would do: I jumped on the first bus I saw and hoped it would head north and cross a subway line. It didn't. In fact, it headed south and, as near as I could tell, away from any and all civilization. No matter, aside from that Aaron was waiting for me to arrive to go to work, I hopped another bus in the opposite direction. It also did not go north - well, it backtracked north to the train station and then proceeded east for some time. East was still okay (I WAS at the West station) as it was generally correct, and soon, sure enough, we were headed north and I got off as soon as I saw a metro line.
For a city that has been pulling all the stops to be ready for Olympic visitors, I was really shocked at the lack of any indication of how to get to the city centre. Although the metro, once found, is really easy to use, the bus lines are another story. On the street, even pinyin (the english-letter version of Chinese) is absent, leaving you to ponder bus numbers and Chinese characters. Once on the bus, the route is marked in Chinese and pinyin, but that is a lot less helpful as you can probably guess. Regardless, I made it without resorting to taxi to the subway and then to the correct stop and was hoping to find Aaron there but no go. That had been the plan as of our last email, but I thought I'd try anyway and see if he was home so I grabbed a cab and sure enough, he knew exactly where we were going. I didn't. So when he dropped me off, I looked up to see rows and rows of apartments and no idea which one might house Aaron. Luckily, he saw me from his place and yelled out my name and soon I was in my Beijing home comfortable and set.
The location was truly excellent. It's only a 10-minute walk from the subway, past little restaurants and in a very local area that I never would've seen were I not staying with a local, of sorts. Aaron's actually an American who moved here partly on a whim and now works in R&D for P&G which is a lot of A&As (acronyms and ampersands). So he has some interesting insights on China, Chinese, and the way things work and don't work in this country, or at least he knows what someone from the west would find interesting about day-to-day life. After a bit of chat and some tips, maps, brochures, and discussion of my final days in Beijing, he was off to work and I was off, after a bit more rest and recuperation, for Tienanmen Square and the Forbidden Palace. The sky, contrary to reports, was blue, the sun was shining, and I had a whole lot of city to see. When I exited the metro I saw an area gated and fenced off that I assumed must be the Forbidden City. As I walked towards it I could discover no entrance though there seemed to be a few people mingling. It was, I'd later discover, an area built to look like it was from the turn of the century with trolleys and so on, and was completely off-limits to any tourist unlucky enough to be in Beijing before but not during the Olympics.
After a short time there I made my way to the real Forbidden City, but that meant walking through Tienanmen Square. That's great, I could go and visit Chairman Mao in his mausoleum; the old dictator's wishes had been ignored and instead of being cremated he was embalmed and is on public display. Or rather, he USUALLY is. Prior to the Olympics, the closest I was getting to Mao was his portrait hanging on the Gate of Heavenly Peace (for which the square is named). While wandering around I noticed I had someone following me and/or surreptitiously taking photos. Locals being fascinated by foreigners is pretty common, although not so much in larger centres, but with the Olympics Chinese are in from all over so it wasn't too surprising. What was surprising was how much he followed me - even after he asked me to have a photo with him I would still turn from a site and see him snapping photos of me looking at the gate or Olympic decorations or whatever. Beijing is crawling with spies and security, so maybe it was that but as I sat down to have a bit of water and ponder it I was approached by three more Chinese who each wanted photos with me. And once they'd worked up the courage a line formed. I later discovered that I had also been filmed by CCTV (Chinese news) looking around the city. Truly bizarre.
By the time I was finished with photos and made it to the Forbidden City, I was forbidden to enter. It was after 4:00 and there was no getting in, so I wandered east and found myself on a street lined with food stalls, pretty much exactly where I'd have gone had I planned it. On Wangfujing Street was everything: snake, starfish, silk worms, crickets, beef, pork, skewered fruits (with or without honey), you name it. So, I had some snacks, starfish included (crunchy but so-so) and went along to the main shopping street. This street is about as western as it gets - big shopping malls, McDonalds, you name it. I did a bit of looking around at the Oriental Pearl mall in particular and stumbled mainly on a movie theatre. So, a quick stop to watch Hancock as I was already exhausted and I was too tired to continue so I went home and slept like a superhero. Soundly.
The next day was likewise beautiful and blue. Aaron invited me to go to a pretty posh pool party but with the clock ticking and time running out on my stay in China and Beijing, I couldn't afford the time to sit around a pool. Instead, I hopped the bus out to the Summer Palace, a beautiful park which, aside from a pool party, is probably the best way to pass a hot summer day in Beijing. Pagodas on the distant hills, a lake named after my first stop in China (Kunming), beautiful bridges, women walking by with umbrellas and boats slipping along in the water, what more could a person want? The park was truly beautiful and a must for anyone visiting Beijing, though I would wait for a nice day to do so. I spent the better part of three hours wandering around and then decided that I would try to take in a few of the Olympic venues that evening. So I hopped the bus (960) from the Summer Palace and found myself across the highway from the Bird's Nest Olympic Stadium and the Water Cube in a sea of people.
Perhaps my timing was unfortunate, but even though I was there, I couldn't get anywhere near the places. Everything was fenced and guarded from a good distance back and I got yelled at trying to take a picture from the pedestrian overpass of the Bird's Nest (I took two anyway). But as I got to the gates I discovered it was a dress-rehearsal for the Beijing 2008 Olympic Opening Ceremonies (tm) and my timing was not so lucky. Even so, I'd been warned by Aaron that without tickets to the Olympics I wasn't going to get anywhere near the stadium or other Olympic venues. So I joined the growing number of people standing along the freeway waiting for dusk to fall and the show to begin. The crowd grew and I was surprised to see how disobedient they were. People jostled for position as close to the front as possible and soon my good spot was usurped by people waiting on the road and then those lining the grassy barrier between the onramp where we were and the highway itself. So I moved up and was the first to sit on the opposite side of the grass along the highway itself. A few people laughed and soon everyone was there and finally the police showed up and sent us all back to our previous line.
I was also the last to leave. I got off the highway but sat on a manhole cover in the middle of the grass that I thought should be perfectly acceptable. Not in traffic or even on the shoulder, not trampling flowers, a good compromise. I played dumb and/or refused to move back as politely as possible and somewhere, someone out there has a great photo of me being told to move back by two police officers losing their patience. Finally I gave in but soon they were gone and the edge not only resumed its original place but crossed to the barrier between either directions of the highway. If it's a dress-rehearsal for the Opening Ceremonies then I feel it's important to show the police what they have to watch out for, so I feel I did my part. The sun set beautifully and then we were treated to bursts of fireworks at unknown intervals which meant that I was never quite ready. If what they showed tonight was a small taste then those attending the actual opening ceremonies are in for a treat.
I tried to make my way back to meet up with Aaron for some Cantonese food at his favourite restaurant, but all the subway lines in the area were closed so I walked three kilometres to a different line and we had dinner. It was quite nice and the closest thing I've had to the Chinese food we get back home. The following morning, we had an interview with Singapore News about Couchsurfing. They chatted with Aaron first about hosting and living in Beijing and then with me about visiting and my couchsurfing experience. To round things off, they took me to my first stop for the day, the Temple of Heaven to do some shots of me touring the city and sights. Hopefully I don't look too much like a bumbling tourist; that little piece should be on the air in the week following the opening ceremonies. As for the Temple of Heaven, it is quite a pretty building set in park grounds that are less pretty but lined with lanterns concealing speakers playing traditional Chinese music which did a lot to compensate.
And finally, I made it to the Forbidden City and managed to enter after someone running the art scam tried to have a go at me. This was impressive but I don't think it was worth the money to enter, which Aaron had told me. That said, I felt I had to enter despite that - it IS the Forbidden City after all - and I didn't feel cheated after, so I won't advise anyone to give it a miss either. But it was some big gates and small buildings and to be honest, the most interesting thing for me - aside from the Hall of Clocks (admission extra) - was the massive copper cauldrons that served as the fire prevention system. They're just, well, massive copper cauldrons, filled with water near all the buildings in case a fire should break out. But it somehow gave a picture of a different time more than the gates and buildings really could. I had dinner at Megabite, a Chinese food court in the Oriental Pearl mall with lots of (expensive) options and pretty good food and then went home.
My final day in China and of this whole trip was reserved for something truly special. It is one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, it is a ribbon of human achievement, and it is something I have wanted to see since I was in third grade. The Great Wall of China awaited. But the wall itself is almost 6500 km long and near Beijing there are several spots regularly visited by tourists. A friend had been there recently and told me how crowded and horrible Badaling (closest and most accessible from Beijing) was. On the contrary, both Aaron and Charlotte were recommending I go to Simatai and look at the section of wall around that area. It is remote, beautiful, not restored (so in some places you are walking on the original wall and not newly replaced bricks) and as an added bonus, furthest from Beijing and the smog that had settled on the city that morning. I had been lucky with the weather up to this point but now things were a bit more back to normal. To their credit, the Chinese said if it was going to continue like this they were going to go from driving alternate days to once-per-month which is commendable. Can you imagine that happening in western society?
So down to the bus station where a woman dressed as an Olympics volunteer offered to help me get where I wanted to go. No busses that direction anymore (I'd missed the early ones) but I could get a mini-bus. That sort of agreed with what I'd read, so I let her lead me... and lead me... and lead me until my suspicion grew quite great. We turned a corner into a small road/alley and I knew I wasn't being brought to just any minibus to split with tourists. I've been in Asia long enough to know a scam when I see it. So I stopped, looked around affecting a tone of worry, and asked if she knew this driver and I would be safe with him? Oh, he's my husband, she assured me, and then I laughed and walked away. That didn't stop them from chasing me down. 400?? We'll give you very good price. Wait for you, bring you back! You tell price. I said 50 which I knew was low but I could take the bus for 15 yuan now that I knew she was lying so I walked away and got myself on bus 980 to Miyun.
The problem with going somewhere less touristed is the difficulty, especially in China. When I revealed my plans to the ticket lady on the bus, she made a big deal about the bus not going where I wanted, but I knew that I had to get off in Miyun and get a mini-bus from there so I wasn't too concerned. Aaron happened to call me in the middle of the exchange and I passed him to her and got everything sorted out and paid my 15 Yuan. 1.5 hours later I was dropped across from a gas station with some eager mini-bus drivers. The prices started high but I worked them down to 50 yuan and still decided I wanted to verify there wasn't a bus or someone to split the ride with in that direction. I hopped back on the next bus but discovered that no, there actually was no bus this time. I also discovered an American-Albanian couple going the same direction and that the prices here were higher. They had been looking around and negotiating for an hour so I took their word that there were no busses and whatsmore, they were being followed by a guy that yelled and screamed at anyone who offered a fair price, and aside from knocking him out there was nothing to be done for it. We even got in a van from someone who offered the three of us a ride for 100 and he jumped in too and started yelling. I was dangerously close to throttling the man, but soon we were underway for 50 yuan - each.
So I went through a lot of extra trouble for nothing but soon we arrived. Not as Simatai, I should've made clear earlier, but at Jinshanling from which Simatai was 10 km away along the Great Wall, though there was at least one part of the wall that was so ruined that the trail actually goes off the wall and comes back on at the next tower. The Great Wall was, well, great and everything I'd hoped for. It was hazy even out here, mostly due to heat and humidity though and not pollution, but still offered breathtaking views of the wall making its way along mountain tops far far along. The initial section near Jinshanling was maintained and an easy walk, but soon was the genuine article, making its way along the countryside in timeless glory, crumbling in parts, steadfast in others. As the trek was along a mountain pass, it was a lot of up and down, sometimes quite steeply, but I was still in good shape (and full of red blood cells) from my time in the Himalayas and I did the four hour walk in two and a half. Which isn't to say I wasn't stopping every 100 metres to gape at the scenery and sheer magnitude of the wall, but it was over before I knew it and I descended the mountain, crossed a river on a suspension bridge, and took a flying fox down to civilization again.
After paying another 50 Yuan to get back to Miyun and catching the last bus (6:00) for Beijing, I got home and Aaron had made dinner which was unexpected and very welcome since I'd not really eaten aside from breakfast. Then we went out with a friend of his for drinks and before I knew it, I was waking up to the day. The day when I go home, when I board the plane for that one final journey, and at the same time the day I get to see friends and family again. I said goodbye, thanked Aaron, and did some last minute shopping before getting on the train for Beijing's new airport. One last stamp in the passport, and suddenly I was on an Air Canada plane and they were talking English and French, though I was still saying 'thank-you' in Chinese. The journey home would be a long one that would doubtless continue well after my physical arrival in Vancouver four hours before I left Beijing and in Saskatoon an hour and a half after. But I was now on the plane, the doors were closed, and it was taxiing to our spot on the runway. The pilot opened the throttles and as I was pressed back in my seat, I watched China slip away as the skies opened above.
