Numero 11- The night's of Marlboro's & 'trade workers.'

He stumbled into the bathroom after his rude awakening from the alarm. The flurry of hair gave him the appearance of Slash, he even had the t-shirt. His beard was scruffier than what he had realised. He's once strong shoulders & firm mid-section was something of the past, like that distant dream you try to recall but can't. His eyes were bloodshot from a late night on the terrace & his skin tone had changed a few shades. Too many days in the sun. 'Damn I'm tired.' He muttered in a voice more gravelled than before. That's all he could muster between the clearing of his throat from a night of Marlboro blanco's. His only joy came from the single room he slept in. 'Onward & upward.' His body may have changed, but his mind's compass was still set on one place, South. He arrived in Turbo after a quick sojourn in Capurgana. The first port of call in Colombia, Capurgana was where you got your passport stamped on entry & would be where he would say goodbye to the guys from the 'Desdomona.' After a 2hr speed boat ride from Capurgana he reached the mainland & Turbo. Most people would leave immediately. There's not much to see in places like Turbo. He enjoyed those places. The smell of rotting food, the sight of decaying boats, the sense of unease, the streams of polluted water flowing down the streets. The madness on the streets he had only seen with last minute Christmas shoppers 5min before the shops close on Christmas Eve. He somehow saw the charm in this place. Countries ain't all 'rainbows & butterflies.' There's the real people & places as well.  He stayed the afternoon to walk the streets. His demeanor & appearance allowed him to blend in. Allowed him to be there, but not. Anonymity is underrated. He basked in his ghostly presence, he was in his element. He found a cheap hotel just off the main street. The stairs made painfull aching sounds, like the sounds of the old work horses that dominated the Turbo landscape. The room's walls were covered in blank patches where paint had once resided. Those days were long gone though. He didn't mind. It was cheap & had a soft bed, that's all that mattered. The fact that there were 'trade workers' at the front desk also didn't bother him. There conversions would be surprisingly refreshing later in the evening. He didn't seek out there company, but as the only thing on his t.v was a black screen, there tales of interesting clientele proved good entertainment. Who needs HBO. Business was slow, so he sat on the terrace listening them well past the witching hour. As tired as his body was, his mind was fresh & excited for the new day ahead. Rain had fell the night before & caressed the streets with cool air. 'Leave now before the madness resumes.' Medellin layed in wait. Once a major exporter of gold & still presently coffee, it's main claim to fame was for something much stronger than coffee & at one point more valuable than gold. 'Old slow hand' famously mused about it, it caused the destruction of millions of lives & made one man from Medellin one of the most powerfull men in the world. 'She don't lie, she don't lie, she don't lie; COCAINE. Coke, blow, nose-candy, yayo, jack up, jelly beans, c, flake & charlie, are just some of the names to describe the white powder obtained from the leaves of the coca plant.  In the 80's & 90's Medellin became infamous as the Drug capital of the world & the one man who ruled this world was Pablo Emilio Escobar Gaviria. Drug lord of the Medellin cartel, the city at one point supplied 70% of the world's cocaine supply. So if you ever used it back the 90's, it probably came from here. 'El Patron,' was once listed as 7th on Forbes rich list. Robin Hood to some, a murderous thug to others, he once famously said, ' sometimes I am God, if I say someone dies they die the same day.' In the early nineties he tried to prove that fact. In 1991 the violent murder rate was over 20 000. After his death in 1993, Medellin made a concerted effort to shake off that tag.

                                                   The scene of 'El Patron's' last stand

                                                      Before he became 'The Accountant.'

After hours on the road from Turbo, He arrived at 'Hostel Pit Stop.' Situated in the Poblado district in Medellin, it had a real party feel about it. It would no disappoint. Crazy Irish & Australians made early nights impossible. The hostel would gain the nickname, 'The Compound.' Since nobody ever left it, EVER. He did make time to go on the Escobar tour to meet Roberto Escobar, Pablo's brother. He even got the chance to do a five min interview with the man labelled 'The Accountant.' Five days flew by & Cali was calling. Famous for it's Salsateca venues, he would give the famous dance a go. 'It would be rude not too.' He had been called many names in his life, 'someone with rhythm,' was not one of them. He found himself in a place filled with would-be salsa champs. The hostel even offered free salsa  & yoga classes. It also had a make shift gym. His body hadn't felt the strain of weights on it in a while. He would give the Salsateca a good crack. He reached the venue which seemed to be a resort by day, at round 11pm. The place was heaving with the passion of sweating bodies closely held to one another. The pro's glided elegantly across the floor like swans across a glass like lake. There movement was truly art in motion. He didn't feel intimidated by the poetry before him. He felt strangely confident. The poetry & art he had witnessed was as far removed from what he would display to the audience as possible. It didn't matter one bit though. 'Never die wondering.' He had as good a time as could be imagined. The next morning would prove his final in Colombia. He climbed into the weights once more. Another strange feeling swept across his body. The feeling of pain screaming through his muscles, 'I haven't heard that in a while.' He welcomed the pain. It was comforting, it reminded him of how things use to be. Before the flurry of hair, before the scruffy beard, before the hoarse voice from a night's of Malboro's & 'trade workers.'

Until that day ...

Numero 10- Keep the wind at your back & the sun on your face.

The skies once again painted itself in a shade of grey, like that of the face of a Geisha after she's done painting it. The jungles emerald dress looked even more saturated. Her secrets still secret, the stories she could tell. She looked over the small bay that formed Portebello. Stuck up against a mountain side over looking the Caribbean, Portebello had once been home to the Spanish & more infamously to a host of different privateers. That's what they called themselves anyway. The world simple know's them as pirates. Blackbeard, Morgan & Drake, all made Portebello home at sometime. Legend goes that Drake himself is buried on one of the surrounding islands. His booty also calls Portebello home, if the legend is to be believed.
After a short stop in Panama City, he made his way down to Portebello. He met some treasure hunters. It seems everyone is in search of adventure. And so it was that he arrived in Portebello, the next step to his adventure. Sailing the same seas as Drake had done all those years ago, was an adventure as grand as anything he had done before. The San Blas Islands laid waiting. The 'Desdemona' would give him that adventure. He stayed at the appropriately named 'Captains Jacks' hostel. Among the array of old sea dogs, he met Captain Jeff, skipper to the 'Desdemona'. At only 29, he was young compared to the raggedy old sea captains that sat around 'Jacks'. As the rum flowed, so the stories came streaming out. The nights went deep, with only creatures better left undiscovered singing away in the darkness. After celebrating his football teams wrapping up of the title, he wrapped up his bags & set-off to the dock. He was greated by grey skies yet again. His spirits were high though. He boarded & met the crew. Phil (aka George) & Robbie (aka Cookie Robinson Esquire the 3rd).

                                                          Cpt Jeff, George, Elton John & Cookie

The others on the boat were a young Australian couple & an American brother & sister. There sibling relationship was unlike his ever experienced. Foot massages & sensual back rubs were foreign to him. 'Too each his own' he thought. He eyes were filled with visions of the open seas. He would soon be seeing it up close. As they slowly cruised out of the bay, he fixed his eyes on one place, the horizon. The first night came in quickly. The sea started acting up. Like a petulent kid, she started throwing her toys. Like that kid she would make it her goal to make life unbearable for everyone around. He wasn't going to give into this brat. The others would & one by one went to the side to empty there stomachs. They vanished below soon after, he would only see them in the morning. He would not budge though & stayed top side. The 'Desdemona' bobbed & weaved her way through the punches of salt water like Mayweather. He would have approved. She fought well & at 5am the fight was over.

They reached the first island. The names of the islands are not important. All he know's were that they were SPECTACULAR! The days were spent moving between the islands. Snorkelling with sharks, eating fish caught a few hours earlier, swinging away in hammocks & reading. That became par for the course. The American kid even attempted to crack some coconuts on the nearby island. Accompanied by his sister's cheerleading, 'come on champ, you the man!' All they needed was wine, they were providing the cheese. The coconuts fell to the ground on a regular basis. Like suicide fruit, they plummeted to there demise. The highlight would be having lunch with a local Kuna tribe.

                                                                                Kuna 

                                                                                                                                    
Having a meal in there hut, playing football on the island, playing in the rain with the kids. Know words needed. The islands charm & beauty is easy to fall for. Like the coconuts falling from the trees, you fall for the island without choosing. In the end it was never your choice to make. Soon enough the sails would be lowered & the anchor dropped for the last time. The final day came faster than what he thought. 'Where did those 5 days go?' 'They went so fast.' The best days usually do. The last night was the best one. Sleeping up top, swinging away in a hammock, the gentle splashing against the bow & watching the stars, one by one light up the black canvas of the Caribbean sky. He thought to himself, 'what do I need right know?' 'Absolutely nothing.'

Until that day ...

Numero 9 - Island of the Sirens

With an all mighty splash, he made his arrival into Bocas Del Toro. After the previous few week’s turmoil, he had decided that at the first opportunity he would go clothes & all into the ocean. Mission accomplished. He checked into the ‘Coconut’ hostel. The town’s capacity had doubled in the last few days. The Easter weekend had attracted not only tourist, but locals taking advantage of the extra few days off from work. Discoverer by Columbus back in the 1500’s while searching for a passage to the Pacific, it was for many years called Isla de Drago. In essence a fishing town, it had exploded into a tourist hub in the last few years. With plenty of activities ranging from scuba diving, surfing, boat trips to see the endangered red frog & if all you wanna do is lounge around on the beach, it has that too. Bocas has something for everyone. Getting around the island was just as simple. For a few dollars more, you could get an old school cruiser. So feeling a little too much like Jessica Landsbury, he set off on his steel horse to discover this jewel of the Caribbean. With all the chaos of the last few days, he hadn’t had the time to appreciate the fact that he was actually on a Caribbean island. A Caribbean fucking island! Who would’ve thought? As with the gringo trail, if you on it long enough, you bound to bump into the same faces & same accents. So it turned out. He had met these faces back in Nicaragua. It was fun seeing familiar faces after a few countries. Catching up & getting to discuss & share similar experiences. That’s what travelling is all about. The ‘Coconut’, wasn’t as crowded as the other hostels. Its staff & owners were really laid back & that approach rubbed off on the hostel. One of the co-owners was even nice enough to invite him & a few others on a boat trip.

                                         Bird island great for snorkelling

It was a nice change from the craziness of the town. Off they set. Like Hemmingway’s character in ‘The old man & the sea’, they took off in an old skiff. The weather was spectacular though & 45min into the ride they anchored for the first of three stops. The snorkelling conditions were perfect. The array of fish even included a nurse shark. She just sat there in all her grace. Just majestic on the ocean floor while the world past by. It was a fantastic moment indeed.

                                                                   
The island had some interesting residents & he met quite a few during his stay. John Smith was all the images you have of an old sea dog rolled into one 55 yr old guy. He came fitted with shaggy dog grey hair & a leathery face from too much time in the sun & sea. However he also had eyes that you just knew had seen more than most people should be allowed to see in there lifetime. He also seemed to know the most obscure facts for a guy from Connecticut. Like the origin of the Scottish emblem & even the amount of food & champagne that was to be used at the royal wedding. CRAZY! While doing his Jessica Landsbury, happened onto an old school bus that had been reconverted into a café. Chatting to the owner, he discovered that a year or so back, the bus was found abandoned on a nearby beach. Bought for a $100, it had now become one of Bocas favourite spots.

                                                         $100 bus

The big night spots were filled with scenes out of some b-rate American college movie. After a few days, seeing people strewn out on the sidewalk like leftover fast food became run off the mill. At ‘Coconut’ he had opted for a tent. It was kinda like having a private room, but for the same price as a dorm. This would lead to some interesting evenings. The tent as cosy as it was, was definitely only made for one person, unless you like drowning in your own sweat. He had unfortunately befriended a few of the b-rate college students. So when they ended up like those cold French fries you bin at 4 in the morning, they inevitable ended up at his doorstep looking for shelter. He hadn’t the heart to turn them away, so for 3 consecutive nights he spent drowning in his sweat. Bocas, like San Juan del Sur before, had the ability to steal you away. He met many that had taken up short term labour as a means of staying. Like the ‘island of the Sirens’ in Homer’s ‘The Odyssey,’ Bocas would capture you & not let you go if you gave in to her singing. So on his last night, he changed to the climate friendly hostel ‘Casa Verde'.

                                                           

 It had air-conditioning. A good night it would be. Besides the fact he didn’t have any stray to take home, he bumped into some fellow countrymen & women. It was rare to find them down this neck of the wood. He really enjoyed having his moment of familiarity. It was a good night. The next morning he allowed himself a sleep in, the ferry of the island only left in the afternoon. He took one last cruise by all the spots he had become a local at.

He even got offered a chance to stay, bar work was offered his way. He knew he had to keep moving, so refused the chance to even contemplate that offer. At 2pm he set off for Panama City. His obsession with sailing the Caribbean would soon take over his thoughts.

Numero 8- ' Glorious mistakes are anxiously waiting to be made...'

Would he have thought as he crossed into Costa Rica on that Sunday morning, that 3 weeks later he'd still be there. How & when did it all get so messed up, so fucking messed up. He felt like a scene out of one of his favourite movies, 'In Bruge'. Colin Farrell's character gets stuck in the small Belgium town, not out of choice. 'And i'm still in fookin Bruge!' It all started so promising when he reached Tamorindo on the Northern Pacific coast. The town itself he found hard to define. Not a classic surfer town, not a holiday resort town. Amongst all the glitzy Hotels & over-priced shops, there where shitty roads & even shittier hostels. For some odd reason, he choose on of those hostels. That's where it all started. 'Coral Reef' seemed pleasant enough on the outside, after 3 days in which he had his phone, camera, clothes & even his peanut butter & mosquito spray stolen, pleasant was the last word he would think of using to describe hostel 'Coral Reef'. He had decided to go out one night & foolishly thought, since he was the only one in the dorm, he would leave his phone in his bag. The bag that wasn't locked up. He had done it loads of times on the trip thus far without hassle. Who would steal from a fellow traveller. Everything he has with him he has because he needs it. Who would steal from a fellow traveller. He wouldn't. Returning back a few hours later, his worst nightmare would be waiting. Every travellers worst nightmare. Knowing that someone had rummaged through you most valuable possessions. Hard to think of anything worse. The feeling was even more worse, since only certain things where taken, the rest left in peace. Knowing thus, that the bastard had meticulously gone through his goods, taking his time to pick & choose what he wants & what he doesn't. It was enough to boil the blood & turn his stomach in equal measures. His vision of what was around was perminantly impaired. He had to keep moving. And when the opportunity arouse to go all the way to Panama, he took it. He knew he would miss out on an entire country, but it was perminantly impaired. Little did he know what was waiting. Months earlier during his preparation he had been informed that his countries visa laws with Panama had changed. It was a welcome surprise. He would save money. How that delight would turn into anger once he got to the border. The border crossing at Sioxaola was straight out of a movie scene. Rickety bridge, liquorice men (all sorts of men) & dodge officials all waited. The bridge, 150 meters in length, held together by a combination of rusted steel & loose wooden beams, would become a walk he would do way to often. As has been the norm, the sweat trickled down his back. On reaching immigration, the normal documents were filled in promptly. Name, surname, country, occupation & profession. He had seen it all before. There would be a twist though. 'No paise.' Was a response he hadn't heard before. 'Como?' 'No paise, senor. No visa, no paise.' This was indeed a shitfuck moment. The trickle had become a shower. He tried to explain that the rule had changed. 'Senor! No visa no paise'. 'Shitfuck! The computer system that had never seen someone from his country before was thus not updated. The light was fading as fast as what his temper was shortening. Puerto Viejo was a beach town an hour down the road. He would lose this battle he thought, but the war would continue in the morning. He had heard about 'Rocking J's' from a host of different vagabonds. The hostel had the option of sleeping in hammocks for 5 bucks. He was sold. '5 bucks, hell yea!' The property was bigger than any other hostel he'd seen before. Maybe the vision wasn't perminantly impaired after all. The rain poored. It was personally refreshing for him. With his temper boiling, the Caribean rains was much needed. The staff were friendly & helpfull. The other occupants were not much bother. His temper was cooling with the continued rains, but he wasn't yet ready for small talk. His stay in Puerto Viejo would be short, he needed to get back to San Jose to sort his problem out. Flying was not an option. Going back was not an option. Back he went to San Jose. He thought that maybe the travelling Gods were conspiring against him as his arrival in S.J was over a long weekend meaning embassies would be shut. As had been his philosophy, 'accept, ignore, work through & move on.' He was moving on. Sometimes things happen for a reason. His stay in S.J coincided with a Shakira concert. He bought a ticket from some scalpers for 15 bucks. He had also bumped into some mates from his adventure in Ometepe a few days earlier. She was heading home in 2 days. One last party was appropriate, one last time with feeling. Never having been a big fan of 'hips don't lie' Shakira, he was blown away by her performance. She even did a cover of 'Nothing else matters' by Metallica. Who would have thought. Lars & the boys would've been proud. With 'Waka Waka' fresh in mind he headed off to the embassy the following day. They were as shocked as he was by the border immigrations refusal to allow him in. 'If you have problems, here's all the contact details you will need.' With renewed optimism, he headed back south. Round 2. Arriving at 'Check Point Charlie,' the looks from the Costa Rican official's told a story which he should off read. He wasn't in the reading mood. You should always make time for reading.

                                                                  Bridge over troubled waters

Once more he took the walk over to Panama. He had built up a familiarity with the custom officials & the various other 'liquorice men' who milled around the crossing. Arriving at the immigration window, the words that he had come to despise was uttered again. 'The computer say's no.' He felt like Phil Connors now, Bill Murray's character in 'Groundhog Day.' Sioxaola had become his Punxsutawney. He has contact details though. That surely would be his saving grace. Amazingly he got through to immigration head office. Maybe he was not Phil after all. The official told the officer at the border post no visa was required anymore. His smile was short lived. 'The computer say's no. No paise senor.' 'Hi my name is  Phil Connors.' The other antogonist in the peace was about to enter stage left. While his frustration was falling on deaf ears, the night had slowly closed in. With desperation etched on his face he made his ways back to the Costa Rican post. He should have read that story earlier. 'No paise senor'.

                                                                    
Was this really happening. Was this really happening AGAIN. All the nightmare's he had had about Central American border crossings had become a reality. 'You cannot pass. Go back to Panama, NOW !' How could he, did they really think he was enjoying this. Any further attempts at pleading his case was extinguished as the burly army guard with rusty assault rifle was summoned over to escort him over to Panama. He had literally become a man with no country. He had become the urban myth, the story of the guy stuck on a bridge between 2 countries. All the time the other antagonist had taken position front & center on stage. The sun was a thing of the past. With it's disappearance, the darkness had settled in. A weird sense of calm had suddenly flowed over him. The realisation that his current situation was inevitable, he consigned himself to the fact that he would be sleeping on a bridge. Sleeping on FUCKING bridge. It was really happening. Even in this moment he could find the time to smile. 'It could always be worse,' he thought. As he settled in for the night, a voice. 'What's the problem my maan.' The voice was laden thick with an unquestionable Jamaican slang. 'You need help my maan.' His situation, crawled up on a bridge trying to battle away the swarms of mosquito's & other nameless invaders, answered that question. Elias, was the name behind the voice. His Jamaican voice was accompanied by a raggedy head of dreads that were slowly falling out. The missing top front teeth & child like physique, masked the fact that he had been around for many more summers than his appearance let on. After a few words with the burly gun welding guard he was allowed back into C.R.
So with little more than a passing strangers word, he set off to find solitude in Sioxaola. He had done what so many before had done & so many more would do. He entered a country illegally. The night was filled with various thoughts & even self doubt about his current situation & undertaking. 'What am I doing?' With the rising sun, as with so many times before, his mood rose. Excited by new adventures that were waiting to be taken on. After many hours of negotiating between the various parties; Panamanian immigration, Costa Rican immigration & himself, they finally allowed him back into C.R. Legally this time. Back to Puerto Viejo, yet again. Something had to be done. One last desperate S.O.S was sent out to the Consulate General of Panama. 'Please sir. All I ask of you is an official letter stating that relations between our respective countries had changed & that I thus no longer require a visa to enter your country. Regards.' He didn't hold out much hope, so decided to enjoy his stay at Rocking J's. Indulge. By indulging in his surrounds, he became overly familiar with the owner of Rocking J's. He discovered in his time there, that 'J' enjoyed the company of young tourist girls. Never having been a prude, he didn't mind that one bit. Not even the the fact that the said young girls where just that, 'girls.' J on the other hand had been to the rodeo a few times. What was of a bigger concern was how he managed to lure the girls up to his 'house on the hill.' He used his own girlfriend, who herself had just been out of diapers when 'J' was probably starting up his hostel. She would use the old line of 'come up for free drinks.' That old one still works apparently. If that didn't work, a night of free punch definitely would. Some would get caught, the others unfortunately would be collateral damage. 'J' also believed that a tsunami was close by and thus decided to build an ark. Enough said. 3 days into his stay something strange happened. Like being stuck on the open ocean with no wind. The feeling of being totally reliant on factors out of your control. Then suddenly the wind changes & your sails are stiffened with life & renewed hope. His sails had just been stiffened. The letter he had so long dreamt of had arrived. 'SUCCESS'. He would take advantage of the wind. 'Once more into the breach,' he thought. Arriving for the third time at the border post he was greeted by one & all with a familiarity that bemused & confused all the other traveller's that were making the crossing. 'If they only knew.' With letter in hand, he made his was across the bridge. It would be his last such trip. The letter had done the job. His face was devoid of any emotions. He just couldn't muster any. It had all seemed like such a horrible dream & now on just another ordinary Wednesday morning, it was all over. A taxi pulled up. 'Where you wanna go my maan.' 'Just get me out of this fucking border.' 'Bocas Del Toro for you then me brother.' 'Bocas Del Toro indeed.'

                                                             Bocas Del Toro. #SUCCESS
 Until that day.......