Drizzle City: Bocas del Torro Day 1: Boats, Booze and. . .

After a few hours of sleep Monday morning it was time for us to head to the airport for our 7am flight to Bocas Del Torro, an archipelago off the north east coast of Panama. While in line for the flight there was a panicked young American girl who was desperately trying to make her way to Bocas as well. Apparently the airport employees didn’t speak English (or chose not to) so Bosco stepped in to help the damsel in distress. He chatted up a few cats behind the ticket counter in an attempt to get her on a flight. She had still not been helped as we walked through the rather lax security checkpoint. On our way out to the tarmac, bouncing along came the gringo (the other gringo that is). As we lined up to board the plane she briefly shared her story with us, a California kid who just quit her job in the fashion industry to tour South America for 4 months. The touring South America for several months seemed like a reoccurring theme during this trip. I can’t tell you (probably because I drank too much) how many people we ran into who were just wandering around for a few months, checking out South and Central America. . .must be nice. Once we were seated on the plane, before our gringa friend passed out, she asked how Bosco and I knew each other. Almost simultaneously we replied. My response, “We used to play soccer together in the states” and Bosco’s “He used to date my sister.” Obviously, his response stirred a few laughs, some for me, some for Bosco and some for the dude half-sleeping next to me. The gringa however, didn’t think it was a joke. She covered herself with a ratty university sweatshirt and slept the rest of the flight.

A view of the Panama Canal from the plane.

We got to Bocas around 8.30 and immediately after stepping foot in the “terminal” we were asked if we wanted to do a boat tour for $25. We had our arms and backs loaded down with our lives so we opted to head to the hotel instead. What I had expected to be a long, bumpy communal cab ride to the hotel turned out to be a mere 5 minute ride down a rutted and mudholed gravel road. We dumped our stuff off at the hotel, I threw on some board shorts and we headed out in search of “Alex” who wasn’t answering his phone. Along the way we picked up a few beers, some Seco (soon to be explained), orange juice and some ice. Bosco struck up a conversation with a nice fellow outside of the store. As we would have it, this gentleman worked with Alex. He picked up our ice and charged down the gravel road, we scurried our feet to catch up to him. It seemed like our walk behind this fellow was never going to end. . .until he turned down some lightless alley, then the “end” seemed quite near. A sense of safety reentered me as we turned behind the building to hear a tv blasting and several other tourists waiting for a water taxi. Bosco took off to look for some sunglasses while I stayed behind to catch up on my Panamanian soaps. The taxis started to sputter off and Bosco had still not returned from his sunglass hunt. There I was, left without my Panamanian guide, behind some strange building, with no clue whether or not I was going to get out alive (really not bad at all after I struck up a “conversation” with a younger cat trying to get me onto a water taxi).

Our home in Bocas.

Calle 3 in Bocas Town

Suddenly, out of the blue, Alex’s co-worker appeared, grabbed my ice and told me to follow. A few houses down the street I saw Bosco chatting it up with the locals at the end of a pier. It was indicated that we were to get into one of the boats. I didn’t hesitate, particularly because there was a cute blonde (later to be humped by a monkey) sitting in the boat waiting for some company. We stepped down into one boat and across to our “ride” for the day. I planted my tail behind the blonde and Bosco next to me. The boat guide, a youngish dude sporting a Portugal jersey took our libations and placed them in the cooler at his feet. Our friend from the store waived good bye as the boat slowly motored away from the pier.

Looking back at Isla Colon (Bocas Town)

We headed across the waterway and parked at what appeared to be a bar (which it also was). We picked up two Argentineans, turned the boat around and headed back to the same damn place we were just parked. There we waited as two ladies came jogging down the pier to join our crew. The boat turned back to the open waters only to stop yet again where we had picked up the Argentineans. The boat started to get restless as we began to feel “had.” “I paid 25 bucks to motor from shore to shore?” Apparently we were stopping for gas, as the location had your standard gas station sign and it reeked of petrol.

A Panamanian gast station.

We shoved off from yet another dock and the boat actually turned toward open waters. . .no other shore in sight. Our first “stop” was named Dolphin Bay. On our way to Dolphin Bay Bosco broke out the Seco with pure grace. Like a true Panamanian ambassador he greeted out boatmates to his beloved country. He held up the bottle of Seco like a priest turning the wine into the blood of the fabled Christ. He explained to the boat the “story” behind Seco, basically Panama’s own version of Vodka but distilled with cane sugar instead of whatever vodka is made from. He poured, as any Eucharistic minister would, the seco into a cup (or for the theme a challis) and passed the cup around the boat for everyone to taste. The sharp alcohol flavor put a sour puss on just about everyone’s face. After everyone got their taste it was time to do it up. . .screwdrivers. The day started to develop a fuzz around the edges after that.

Bosco having his morning beverage.

Another tour trying to keep up.

We hit Dophin Bay and at first it seemed as if we were getting ripped off yet again, no dolphins in sight. Then. . .suddenly. . .off in the distance rose the dorsal fin of a dolphin. After that the dolphins went gang busters. They seemed to flirt with the boat, popping up from side to side, stalling their bodies as they rose and dipped through the water. The boat ohhed and ahhed as the dolphins gracefully danced around the bay exposing us to their presumably natural lives.

Look a dolphin!

or at least a dolphin's tail

Synchronized swimming.

After about 30 minutes of floating in Dolphin Bay we headed around some mangroves and toward a few piered restaurants. We were instructed to order food that we would pick up later. After visiting the “house” monkey we placed our orders and headed back to the boat. At this point the seco had been retired and it wasn’t even 11am. We spilled into the boat and snatched up some snorkeling gear, getting ready for our next adventure. A few hundred meters from the lunch spot the guides dropped anchor. We poured out of the boat and into the crystal clear, luke warm waters. The conditions were ripe for the snorkeling but the seco had taken hold and the majority of the boat didn’t want to do much more than giggle and snort. I kicked and puffed my way through the waters checking out the sea life. At one point I dove to the bottom and snatched up a sea cucumber for the others to view. Apparently seco inspires ladies to act inappropriately with sea cucumbers. I wish I had some of the incriminating photos but I have yet to receive my CD of pictures from Bosco’s camera. Once the ladies finished sexually assaulting the sea cucumber I set it back on the ocean floor and we headed back to the lunch spot.

A creature from the sea.

Greedy monkey.

El Banos.

As we waited for lunch several of us, apparently the less animaltarian ones, took the opportunity to get some pictures with the café’s monkey. Similar to the activities with the sea cucumber, the monkey produced some inappropriate activities. Faith, the lonely blonde in the boat earlier, found great joy in having the poor little monkey grind away on her (a great video was shot but again. . .still waiting for the footage from Bosco). After the monkey and Faith had their cigarettes it was my turn for the monkey photo opp. He must have known that I wasn’t going to entertain his pornographic aspirations because he just crawled across my shoulder blades, scrambled onto my head and hopped back down to the nearby railing.

Monkey lovin'

No more pictures please!

Friendly little bugger.

The gang waiting for Bosco to work some of his Panamanian magic on the bartender.

We dined on our lunch like a band of pirates, stopping briefly to chew or fill our mouths with more beverage. Bosco took advantage of the attached bar and pulled together some money from the gang and purchased two more bottles of seco to get us through the rest of the afternoon. It was time for us to hit the water again and head toward our next destination. . .Red Frog Beach.

Score. . .More seco is on the way.

By the time the boat reached Red Frog Beach the second bottle of seco had been emptied and spirits we soaring. I vaguely remember the walk from the boat to the beach. . .there were a lot of palm trees. We set up a base camp under some trees, I slugged back a few more gulps of seco and juice and headed for the water. I was joined in the water by Faith as Bosco and the Canadian chicks stayed on the beach. The current was pretty strong, getting back to shore proved to be quite the challenge (I’m sure the seco wasn’t helping).

The crew on their way to Red Frog Beach.

The gang planks to Red Frog Beach and our tour guides carrying our cooler.

Ladies from the boat (can't really remember thier names)

Washing off some funk.

Exhausted, I reached the beach and huffed over to the game of beach soccer that was going on. The band of locals told me it was $1 per goal. I agreed to the terms and was given another tourist as my teammate. He was a Spanish cat with good footwork but poor fitness and even poorer understanding of the game. He rarely passed the ball and defended even less often. We lost the first game when I was caught, imagine that, in a two on one and the give-and-go was more than I could defend. I paid up my dollar and called next. The other game went quickly and in the second trip to the “pitch” I was determined to win. The locals weren’t bad but they weren’t that great, I could certainly have handled them with the right partner. Again, I was stuck with Roberto, captain no pass as he would later be known. The soccer gods shined a smidgen of light upon me (a little less than the unsuspecting sun that was busy scorching my back) and Roberto’s lungs gave out on him. He collapsed in the sand, huffing and puffing. I picked up a local who was a pretty strong player and knew the finer details of the game, aka passing. We put on a good show but after one of my shots hit the “post” they took advantage of us sitting on our heels and scored a goal on the counter attack. I bought a round of pops for the other team and thanked them for the game. I walked back to the group a little less confident on my international soccer abilities.

Beach footy.

A local dog cooling off in the sand.

Our trip was drawing to a close and we still had half a bottle of seco to consume. It proved to not be an issue with the boat goers and before we stopped off at Aqua Lounge to drop off the Argentineans, the bottle was laid to rest. Our guides let us play at Aqua Lounge for a while. Total chaos ensued. The bar sat out on the water like a dock. For entertainment purposes they cut a large hole in the dock, built up some steps and hung a wooden plank for diving. I guess you can say that I started the carnage when I tried to push Bosco into the swimming hole. The both of us went in and before we could pull ourselves from the water, everyone at the bar was pushing and shoving people into the water. Total strangers were grabbing, tossing, slinging and tackling each other into the water. Women being women, they quickly lost interest in the events and stayed on the peripheral to chat with the less testosterone filled men at the bar, where I should have been. Instead I was assaulted by two strangers (one became less strange as he proved to be at every bar in Bocas every minute of the day). One grabbed my hands and the less fortunate one tried for my feet. I took at the guy at my feet with a swift kick to the ankle and the grabbed the one at my head by the neck. Eventually the three of us all ended up in the water as someone pushed our human knot of an existence into the drink. Bosco and a rather stout local (the gentleman with my arms shortly before) got into a full blown wrestling match that ended as a tie, a trip to the water for both of them. Our guides rounded the crew back up and we headed back to the main island for showers and more drinking.

Our seco commercial and double rabbit ears for Bosco.

Bar goers at Aqua Lounge.

As our travel companions began to their separate ways we agreed on dinner and more drinks. We were to meet the Canadians at their hostel at a determined time. Bosco and I headed back to the hotel to clean up. After rinsing the blood, sand and assorted filth off we made our way over to Hostel Heike. The place was filled with shirtless tourists. I strolled into the hostel to look for our lady friends. I bobbed my head through doorways until I saw a familiar face. The ladies still hadn’t showered so Bosco and I sat on the front porch of the hostel and enjoyed some local produce. . .wrapped in paper. Eventually we were confronted by an American wearing a long shore fisherman shirt, informing us that we should enjoy our produce at a location above street level. We continued to enjoy our produce as our conversation continued with who we believed to be yet another tourist. Apparently, after overt agitation on the long shore fisherman’s part, we discovered that he was in fact the “inn keeper.” Just then the ladies appeared and we bounced out of our seats into the busling street.

Snacking before more drinking.

Ummmm. . .ketchup.

We stopped off at a church to light a candle or two and look what we found on the offering plate for baby Jesus (it was acutally a store but still an interesting combination)

The evening began to get rather fuzzy at this point. I remember eating pizza, taking my picture behind some ridiculous wooden cutout of a pirate, moving to another bar, yelling at some ladies I had met at Red Frog Beach who were heading back to their hotel, and Bosco leaving to “get some more money.” I found myself alone, with the Canadians, and incredibly intoxicated. I hadn’t gotten my bearings of the small town yet and apparently neither had Bosco. As the story goes, he got lost on the way back to acquire money and found himself wandering around Bocas Town. The bar started to rotate on its axis, which is a surefire sign that my night is finished.
I bid farewell to my Canadian companions and found myself a similar fate as my travel buddy. I may have fared slightly better but I’m not quite sure how much better. I made it to the room to discover that Bosco had made his way back and was passed out in the room. Being the heavy sleeper that he is, I had a hard time waking him. After a few hard raps on the door I went to the front desk to get another key to the room. This place apparently only has one key to each room and it was stuck under Bosco’s snoring ass. The security guard told me to just knock harder. I wailed away at the door until a shirtless, “mantied” Bosco opened the door to let me into the room. I don’t remember hitting the bed but in the morning I discovered I did so fully clothed, flip flops included.