Set adrift on memory bliss

Bill has this story he likes to tell. It's about this Brother-in-law who is a lawyer or something for an insurance company. Turns out this company did some study and they found that somewhere around 60% of the people who have been out of work for about six-months or longer never go back. And apparently it has nothing to do with the amount of insurance claim they might recieve.

We talked about this a lot. Bill sold his company about 5 years ago and has just been travelling since. I've been mucking around for about two months. We both kinda agreed that there was something basic about men that requires them to do something. Something to give meaning to their existence. And that seems to be unique to men, most women seem to find meaning in their children. Men seem to be different, they need more, need a sense of accomplishment.

Given how much we started talking about this, and especially how this relates to both of our lives we had to call it something. So we came up with the "Rudder Theory" Without something to give your life purpose you just lose direction and abandon your idealism. Start drifting out aimlessly.

Maybe it doesn't even matter what. Lately I've decided to do some stuff I've been meaning to do. Learn to swim, learn to dance, speak Spanish fluently...and a few more things. At some point I´ll likely return to the "real" world, but for right now, reality is no friend of mine.

Today was a good day

Every once in a while the stars just align and everything is as it should be. You wake up and find your two Argentinean friends crashed out in your living room in Rio while checking out the view of the Copacabana. You feel good about the fact that you saved two friends from sleeping out on the beach.

Your sister cooks you a great plate of eggs to go along with the fresh papaya (yes I know I have an issue with fruit, let's just accept it as a healthy obsession).

You spend the day relaxing at the beach with all of your friends. The beach vendor even cuts you a deal on the umbrellas. Flaco lounges around singing Bob Marley, or at least the words he knows "Da dah dah da da, I shot the sherrif, bah bah bah ba ba bah"

You finally find the zone swimming. With each stroke you remember how you promised yourself you'd become a good swimmer before you left Rio. Today everything is working and you still have two weeks to go. You find that buoyancy equilibrium in the water and learn to relax while floating. You figure out what is was with your form that was messing you up. Follow through, don't lose momentum and pace yourself. Before you know it you've hit the end of the beach and can't even see friends around the curve of the shore.

When after your ready to leave and have paid the aforementioned beach vendor you remember you forgot the cup of matte you also had, and run down there to give him the extra 1.50 Reals. This brings a smile to your face for some reason.

You realize that your Spanish has improved to the point that you are playing translater between your sister who speaks no Spanish, your little buddy who speaks a little and the Argentinians who only speak a bit of English. And everyone gets along great.

Your new friends take off back to Argentina for yet another farewell. But not before presenting you with about 3 shots left in a bottle of something you've never heard of before and an offer for a place to stay if you make it to Cordoba.

You head to the all-you-can-eat chorosco buffett that you don't really want to see because you know your sister does. And it turns out to be fantastic. They do good work there, and are ever so attentive to all your needs. You eat and eat like you never have before. The secret it turns out, is to eat plenty of vegetables and salad, and pace yourself.

It's Carnaval, you're staying 50 feet away from Copacabana beach, but you head to Ipanema to party. At two in the morning you and your new friends decide to move the party to Lapa until the wee hours of the night. You post party in your apartment overlooking the beach. Life could suck more.

Samira shows up

My sister Samira and I have become pretty close over the last couple of years. She’s been out to Seattle a few times to visit me and I’ve been to Cleveland several times. We talk fairly regularly on the phone. We met up in Las Vegas twice and now she’s here in Rio for Carnaval. It wasn’t always like this. When we were growing up I was the mean older brother who would pick on her and she was the annoying little sister that would tell. There was some story about being thrown out of a window, but what happened depends on whose version you believe. But some things just seem to change over time. I’ve grown to like tomatoes too.

Samira doesn’t speak any Portuguese or Spanish so I knew it might be a little difficult when she showed up. I made sure our doorman knew to expect a little girl with a suitecase. “She’s my sister” I told him. Well turns out he almost didn’t make the connection. I don’t think we look too familiar right now. I’ve always been the dark one in the family, everyone else is relatively fair-skinned. And after 2 months in Latin America I’m now the dark dark one of the family. “You look black” she told me. I’ve been hearing that a lot lately.

Samira and I immediately started in on the family gossip. How her trip to introduce my parents to her boyfriend went, the latest stories about our nephews. I told her a few of my stories. “Yeah I know” she replied a couple of times “I read about that on your blog, everyone in the family is reading your blog.” Hmmm…maybe I should be a little more careful with what I write.

We’re actually not that similar personality wise. She’s idyllic and social, I’m bitter and jaded but usually hide it well. But maybe it’s just the similarity in age, or just middle child syndrome, for some reason we really get along well. At some point after I moved out to Seattle and left the rest of the family behind in Cleveland it was Samira I kept in touch with most, and some strange way, me moving 2000 miles away brought us together.

I've become kinda protective of Samira in the last couple of years. It's funny, you watch someone grow up and you see them making the same mistakes in life that you made earlier. And you try to help them so they can learn from your mistakes, and don't have to experience the same crap you did. But really, some lessons in life you can't pass on quite so easily. Everyone needs to stumble through it on their own, and learn from the experience. Samira is kind of like that...and I suppose the best thing you can do is be a good big brother and be around to see what happens.

But honestly she's a lot more mature than I was at her age. At 22 she's already giving me good advice about my own messed up dramas (usually involving women). And the thing about sisters is they can call bullshit on you like no one else. They've known you for their entire life, and you're just not going to fool them with the same line of crap you give to everyone else to justify your actions. And when she does call bullshit one me, I listen...at least I think I do.

I'm glad she came to visit. I know we're going to have a blast in Rio. We always have a blast when we're hanging out. Who would have thunk that just a few short years ago. Now I just hope my other sister Asma makes it to Buenos Aires. That would be fun.

Ellick comes to town!

I’ve been looking forward to this for a while. Actually this excursion to Rio for Carnaval was the only part of this entire trip that was planned and had actual dates associated with it. Before I left the States Ellick and my sister Samira had decided to meet up in Rio for Carnaval. This was going to be their big vacation for the year. I had invited pretty much everyone I know to come visit me on my South American and I had gotten a lot of responses like “that sounds great, we’ll check our schedule!” But only Ellick and Samira had actually bought tickets.

About 2 weeks before Ellick was set to arrive in Rio he sent me an e-mail letting me know there were two fatalities of denegue fever in Rio. Uh ok. Then he told me about the recent gang wars in the favelas. “Don’t worry” I told him, “I mean, what’s the worst that could possibly happen?”

We had already made arrangements for a very nice apartment right on the Copacabana beach. It was literally 50 feet from the beach. Ellick was going to arrive a little after noon, so I headed over a little earlier. I was thrilled when I walked in the place. This was by far the nicest room I’ve stayed in the 2 months that I’ve been traveling. The AC worked, the beds were nice and everything was clean!

While I was in the shower I heard a knock on the door. “Ellick! Great to see you man.” He took one look at me “Dude, you’re dark.” I guess a month of hanging around the beach has changed my complexion a bit. Then he started looking around the apartment. “This safe doesn’t look very secure, someone could just rip it out of the cabinet and take it, and these curtains are really flimsy”

Ellick settled in for a bit and then we decided to hit the beach. Yeah Copacobana was right outside our door but we were heading to the Ipanema side to meet up with my hostel friends. I always love introducing friends to each other. It’s a great feeling when two groups hit it off, and then you have one larger group.

Sure enough all the Chileans, the Slovak and the English girl were all hanging out at the beach at our usual spot. Ellick seemed to fit right in, everyone is so friendly that it really wasn’t much of a problem. I asked Ellick is he wanted some beach food, “it looks really dirty, I wouldn’t eat it” he said. I started looking for the guy selling shrimp. Ellick told me I was going to die.

There is nothing quite like a relaxing day at the beach. I love the whole atmosphere, everyone has a smile one their face, the vendors are walking around selling whatever you could possibly want, it’s hot but the water cools you off perfectly. First I went for a swim in the ocean, nice and refreshing. "Watch out for the undertow, it´s really bad here." Ellick warned.

Afterwards I finally felt like spending some money. I saw a great little Brazilian soccer jersey that would look awesome on my nephew Muneer. I´ve had this thing for soccer jerseys lately (sorry, I mean futbol kits). “Be careful of the vendors” Ellick told me “they’ll try to rip you off.”

I’ve actually been really impressed with the beach vendors. They walk around all day in the blistering heat of the beach, with huge packs on their back selling, well, everything. They’re generally pretty nice and take no for an answer fairly well. And I’m sure they completely rip off some people. But I think those are also the people that come down here and speak nothing but English and get upset when no one can understand them, the ugly Americans.

As the sun decided to set, we decided to head back to the homestead and meet up with the crowd a little later for dinner. Ellick and I needed to visit the ATM so we walked by the HSBC bank near our apartment. “Let’s not go in there” he said, “those guys hanging out in front of the bank look pretty sketchy.” Yeah they did look a little sketchy, but I felt ok since but the police station was two store fronts down on the same street. But whatever, we walked around for another ½ hour looking for another bank.

Dinner was great, social as always. Then we all decided to head out to one of the many beach stands and drink some beer. It was Igor (the Slovenian) and Teresa’s (the Chilean) last night in Rio. They were both flying out early the next morning. We had already exchanged contact information and I had made plans for staying with Igor for a few days while I got situated in Buenos Aires and with Teresa when I visited Chile.

It was strange, one group of friends was leaving and another one was just arriving. My sister Samira was showing up in two days and that would finalize the transition. It’s become more and more apparent to me, the two groups were wildly different sorts of people. The Latin Americans are fun and social. People from the US are cautious and paranoid, some more so than others.

But Ellick finds a way to mix his adventurous side and his paranoia together. I know I have a tendency to throw caution to the wind and take a few more chances and do some things I know aren’t a good idea. None of them have really screwed me too much, everything has always worked out and I’ve wound up with some good stories out of it. I find it odd that Ellick and I get along so well considering we do have these different world views.

Sometimes in life you just run across good people. No one is ever perfect, everyone has their own quirks. But the difference with friends is that their quirks are funny and not annoying. And you put up with them, and you give them shit for their idiosyncrasies, but at the end of the day you’re still good buds, because you don’t just find good people everywhere you look.

People are strange

I’ve spent the last week staying at a hostel here in Rio. It’s a great place, I’m really starting to enjoy the hostel life. Everyone is very outgoing. You meet interesting people from all around the world. And when you’re traveling by yourself this is a big deal! I just wish everyone had a little better hygiene, the bathrooms were clean, the air-conditioners actually worked and there weren’t six people sleeping in a room. But besides that it’s fantastic. Here it seems to be an even mix of Latin Americans and Europeans / US Citizens.

And it’s amazing how different the two groups are. The Latin Americans are always so social, so lively, so friendly. They all know how to share really well. If someone buys a bottle of water, a beer, a banana or whatever else, it’s going to get offered to everyone. But as far as I can tell, it’s not done out of some sense of obligation or duty. It’s just that it doesn’t occur to them not to offer something they have to their friends who might want to try it.

Us “westerners” aren’t like this at all. In fact normally this behavior throws us off our balance, confuses us. We don’t know how to respond. I’ve seen a lot of us say no to the initial offer, and then grudgingly accept when the offer persists. And then we feel honor bound to return the favor, which of course defeats the whole purpose.

The Latin Americans also are always the life of the party. Actually when I’m hanging out with my new Latin American friends, whether it’s the Chileans or the Argentineans or the Colombians or whoever the party is wherever we are at.

The “westerners” are not the life of the party, ever. We like our private time, and sometimes we need our space. We like to go off by ourselves and read books at the beach, while everyone else is socializing and dancing and eating.

I find it really fascinating that the people from the poorer countries of the world are the most generous with the things they do have. They also seem so much happier than the folks from the richer countries too. You never see a Colombian moping around because he’s depressed. I think I’ve decided I don’t actually like us “westerners”. We’re selfish, we’re greedy, we’re power-hungry, we’ve got a superiority complex and we can’t dance worth a damn.

You can’t always get what you want

Saturday finally rolled around, the day of the Rolling Stones concert. It was one of those sort of events where you didn’t bother asking anyone what they were doing that night because everyone had the same response. “Going to the show, of course!”

It also happened to be Jose’s last day in Rio. He decided to stay one the beach and soak up every last minute of sun while Teresa and I went to find dinner and meet up with Jose later at the show. We went of to one of our favorite “por kilo” restaurants. It’s basically a buffet, but they weigh your plate at the end of the line and you only pay for what you take. Great concept!

We had plans to meet up with another Argentinean girl right before the show but it turns out when the entire city of Rio de Janeiro heads to the Copacabana beach all at once, it’s not that easy to just randomly run across whoever you’re looking for. The next day the papers said the crowd was 2.5 million people, but I lost count at 1.45. No Teresa and I were on our own, the odds we were going to find anyone else were slim to none.

But that didn’t really bother us. Teresa is a blast to hang out with. She’s Chilean, but her mom is Brazilian so she speaks fluent Portuguese, as well as Spanish, English and French. I’m always impressed by people who can speak multiple languages…envious really. And I’ve found the best way to learn a language is to find a cute girl and ask her what everything means. It usually helps if she can speak English.

Teresa is an actress but she tells me the life of an actress is not as glamorous as it seems. “It’s like Joey, from Friends” she told me. But Teresa reminds me more of Monica (Debbie, you know what I’m talking about). Actually she also reminds me a lot of my sister Samira. Kind of has a Princess complex, but in a very endearing way. And she’s just good people.

We found a relatively tranquil spot waaaay in the back. We could just barely make out the stage where the Stones would be playing but there were something like 25 giant TV monitors setup to broadcast the show along the beach. Like the rest of Rio it was quite chill and laid back. The vendors were out in full force selling everything from beer and caiprihinis to barbequed beef and sandwiches.

By the time the opening band hit the stage, some local Brazilian band which is apparently very popular in Rio, the sea of people transformed into the largest most energetic concert I had every seen in my life in front of the stage…and then about 25 other large concerts going on around each of the TV monitors.

Then the Stones came on. The show was basically what one would expect from 2.5 million people gathered around Copacabana beach, the Goodyear blimp overhead along with 3 helicopters broadcasting the concert live around the world and the party people who had showed up for Carnaval in Rio a week early.

Now I know I’ve been badmouthing Mick and his crew in this blog for a few entries now. But they played “Sympathy for the Devil” and “Wild Horses” and it all did sound quite spectacular. Mick pranced around and the crowd loved it. Teresa and I danced and ate and partied on the beach. The guy walking around selling shots of Red Label Johnny Walker and I got to be good friends.

After the concert we headed back to the hostel assuming that would be the meeting spot. The streets of Rio were packed solid and it took forever to get back. But once we did everyone had great stories to tell about the show. Several of the hostelers weren’t as lucky as us and couldn’t find a place to stay for the night. Most of them were going to sleep on the beach or in the cast iron chairs in the lobby of the hostel.

Turns out our friends Jordan and Erin were in such a bind. Our place was small, but it was better than sleeping on top of a table, so we invited them back to our apartment. Somehow the five of us managed to squeeze into what was basically a one room studio. Life seldom seems as perfect as we imagine it to be. But it’s true what they said that night, “sometimes you just might find, you get what you need”

Now there´s an idea!

Flaco kinda looks like a young, Argentinian Mick Jagger, without the lips. And given how crazy this town has become for The Rolling Stones, Flaco has been prancing around this week regailing us with tails about his inability to procure any satisfaction. His name isn´t actually Flaco, that´s Spanish for skinny. But I´ve been calling him that because, well he´s really skinny, and I can´t pronounce his actual name. He calls me Ka-fou sometimes and other times Hashish. I think I prefer the later.

Unfortunately for Flaco he also tans like an Englishmen. I keep telling him he´s Mick Jagger´s illegitimate Argentinian bastard child. It´s ok, he taught me how to say it in Spanish. Yes Flaco has been ridiculously sunburned the last couple of days. The Brazilian sun is a dangerous thing and should be treated with respect.

But some thoughtful Brazilian soul planted aloe throughout the city. So Flaco has been picking leaves whenever we pass by a good spot and taking them back to the hostel, trying to ease the painful healing process. I think that´s a great way to sum up Brazil. Sometimes it´s just the little things in life that make all the difference. Has anyone thought of planting aloe throughout San Diego or Miami? Why not?

Another day at the beach

Well by some stroke of luck José, Teresa and I managed to find the last apartment left in Rio. It´s not great, but it´s only for two nights until the crowd leaves after the Stones concert. It´s small, but we haven´t seen any cockroaches yet, so nothing too much to complain about.

Last night we went to dance to more rumba music. I think I´m starting to get the hang of this stuff. You see it´s all in the hips. And forget what everyone keeps telling you about watching their feet...that´s like saying you can learn spanish by watching someone´s lips.

More people keep coming in and out of our vacation family. It´s kinda nice, new faces, new points of view to share, all in all quite exciting. There´s a strange ritual that everyone seems to go through when you first meet someone new in deciding on a common language. You stumble through a couple languages until you somehow mutually decide what the best language between the group is.

I spent 1/2 an hour talking to a guy from San Antonio in Spanish yesterday until I realized he was from the US and spoke fluent English. Who would have thought I´d get to practice my Spanish so much in Rio but almost everyone I´ve met speaks it fluently, and no one knows any damn Portuguese, well except of course all the Brazilians.

It´s also nice to just be able to meet people without having to worry about the obligation that your new friendship brings. Maybe our paths will cross again, maybe they won´t. But I like the fact that there´s no pretense about making promises to keep in touch and visit each other. Of course I do already have a place to stay next time in Cali or Santiago, and a free place to stay is a free place to stay!

I´m so bored of the U.S.A.

An Argentinian couple and one lovely lass from England have joined our little international group of misfits. This in addition to the Colombian, the Chilean, the Slovak and of course the Gringo. And luckily my Spanish is better than Lisa´s, the girl from foggy old London, so I am no longer the one slowing down the group!

There´s something about hanging out with such an international crew that I just love. Everyone has their own perspective on the world, and what´s truly amazing is that perspective generally fits the stereo-type of the country they are from. And I guess I realize that as much as I hate to admit it, my view of the world is strongly colored by living in the US my entire life.

José, the Colombian, and I got into a discussion yesterday about our countries. He started asking me what the US was like, what was good about it and what was bad. The majority of his knowledge about the US comes from Hollywood and what he´s heard from friends of friends who have been there.

Well I started with what was good. I told him that after being in Latin America for a couple of months and seeing some of the abject poverty first hand, you really appreciate the amazing wealth of the US. There are not people starving to death in the streets on a daily basis in the US like there are in every other country in the America´s (except maybe Canada).

I went on to say I have an amazing amount of freedom. I can sit back and critize my government and its policies without fear of reprisal. I don´t have to worry about a military coup or rigged elections. Ok, maybe that last part isn´t true. The rest of the world is still wondering how the state who´s governor is the brother of the guy who was running for President just happened to be the one with the controversial results that swayed the entire election.

And then I kinda ran out of stuff to say. The close-knit family structure I´ve seen in every Latin American country I´ve been in seems far superior to how we in the US deal with our families (move far away and only go back for holidays). Everyone I´ve met here also seems to have great friends who drop on by at all times and just have fun drinking and dancing and talking and laughing.

I certainly wasn´t going to refer to our military might or ability to affect change on the world map. The rest of the world already thinks we´re arrogant enough. And I guess I don´t see being the biggest kid in the playground as something to be proud of.

The truth is, I don´t remember why I love the US anymore. Having the passport is really nice, it gets you into a lot of places. But other than that, the US is kinda boring. And simply being able to earn more money here than anywhere else in the world isn´t a good enough answer anymore. Our culture seems incredibly shallow and vacuous, although I think I might have just made up that word.

Lately I´ve been thinking about just making it as far as Buenos Aires and stopping. I had thought about Colombia, but I figure the beautiful women are a wash in both countries and they´re equally cheap, but Argentina wins with the fantastic wine and heavenly steaks. Although Colombia does have a natural beauty that is literally beyond compare. Don´t worry Jeff, I´ll still be back for all my crap at some point.

Why don´t you all just hurry up and die?

Mick Jagger and his fellow cohorts have once again conspired to make my life difficult. As if being forced to watch that withered old man shake his geriatric ass during the Super Bowl wasn´t punishment enough, a few weeks ago The Rolling Stones decided to hold a huge concert in Rio de Janiero´s Copacobana beach. It happens to be this saturday.

Truth be told I have no desire to see them. But apparently somewhere between 1.5 and 2 million people do. It is literally impossible to find a hotel, apartment or even park bench in this city for saturday night. And this is just a week before Carnaval starts, which was supposed to be my down time in Rio.

Oh well, life presents a problem and we look for solutions. I´ve managed to make friends with a great Colombian guy named José and a Chilean beauty named Teresa, who are staying in the same hostel as I am. We decided we´d try to find a room somewhere in the city. The other option is to flee Rio for a quiet resort town a few hours away which will no doubt be empty.

We´ve spent the last two days doing this. Well actually we spent the last two days talking about doing this as we all sat on the beach and drank. We did actually meet with a guy today who knew a guy who maybe kinda had an apartment, but we decided we didn´t want to wait for him to show up with the keys and went to the beach instead. And then we were late coming back from Corcovado and never did meet him and see this mystical apartment.

As you can tell we are all very preoccupied with this and are starting to get quite nervous.

Her name is Rio

Rio de Janiero is amazingly beautiful. There is a saying here that God spent 6 days making the world and saved the 7th for Rio. One look around here and you can understand why. The sheer mountain cliffs come right to the shore, and there are miles and miles of beautiful white sand beaches to explore.

So far things have gone well here. Customs was easy, I slept the whole way from Panama. I found a hostel with availability pretty easy, and only 5 minutes from the beach (which is actually kinda far for Rio).

I hooked up with a few fellow travellers, the Colombian, the Chilean and the Slovak. Within 3 hours of my plane touching down we were doing cartwheels on the Ipanema beach. And the fruit is really good here, I´ve been missing great fruit, haven´t had any since Colombia really.

Turns out Portuguese sounds pretty much nothing like Spanish except the few words I happen to catch in common. But Spanish definately does help around here, especialy with the fellow travellers who all speak it better than I do.

Brazil here I come

I've only got a few short hours before I hop on that plan headed towards Brazil. I suppose this would be a good time to start learning Portuguese. Unfortunately that bittorrent of the portuguese lessons I tried to download only made it 1/2 way, and then turned out to be totally random snippets of the lessons. Just about useless.

Oh well, I feel somewhat comfortable with my Spanish, althought I know that isn't really going to help me in Brazil. But I have already found an English-speaking hostel to stay in and hopefully they'll be at the airport waiting to pick me up. After that I'll worry about learning the language. But I really probably should have bought a phrase-book or something. Oh well, maybe they'll have one at the airport.

Really this part of this journey is quite exciting for me. My buddy Ellick and my sister Samira are all set to meet me in Rio and enjoy the festivities that Carnaval will no doubt bring. It'll be my first chance in two months to reconnect in person with the lives I left behind in the US, and I'm curious to see what has changed and more likely, what has not.

Shameless Advertising

I promised Mundo and Paolo I'd do this. Tourist coming to their pueblo is really the most significant form of earning dollars that the Kuna people have. They are concerned that they'll become over-run with tourists and further lose the grip they have on their traditional way of life so they maintain pretty tight control of who is allowed in. But they are among the nicest people I've ever met, and went far out of their way to make sure I was happy.

So if you every happen to find yourself in the San Blas islands in the puebo of Playon Chico and you need a place to stay, look up Mundo. Just ask around town for him, everyone knows him. He's been working at the local post office for 16 years and doesn't have any plans to go anywhere. Sure the odds that any of your are heading to Panama any time soon is slim, but even if one or two of you make it there it would make a huge difference in their livelihood.

Or if you like to plan ahead, call the pueblo at either:

011 507 299-91-17
011 507 277-91-68

Those are only two public phones in the pueblo, so likely someone will answer and you'll have to ask for Mundo in spanish. And then you'll hang up and call back in about 5 minutes, and hopefully by then they will have found him and he'll be waiting for your call. Just let him know that Kashif from Seattle sent you and they'll treat you right. For those of you who can't speak Spanish, there are a few people in the pueblo who speak English relatively well and I'm sure they'd be willing to help out with translations.

Or mail Mundo at:

Raymundo Gonzalez
Correos Playon Chico
Entrega General
Kuna Yala
Republic of Panama

The accomodations are nice although you do have to kinda enjoy roughing it. We wound settling on $20 a night which included 3 meals a day and for the last night several beers. It's definately an experience like no other.

If you are looking for a few more amenities in your accomodations I met Petita one of the nights while we were relaxing in the village, and her family runs a nearby hotel. It's website is http://www.kuanidup.pa.kz and they seemed like lovely people as well.

And into the jungle

Mundo and Paolo had already come up with a pretty full plan for the next day. They both thought I should hike towards the waterfall at the foothills of the mountains that was the source for the pueblos drinking water.

I looked at them in my typical clueless gringo face and asked if my sandals, shorts and sleeveless shirt were appropriate attire. They returned my question with a gaze I've come to recognize..."Ah, silly clueless gringo." No the trail was easy they said, but I probably wanted something more than shorts and sandals. But not to worry they had some boots I could borrow. What can I say, I came here prepared for a couple leisurely days of lounging around at the beach.

I knew things were going to be a little different than lounging at the beach when I started asking everyone else if they were coming to see the waterful with us? No unlike the trip to the beach, this was just going to be Paolo and myself.

Well we started our little trek by crossing the bridge into the mainland. The waterfall I was told was just a little jaunt through the forest to the foothills at the base of the mountains. After about 5 minutes I was keenly aware that it was a good idea to have changed out of the shorts and sandals I was wearing.

We crossed the first of many muddy trails through the jungle. Paolo took special pride in pointing out the various types of birds and fruit bearing trees. Every description was accompanied by his own little bit of commentary, "these coconuts are much more delicious than the cocounuts you can buy in Panama, our coconuts are the best!"

Every tree we passed had a similar story. How all of these fruits were delicious and essentially free here, and then he would ask me what they cost in the US and just shake his head. "Here everything is gratis!" As we ventured further into the forest Paolo told me we were going to the families farm.

The Kuna have an interesting set of laws around property rights. There is no concept of owning land in the Kuna culture, but one can own trees and the fruits that these trees bear. Unfortunately these traditions are being disrespected more frequently, so I hear.

The farm was really just a group of trees in one area of the jungle. But no one would bother to venture all the way out here without gathering some fruits to bring home, so we took some time and picked some randomly delicious fruits, who's name I still don't comprehend. They were nothing I've ever eaten before but they were delicious and really really juicy. I thought so and so aparently did all the mosquitos.

We continued on the meandering trail, it was really easy to follow, we just used the 1/2 buried pipe leading to the village as our guide. But of course we made a stop for fresh coconut. It was kinda cool to see Paolo's machete in action. I wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of a pissed off Kuna.

After a while our conversation trailed off as well. We were seeing the same trees and animals, and we were both hot, sweaty and thoroughly bitten from hiking through the rain forest. But I could hear that waterfall just off in the distance, and soon enough we came to our destination. It was indeed a very nice waterfall, which opened up in a nice wading pool. But sometimes I think the journey is far more important than the destination.

You might call it paradise

After breakfast Paolo took me for a walk around the pueblo to show me around. He showed me the dock where the Colombian merchant ships come returning from their trips to Colon to load up on coconuts. They buy them here for $0.12 a piece and then they go to Venezuela and sell them for $0.25. It was the first of many times I'd hear this compaint.

Paolo took me through the pueblo, just a 5 minute walk from end to end. Playon Chico is the 3rd largest of the Kuna pueblos, and Paolo told me there were 3,000 Kuna living here, although I only saw about 1,500. But he was most proud of the fact that the pueblo now had two theatres. One with a DVD player and a collection of movies and the other with a DirectTV reciever. "We can go to the movies on friday night", he told me excitedly "but it costs $0.25"

Then we walked over to the local school where Paolo worked. "Things are good here" he told me, "but we don't have enough books in our library, and we need a computer." I suppose that even in paradise people are lacking for things they need.

Afterwards I met "las reinas" as Paolo liked to refer to them. A few of his lady friends. Turns out one of them new of where we could get an outboard motor to attach to the families dug-out canoe. This was great news! The trip out to the beautiful beach island would go from 1 hour each way to just a few minutes. We made plans to meet up after lunch, promptly at 3.

For a group of people without much to do or jobs to speak of, the Kuna seem strangely obsessed with time. There is a time for everything, and one musn't be late. And everyone takes great pride in their timepieces. Ok, whatever, I can live with that. Mundo had procured a couple red-snappers for lunch. I'm really starting to enjoy the taste of eating a whole fish right out of the frying pan.

After the obligatory nap in the hammock it was time to head out to the docks and meet up with "las reinas." It was just a little bit of work to attach the motor to the canoe, and then getting the thing started was another adventure. But we had plenty of gasoline and we were ready to go!

Everyone loves a day at the beach and the Kuna seem to be no exception. Sure they might complain about the hardships of life but they do actually realize they live in one of the most beautiful places in the world.

We gathered together in the canoe and headed out. We passed beautiful tropical island after beautiful tropical island, before finally setting sights on a pristine beach. All that was going through my head was the theme song from Gilligan's Island. After we reached shore, Paolo pointed me towards the corals and I was off.

I'd lugged my snorkeling gear back and forth across two continents for two months now without getting a chance to use it. It was wonderful to let it finally taste salt-water again. Not the best reefs I've ever scene, but when I think about the totality of the experience it's hard to imagine a better scene.

After a short excursion I rejoined the rest of the crew. They were playing some traditional Kuna games on the beach. I didn't really understand what I was supposed to do or when, and everything really just seemed like some variation of jumping on my back and laughing, but I have to admit it was fun.

As the sun began to set we gathered our things and headed back to the pueblo. Mundo was going to look for lobster tonight and after all, one must not be late for dinner.

The Kuna Yana

The flight to Mamitupu left at the horrendously early time of 6:00 AM. Am I the only person in the world who actually enjoys sleeping? Why is travelling synonomous with waking up really really early? Whatever, I wasn't happy about it but I wasn't going to let it keep me from taking this trip either.

So I made it to the airport slightly before 5. And by 6:30 we were starting to board our little 2-prop, 19 seat, island hopper. I had enough coffee in me by this time that I knew I wasn't going to sleep so I just stared out the window and pondered instead.

But soon enough the plane touched down and I was the first one out on the runway. I had come without making any arrangements in advance and I was really hoping to be able to find a cheap place to stay without too much trouble.

I wandered around for just a couple minutes to check out the scene and it was confusing. We had touched down outside of Playon Chico, but the landing strip and a few other building were located on the mainland, and there was a bridge to the pueblo. I soon learned this was because the mainland was not part of Kuna Yana (aka the Land of the Kuna aka the San Blas Islands) and was open to anyone allowed to enter Panama. But in order to enter the pueblo of Playon Chico one needed permission from the Kuna Lana. So the landing strip, school, hospital and Mormon church were all on the mainland. And not much else.

Well the first Kuna I talked to after I stepped off the plane told me about his hotel that only cost $150 a night. Ouch. A little out of my price range, "no tengo mucho plata" I explained. Well he sent me over to another guy with a hotel who started out at $70, but then came down to $50 a night. Still more than I wanted to spend.

The Kuna have some sort of communication network, the speed of which puts the internet to shame, by which all the pertinent information of the day is diseminated to exactly who needs to know it. Within a few minutes everyone knew there was a cheap gringo on the island looking for a place to stay. It was then that I met Mundo.

Mundo works at the local Post Office. He's one of the few Kuna that have an actual "job" with a regular paycheck and time at which he's required to show up. He was waiting at the airstrip, as he does everyday, for the mail to come in. After talking for a few minutes Mundo offered to put me up in his house for the next two days for $25 a night. Sold!

House might be too generous a term for where Mundo and his family lived. Hut is probably the best term I can come up with, it did have a thatched roof after all. But they were fairly well off by Kuna standards, you could tell that because they had a concrete floor, quite the luxury. And it turns out there was electricity in the evenings when the pueblo's generator's ran, and running water although only the public bathroom at the edge of the pueblo.

My spanish is passable, but Mundo's son Paolo spoke a little english, so it was decided he would be my tour guide for the next two days. The Kuna are very protective of their land and their heritage. While they seem to appreciate the money tourism brings into their land, they don't want foriegners just wandering off by themselves.

Mundo worked on figuring out breakfast and lunch for me. He had to go see what the local kids had caught today. They told me to relax and in the afternoon they'd work on finding a boat with a motor and we'd head to an island. Excellent!

Random thoughts going through my head as I watch the Panamanian sun-rise out the window of a 19 seat, 2-engine island hopper

I've been struggling with my relationship with God lately...or perhaps my lack of a relationship. For a long time I've proudly considered myself a card-carrying member of the snooty intellectual atheist club. But when I found out my Dad had cancer I prayed. And when I found out my cousin had Hodgkins I prayed. I found comfort in those moments by returning to the religion I was raised in. Maybe it's just that whole Pascal's wager thing, what do you have to lose by believing? I never did like that answer.

Really atheism is just as much a religion as any other. By proclaiming there is no god without any proof of it you're making a leap of faith. I think my whole problem with god's existence has been around the world we live in. It seems like a pretty crappy place. Lots of bad things happen to good people, and bad people get away with murder (and worse). And the idea that a benevelent, all-powerful god would permit this to happen is impossible to comprehend. I can't imagine a master-plan that makes sense of all of this.

Most of this probably just stems from my bitterness at the world. I guess it's obvious to everyone who knows me, assuming there is actually someone out there who knows me. I do a pretty good job of keeping myself hidden. I've got a lot of masks I know how to wear and different personalities I can put on and take off as the need arises. Maybe that serves a purpose, but I actually disremember what the end goal of this is supposed to be.

I have started to notice a certain pathology I have with relationships. I have a pretty good track record of attracting possessive, needy women. And then stroking their hopes until they are emotionally attached. And finally starting the slow process of pulling away and becoming ever more distant. Looking back I see I have repeated this process in every substantial relationship I've ever had. I don't know if that means I should find less possessive women or shouldn't pull away when I become hooked.

But really I'm just having a tough time acknowledging that I'm even thinking about this. This seems like a pretty strange line of analysis coming from a self-avowed commitment-phobe and "bachelor for life". I've actually caught myself saying things like "wow, she'd make a good mother" or "yeah, I could wake up next to her for the rest of my life" lately. That's a little more than out of character for me. Maybe my biological clock is just ticking too, but more than that I think I'm getting a little tired of just running.

Everytime I talk to my Dad he asks me the same thing. "So when are you coming back?" And I always have the same lame reply, "Uh...I dunno, I'm going to (insert random Latin American country here) next." I'm know they're convinced I'm quite insane at this point.

I never really did like "Catcher in the Rye" and I'm not really sure why. It scared me, continues to scare me when I think of what happens. I could see myself as Holden. And I could definately see this world driving me crazy. It wouldn't be that long of a trip.

Off To Paradise

I´d been hearing a lot about the San Blas Islands lately, and I was really digging what I had heard. Aparently they are an archipelego of about 360 tropical islands, 60 of which are inhabited by the Kuna Indians, who still claim their independence even though they were annexed by Panama several years ago. But these days I think the San Blas Islands are most famous for being a site of a reward challenge for the last season of Survivor. Whatever, paradise is paradise, regardless of how it´s been commercialized.

So today I walked into the office of Aeroperlas (the internal-Panamanian airlines) and asked for a ticket to the San Blas islands. The lady behind the coutner asked me what island? I told her I didn´t really care, just find me one that´s beautiful and has an empty seat leaving tomorrow and returning saturday. I hear that once you´re on the island you can take a canoe to other locales.

It was simple as that, well that and forking over $90. So I have my ticket to Mamitupu leaving at the ungodly time of 6:00 AM tomorrow. They only have on flight there a day, I don´t understand why they can´t make it later.

I don´t have a place to stay or any real idea of what I´ll do there, although I imagine lounging on the beach will be high on the agenda. And I hear it´s pretty easy to find a local who´s willing to let you stay in his hut and provide you meals for a few dollars a day. Aparently tourists aren´t allowed to venture out by themselves so you need to hire a guide where ever you want to go, probably a good idea anyway. And I´m convinced my snorkeling gear will finally taste salt-water!

So to anyone who´s trying to get a hold of me, I´ll be away from civilization until early saturday. No phones, no internet, no running water, no electricity. Don´t worry, I´ll tell you all about it when I get back.

The Corona commercial´s aren´t quite like this

I met Rochy while hanging out at the local Panamanian tobacco store fueling my newly found Cuban cigar habit. Rochy is originally Colombian but in Panama right now and seemed kinda impressed that I knew my way around Colombia a bit. She gave me some tips for places to visit next time I was in Colombia.

So when I ran into her two days later and told I hadn´t been able to do anything in Panama but go to the Brazilian embassy and try to figure out my next set of flights, she quickly agreed to show me one of the beaches outside of Panama City the next day. Finally!

Around noon the next day we headed to the Albrook Terminal. The bus terminal in Panama was equally confusing as all Latin American bus terminals are. I think there just not designed for gringos. I guess that makes sense, why would they be? And I was thrilled to have a native spanish speaker by my side as we tried to figure out what bus to take.

But without too much trouble we found a bus leaving for Gorgonza which we were told is a little fishing town with a beautiful beach about an hour and half outside of Panama City. The bus was pretty typical of the busses I´ve take in Latin America. No air, the seats sucked and there was some guy with a 32" TV as a carry on. But as soon as we crossed the Bridge of the Americas and got on the Pan-American highway none of that really seemed to matter.

The bus let us off in Gorgonza on the side of the Pan-American highway which was aparently still a ways from the beach. As we started walking towards the beach I spotted an obvious gringo looking in distress. He sputtered out in his pidgin spanish ¨¿perdon, puedes ayudarme con los direciones?¨ I replied ¨Do you speak english?¨ He seemed very delighted to find a fellow gringo to give him a hand.

Turns out Ned is a semi-retired airline pilot kinda bumming his way around Panama. Funny all the people I meeting bumming their way around Latin America are either semi-retired or dirty smelly hippies. How come there aren´t more burnt-out software engineers down here? But we got Ned squared away with directions and he offered to give us a ride to the beach, sometimes things just work out perfectly.

The beach was spectacular. A strange mix of white and black sand, but virtually undisturbed. There was a little restaurant right on the beach which had shower and bathroom facilities, and lots of salsa music of course.

We lounged around for a bit in the hammocks and then decided to test the waters. A perfectly refreshing warm Atlantic current had me hooked. We swam for a bit and Rochy thought it was wonderfully amusing to try and dunk me under the water repeatedly. Colombian women, go figure.

Just when I was convinced I was in paradise both Rochy and I met the business end of a jellyfish. Damn! Those little bastards hurt, ¨chucha tu madre!¨ After recovering on shore for a bit we ventured out more cautiously painfully aware of the ¨aqua mala¨that was waiting for us. Every little bit of seaweed or fish we stumbled on caused a high-pitched Colombian shriek (and maybe a lower-pitched yelp from the gringo) that soon convinced us it was time to get out of the water.

Back on shore we enjoyed the speciality of the day, a couple pieces of freshly caught and fried fish and the local fixins. Then the hammocks were back on top of the agenda. By the time dusk fell and the mosquitos came out we decided it was time to head back. But of course there was a bit more of bad news...aparently the busses back to Panama City only run until 8 PM. Well it was about 7 PM now, it only took 5 minutes to drive down here in a car, so we should be fine, right?

We started walking back up and after 20 minutes we passed a Chiva, basically a local bus, heading back to the main road. ¨Damn, where were you when we needed you?¨ I exclaimed. Now we were so close it´s not even worth it. Well 20 minutes of walking later I was asking Rochy why she didn´t stop the bus. But Rochy was a good sport and just laughed.

We finally made it back to the Pan-American highway 45 minutes after we started, and my feet were killing me. Between the jellyfish sting and my sore feet Rochy said I had plenty to remember this day. And it turned out the busses ran 24-hours after all, so our haste in hiking up the road was for naught. A short 15 minute wait later and we were heading back to Panama City. Reality is seldom as perfect as you might imagine it to be, sometimes it´s even better.

Turns out it’s just a big freakin’ ditch

I’ve had a couple people say to me “Ooooh, you’re going to Panama, well you gotta check out the canal” This guy I met my first night at the hostel told me pretty much the same thing when I asked him about it “Well you can’t go to Panama and not see the canal.” While the logic seemed to make sense that didn’t exactly sound like a ringing endorsement.

I’ve always been wary of doing the stuff that I’m supposed to do. You know like going to Chicago and going up the Sears Tower. So far on this trip I had managed to avoid doing anything I was supposed to, but that was kinda the point.

But I admit it, I gave in and went. The got me with the “engineering marvel” part. So I spent the $4 on a cab there and another $4 on a cab back to the hotel. And I even spent the $8 for the full access pass to the Miraflores Locks Visitor Center. And it turns out, it’s just a big ditch that ships go through.

I’m sure it’s really great engineering, and its importance to the global economy is indeed staggering. But when they call it the 8th wonder of the world I don’t know. I remember when Bill and I were in Medellin and we decided that the derrière of a typical 23-year old paisa was the 8th wonder of the world. I didn’t see anything today that made me change my mind.

But if you happen to be in Panama City and you’re looking to fill some free time, and you happen to really be into canals, by all means, go check it out. But I’d suggest saving a couple bucks by only getting the $5 pass and avoiding the exhibits altogether. Unless you’re into exhibits too.

Welcome to the Banana Republic

Panama is more than a little different than Cuba. Panama has a sky-line that puts Seattle to shame. I still haven't figured out why they need so many banks and hotels and casinos. Almost everyone speaks a little english and there's a US fast-food chain on every damn street corner.

I guess this is what you wind up with after a 100 years of US Colonialism. But I guess Panama does enjoy a relatively high standard of living compared to the rest of Latin America. But I don't know, I feel like I could just have stayed in the US and gotten this experience.

Oh well, once I get my Brazilian visa (hopefully tuesday!) I'm free to go off and explore some more of this country and get out of Panama City. The San Blas Islands off the Atlantic Coast sound like fun, and I don't head to Brazil until Feb 13, so I got a little time.

Sometimes things just work out, and other times…

I came to Panama pretty much without the inkling of a plan. Panama was actually just my Plan C. You see I needed proof of onward travel in order to enter Cuba, and I still needed to get a Brazilian visa. Panama City had a Brazilian Embassy and was the cheapest flight I could get leaving Cuba. So Panama it was.

I showed up at the airport and at the tourist booth I found a flier for a youth hostel. I had the nice Panamanian lady working behind the counter call them up and sure enough they had space for the night, and only $8 a night! At the line for the cabs I was able to find a Spanish woman who was heading in the same direction so we split a cab.

The next morning first thing I headed to the Brazilian embassy. My Spanish has improved to the point where I can understand most of the reply I get from a question like “where is the Brazilian embassy?” After walking in circles for a little bit the last person I asked just pointed to the Brazilian flag about a block away. In total only took ½ hour to walk the 4 blocks, which isn’t really that bad.

At the embassy the very helpful Brazilian representative assured me that a tourist visa would only take 24 hours, unless it was an emergency and then they could issue it the same day. That was so much better than the answer of “maybe two-weeks but come back tomorrow” I kept getting in Havana. She even had the direction for a place that would give me the Yellow Fever vaccine that I needed.

I was able to catch a cab to the health center without any problems. Within another ½ hour I had my vaccine and more importantly my International Certification of Vaccination. It only cost me $5, sorry Ellick they didn’t have anything for Dengue fever, I checked. I caught another cab and headed back to the youth hostel to figure out the tickets.

As I heading to the hostel I saw a place that was advertising free WiFi. Fantastic, I can finally use my own laptop! I hopped on Expedia and found what I still think is a great deal for tickets into Rio and out towards Buenos Aires. I even found a bittorrent of the Pimsleur Portuguese lessons I’d been looking for! Everything was going swimmingly!

And then I checked my e-mail. My 19 year old cousin has just been diagnosed with Stage IV Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. Her chemo-therapy is already scheduled.

Fuck.

I don’t remember the last time I prayed, but when I saw that message I asked God for mercy. I recited every bit of the Qu’ran I could still remember. They say there are no atheists in fox-holes, I suppose that applies to love ones in distress as well. So those of you out there reading this, do me a favor and say a prayer to the god of your choice, it can’t hurt. Her name is Sana Javeed and while she can try one’s patience at times, she’s really a sweet kid.

Cuba, a photgraphic retrospective

Final thoughts on Cuba

It’s only a matter of time. This can’t possibly continue. I’m amazed it’s lasted 47 years. But these days you actually hear people openly criticizing Fidel and the government. Everyone says things are getting really bad, even the tourists have stopped coming. There’s nothing propping up this failed experiment anymore, and as soon as Castro can’t pay for food and electricity, that will be it. I just hope the Venezuelans or the Chinese don’t get a foothold.

Al Pacino is a brilliant actor. I never imagined that he actually nailed that Cuban speaking English accent so perfectly in Scarface. Everytime Yanet asked me "Wha ju tawkin abou?" I wanted to duck because I thought maybe she’d bitch slap me at the dinner table.

I still can’t dance worth a god-damn. I didn’t stick to the lessons like I should have, but I can keep the rhythm now and trust me that’s progress. I think one day I’m actually going to put for the time and effort it takes to do this right. It sure seemed like everyone was having a lot of fun out there, and I did too, given enough rum.

I have no idea what language they actually speak in Cuba, but it definitely isn’t Spanish. I’ve taken to calling it Cubano, and everyone universally seems to acknowledge it’s got it’s own distinct flavor. I guess that’s one of the things that happens when you are isolated on an island, especially one that was closed of to the world for about 40 years.

When the revolution finally comes, and it will come, perhaps sooner than we can all imagine, it would be a great time to buy a small coastal island. Stay away from the cities, that’s where all the big money will go, and there’s so much investment that needs to be done there you’d be better of starting with a pristine piece of land.

I really started to enjoy smoking cigars. I can even occasionally get a smoke ring. If I didn’t know better I would think they’re addictive or something. Bill explained it to me this way, "learning to smoke cigars in Cuba, is like learning to drink wine in France" Great guess I can see that new vice starting up, well the good news is I haven’t had a cigarette in about two weeks!

I'm not 21 anymore but god-damn if I can't still pull a rock-star couple of weeks every once in a while. For the 15 days I was in Cuba I know I didn't get to bed before 2 AM any single night. And there were more than a few 4 in the morning stumbles back to the household (sorry Nancy and Angel for waking you up when I got home every night!) Towards the end I felt like I was coming down with something but I think I found the perfect mix of tobacco and rum to kill whatever virus was in my system.

Why does this keep happening to me?

Damn, it seems like I just went through this a couple weeks ago but here I am again. It’s time to say my goodbyes. Actually I’m basically the last one of our little group left. Kay and Pavani headed back to Australia, I wonder if their friendship is still intact. Yorst is back in Amsterdamn showing off all the moves he learned no doubt. Bill is back in the US but I suspect that won’t last too long.

But the hardest one is left, saying goodbye to Yanet. I gave her that book of Pablo Neruda poems in the original Spanish I picked up last year in Buenos Aires. She had told me earlier how much she loves his poetry, and of course she lives in Cuba so it’s not like she can buy a copy anywhere. I packed my bags as Yanet translated verses for me. I couldn’t imagine a more perfect scene.

In two short weeks we got to know each other far better than most people I’ve met. I think that’s something that just happens with relationships on vacation. Everything is in fast-forward. There’s so much less time to play games and you’re almost forced to open yourself when you can’t hide behind the nuance and subtlety of a shared language.

She’s still convinced I’m insane and at this point I’m inclined to agree with her. Trying to explain what I was doing with my life actually forced me to start looking at it with a critical eye. "So explain to me again why you quit a well-paying job that was pretty good to you and what you’re going to do next?" "Um…I want to find myself"

But she told me if that I need help realizing that plan of mine to sell juice down at the beach drop her a line. I told her I’d be waiting for her breakthrough single to hit the charts. She even finally sang to me like I’d been asking. Somehow I managed to avoid proposing to her on the spot, I’m still not sure why.

When we walked to that big yellow taxi the next day she told me that she doesn’t like to say goodbye. I struggled with my Spanish and said, "neither do I, but sometimes…" and like she likes to do, she finished my thought "there’s nothing else to say"

Now that’s good people

I’m not really sure why it is that Bill and I hit it off so well. On the surface of things we’re worlds apart. He’s 51, got a grown daughter and semi-retired with what I gather is a fairly lucrative nest-egg after selling his business. I’m confused and 28.

I keep joking with him that when I grow up I want to be Bill Murphy and that never fails to get a chuckle out of him. I suppose it´s because of the stories he´s told me about his own confusion. The ex-wife, the ex-girlfriend, the ex-Colombian girlfriend and the current Cuban one. I guess he doesn´t really feel like a role-model.

But Bill and I do have this weird Father / Son vs. Old Buddies aspect to our relationship. Sometimes I find myself just listening to him as if he were the fountain of wisdom, and when he asks my advice on something I´m almost a little flattered. But other times its just two buddies smoking cigars and shooting the ####.

He´s given me lots of advice on learning spanish (which is great because no native spanish speaker can tell you the difference between the Preterite tense and the Imperfect), on women (some of which has been spot on, and some of which I realized I needed to take at my own risk) and business matters. We´ve talked politics and I´ve been able to teach him a thing or two about computers and India´s emergence as a world power.

No Bill doesn´t have it all figured out, but what I dig about him is he doesn´t have to pretend he does. Sure he´s got an opinion on everything under the sun, but he´ll check yours out too and give it thought.

Sometimes you meet people and just get a feeling that they´re worth keeping around. That you know they´d have your back if you needed and would stay true to their word. That´s what Bill is like. Bill is heading back to the US for a bit (I´m guessing not a very long bit) and I´m off to Panama. I invited Bill out to visit me in Buenos Aires in March, Bill invited me up to Charleston for marlin season. I´m sure our paths will cross again, it´ll be interesting to see where.

Finally, the beach!

Well it’s been about 6 weeks since I left Seattle. "What are you going to do in South America" everyone asked me beforehand. "Well I think I’m just going to lounge on the beach" was my standard reply. But a fate would have it I hadn’t made it to a damn beach yet, until just now.

Bill, Yanet and I decided it was time. The sea was calm, everyone was feeling ok, we had figured out where we wanted to go (when you’re on an island covered by beaches that’s not such an easy task) so off we were. Well almost, everything in Cuba functions on it’s own time. There were bags to pack or something, and then someone wanted to eat, then Junia was going with us and then she wasn’t. Finally we headed out about 3 in the afternoon, which actually worked out great, it gave us a good 3 hours or sunshine at the beach.

The water was beautiful and refreshing, the sun was hot, we found a perfect little secluded spot for all of us. There were no reefs nearby and the water was just a little choppy, so my snorkeling gear stayed in it’s bag. It continues to get dragged around from continent to continent without getting used, but I’m convinced it’s just a matter of time.

After we had our fill of fun in the sun we decided to let Yanet in on the bad news. We were going to take the "Wah-wah" back to town instead of the outrageously priced tourist taxis. The Wah-wah is the local bus Cubans use, where you’re packed like sardines and holding on for dear life, but it costs about $0.02 to get on as opposed to the $15 tourist cabs. I believe "what am I doing hanging out with these crazy gringos" were Yanet’s exact words.

And off we go

We started off our day trip to the mountains with a great start. Our wake-up call was about an hour late, and Bill refused to move. It could have had something to do with all the rum, cigars and dancing last night, but I’m not generally one to point fingers.

But finally we got a bit of breakfast in us and headed out to Michael’s farm, our guide we met yesterday. I asked Bill, "so, um…how are we going to get to that farm" which was about 5 km down the road? Bill answered "well we start walking, and stick our thumb out, and we jump on the first thing with wheels that stops for us." I love having a well made plan.

An ox cart rode right past us without even acknowledging our presence, as did two trucks, a tractor and even a couple cars. By the time we had make it half-way we decided to stop sticking our thumbs out, the Cubans didn’t seem in a particularly friendly mood today. But it was even ground, beautiful scenery and I was still happy to be in the fresh air, so we didn’t complain much.

We made it to Michael’s farm about an hour after our designated meeting time. This is Cuba so time is very relative, I’m pretty sure we didn’t put anyone out. But after being taking the obligatory cup of coffee we started on our path up the mountain side. Michael turned out to be an excellent guide, which I guess makes sense since he has spent his whole life living in a farm at the foot of these hills.

Every once in a while we’d follow a trail and Michael would stop and look around, and then just back-track. But we were pretty content to follow him without asking too many questions and he didn’t even really mind posing for pictures with the shirtless gringo. Bill stepped on a snake at one point and you should have seen that country boy take off after it!

Every half hour or so Michael would walk us to one of the neighbor’s houses in the hills. We’d sit and chat for a while and of course they’d offer us coffee or juice or whatever else they had. Some of the nicest folks you ever did meet, and none of them really seemed too bothered that two US citizens were sitting on their porch enjoying their views and drinking their coffee. We even had one pull a coconut off a palm tree for us and break it out. Indeed, life could be much worse.

After about 5 hours we had our share of walking up the hills and taking pictures. We headed back and dropped Michael off at his farm again and said our goodbyes to the family. After the hike I was in no mood to walk another 5 km back to town, but Bill told me he had a sure fire trick to make sure we’d get a ride. "Show a little leg" I asked? No, wave a little cash.

Well the first ox cart passed us by even with us waving 20 peso notes in the air, but the rusted-out truck spewing diesel fumes stopped. I jumped in the back with the rest of the hitchhikers before they could debate a price. As we passed the ox cart that gave us no love on the road Bill shouted, "Ay muchachos, gracias por nada!" Within 10 minutes we were back at town and you can get we slept well that night.