Sorry for the 6,000 word post but it was a long, eventful, lovely day to re-cap. I'm working on getting a few videos up but again. . .a brother can only do so much blogging at work :)~
Our second day in Bocas started similarly to every other day in Panama. . .late. We crawled out of bed around 11 and felt an instant need to put something in our stomachs. The expiring morning sky was filled with falling droplets of rain. It looked like a heavier rain consumed the earlier portion of the morning. I hung out on the front stoop of the hotel while I waited for Bosco to clean up and put something, anything, over those damn Man-kinis of his. I heard a strange, steady drumming off in the distance, which turned out to be the funeral of a local. A few blocks away the procession slowly scuffed their feet alongside a Mazda pick-up with a wooden box in the bed. The truck appeared to be heading down the gravel road leading to the town cemetery. I’m not sure how the locals felt about it but I was offended to see a few handfuls of tourists joined in the procession, covering their blonde, European descendended heads with umbrellas or gore-tex hoods.
While on the stoop a little kid, probably 4 or 5 years old, came up the stairs with his father. The wee one was sporting an Arsenal jersey and I complimented him on his taste in football teams, “Go Gunners!” I said. His dad turned to me with a puzzled look on his face, “Your accent defies your knowledge of football,” he said in a thick Irish accent. I chuckled a bit and admitted that I indeed do not come from a football nation, sadly. We chatted a bit until Bosco came bouncing out of the room in his light blue polo.
We pondered the day’s adventure as the rain continued to trickle through the densely humid air. What should a gringo and a local do with themselves on a rainy day. The previous day it was suggested that we take a trip up to some cavern, just a few minutes up the road via 4x4 taxi. Just then it hit us, we both looked to our left and saw a 4-wheeler parked next to the hotel, we’re going scootin’. We abandoned all thoughts of food and set out on our mission to find some scooters to drag us around for the day. Bosco sparked up a few conversations and eventually one, with a dread headed hippy riding a dirt bike, paid off. He directed us to Calle 4 where we found a handful of scooters parked along the road. Ironically enough, it was right next to the hostel of the long shore fisherman. Bosco bargained the guy down from $70 per person for one scooter to $50 per person for two. Going with two scooters was the right idea because the scooter had a hard enough time tugging Bosco’s ass around the rainforest, there is no way it would have carried the two of us.
We signed our waivers, gave the blue-eyed man his money, strapped on our helmets (mine didn’t stay on once we got outside of city limits) and headed to the closest bodega for, what else. . .beer of course. Bosco on his schnazzy yellow knobby tired scooter and me on my slightly more seasoned smooth tired teal scooter. Bosco snatched up a sixer at the mart of Balboa and we puttered off down Calle 3 headed for Playa Bluff. The road out to the beach was smooth for the first few kilometers which gave us enough saddle time to get comfortable with our rides before the road got messy. . .and messy it got. Some work was being done to clean up some earlier washouts, which stirred up some greasy, very slick mud; perfect for Bosco’s knobby tires but not so good on my slick, aka bald tires. My scooter proved to be pretty squirrelly in the slick mud but I managed my way through with a few touchdowns of the foot. The road turned to a harder packed mud, then sand, then hard packed mud, some gravel, and then to a complete swamp. At one point the entire road was under water. . .warm, stagnant, mosquito infested water.
Bosco "filling up" with some cervezas.
We stopped off to slug back a few beers, snap some photos and enjoy some of the local produce. The splashing water and my scooter did not agree. My bike was hesitant to start and even more hesitant to continue running the rest of the way to Playa Bluff. The constant stalling became an additional source of entertainment until we passed through the foulest landfill/dump I’ve ever had the advantage of seeing. Then. . .the stalling was less entertainment and more. . .a health risk. My bike decided to putter out just as we entered the landfill, leaving me dead halfway down the hill leading to the “river” of flowing funk. Just as the bike died Bosco said, “do you think you could have found a worse place to stall?” I didn’t think I could have but after starting the scooter back up and then stalling yet again, this time in the middle of the flowing gray muck. I replied, “No. . .this is actually the worse place I could stall.” I sunk my feet into the slow moving sludge, up to my ankles, to balance the scooter and began cranking away on the starter. After a few wheezing tries the bike started back up and splashed funk all through the air as I rushed out of the skin corroding water. The rest of the trip up to Playa Bluff was pretty uneventful, minus a few stalls far less opportune than the two back in the landfill. Bosco laid his scooter down in a mud puddle but I was unfortunately too far ahead to witness the incident. Thankfully there was a couple riding their bicycles along the road, so at least someone beside Bosco got a chuckle out of it.
Lots of love for the scooter bra.
A gringo shredding the surf.
El Gringo again.
A sea level view of the surf.
A beach along the way up to Playa Bluff.
An angry little crab.
We pulled our bikes off to the “shoulder” and strolled down to a beautifully pristine beach. Not a soul was in sight as Bosco and I waded through the mini river of trapped sea water. We made our way onto the soft, deep sand and cracked open a few Balboas. The surf was pretty large which kept the two of us out of the water. I don’t think swimming in 3-5 meter swells is ever a good idea. Bosco and I both broke out our cameras and started snapping some photos. At one point two ladies appeared several meters down the beach from us. Bosco took a recon photo and after zooming in to check out the potential, we let them be for a while. Just around that time Bosco’s phone rang and I was suddenly left listening to half of a conversation. . .in Spanish. There was nothing to lose at this point so i hopped to my feet and started toward our fellow beach goers.
Bosco Vallarino. . .the great explorer.
Playa Bluff.
. . .and again.
The camera man in action (whose pictures i still don't have copies of)
Big surf and. . .
. . .more big surf.
Bosco paying homage to the original Panamanian explorer. . .Balboa.
I had noticed earlier that they had taken a few photos in our direction. On my long walk over there I had to think up a good “line” to start off the conversation. I mean it was awkward enough that they sat there and pretended to ignore the fact that I was closing the distance from our patch of sand to theirs. They were just packing up as I arrived. Pleasant salutations took place. I noticed they were Americans so I figured my well designed “line” would play out nicely. “How did your photos turn out? I was hoping well because I need to update my Facebook profile picture.” I sat back and admired the poorly deliverd line, thinking they were caught red handed. The brunette, replied, “Oh. . .i don’t think I got you in any of the photos but I could take a picture of you if you’d like.” The air left my somewhat inflated chest as she snapped a few beachside photos of me and my sad, nearly empty Balboa. We exchanged names and plans for the evening. As I walked away I couldn’t help but laugh, knowing damn well that I was in some of her photos.
We finished up the last drops of our Balboas and hit the bikes. My scooter was slow to start. . .yet again. Feeling lighter in the head and more comfortable on our chariots, the ride back to the paved road went much faster. Bosco did manage to fish tail a bit in the filthy part but both of us made it back to pavement without incident, not to say that my scooter didn’t stall every 300 meters. I got so used to my piece junking stalling that I developed a pretty good coasting restart. Along the way we passed the female beachgoers from earlier. I attempted to convince Bosco to be a good wingman and offer up his scooter to one of the ladies but he wasn’t having it (note: if you find yourself in Panama and in need of a wingman don’t look to Bosco for help). We motored on down the beaten road.
Our scooters slowed as we came to the intersection leading either back to town or up to Bocas del Drago, the northern most point of Isla Colon. We still had several hours of daylight so we turned our wheels uphill and headed to the our new destination. The road up to Drago was designed with my crappy scooter in mind. The bald tires hugged the turns as I zipped through the rainforest while Bosco’s yellow scooter puttered along behind me. The mix of rutted pavement and even more rutted gravel patches kept me from getting too wild. As my comfort level grew more and more, the scooter took on more and more abuse. I stopped avoiding potholes and plowed through them instead. The last leg of the road up to Drago was deep sand, which my scooter didn’t like as much but at least it didn’t stall out on me. Although, stalling in ankle deep sand would still be better than stalling in ankle deep slow moving landfill runoff.
My machine resting (stalled) on the road up to Bocas del Drago.
I swear it was like that when i started. Look at those tires!
With a few beers already in our blood, it was time for something other than more beer to soak up what was already flowing (we still hadn’t eaten). The restaurant was apparently closed so it appeared that were up the creek as far as food went. I dove head long into the bay as Bosco struck up a conversation with a gentleman sitting on the back porch of a nearby house. Like many people we ran into during our Panamanian adventure, the kind fellow at the house was familiar with Bosco and more so with Bosco Sr. He was the caretaker of this beautiful home nestled on a quiet cove surrounded by thick jungle. He offered to cook up some food for us, $20 for fresh caught lobster and $10 for the beef dish. Poor Bosco is allergic to shellfish so I opted for the lobster just to watch him squirm. We posted up on their ranchero and waited for our food to make it’s way out the dock and to our watering mouths. The caretaker brought out a six-pack of Balboas and left them on the table to keep us entertained until the food came out to us. I rested in the hammock as Bosco ran around and snapped some photos or urinated off the dock. At one point another inhabitant from the property, who also served as the cook, came out to see if there was anything we needed. He offered a shower and placed a strong emphasis on the bathroom. . .twice. The food that came out was fantastic. I was treated to two lobsters, rice, pan fried plantains and a side salad. The food and beers went down smoothly. . .a little too smoothly for the scooter ride back to town.
Bosco's dinner
Birds resting in the bay of Bocas del Drago.
While Bosco chatted with the caretaker i snapped a few photos of the surroundings. This is a tree.
Palm tree facing the bay.
Our lunch spot on day 2. Not a bad scene.
A sponge waiting to be washed out to sea.
Bosco taking full advantage of some Panamanian hospitality.
Nuts.
I rested while. . . .
. . .Bosco urinated off the dock.
Even the beers are sweaty down there.
This is what $20 can get you.
After dinner the caretaker came back out to check on us. We struck up a conversation about the house to find out that it was for rent, $1500 a night! The tour showed that it was worth every cent. The main house was two stories with two bedrooms and a bath on each, along with a well appointed common area. The second floor had a porch that wrapped around the entire house, providing you with some spectacular views. Just down a covered stone path sat the 1000+ square foot kitchen/dinning room combo. It was a stand alone structure with locally sourced wood tables, counters, and cabinets. Off the cocina was another private one bedroom suite. It was a hexagon shaped, two story building. Inside there was a sitting area on the main floor that opened up to a beach viewing porch. Once up the 3000 lb hand carved log staircase, a gorgeously simple bedroom looked out over the bay and surrounding beaches. If, IF, I ever get married that’s where I want it to happen. Thankfully. . .i don’t see that happening because I don’t think I’d be able to afford it.
The house on Drago. Bosco got all the good photos of the place but you can get an idea.
We left our tour guide and headed back through the sandy path to the main road. Just as we jumped on our bikes the rain started to fall. The scooter ride back was dark and damp. We rode full throttle nearly the entire trip back with hopes of beating the impending darkness. In the typical style of my scooter, the head light worked. . .if you held your thumb on the button the entire time. Bosco couldn’t seem to find his light but it didn’t keep him from spraying mud all over me as my scooter struggled through some sloppy goo. We screamed into the town just as the streets were filling up with half cooked tourists on their way to quench their thirst.
Bosco and I headed back to the room to rinse off the leftover funk, me with a little more than Bosco because of his constant mud spraying (I also had to brush some grit out of my mouth). I cleaned up as well as any half dead (let’s not forget. . .i’m 30 now) gringo would and we headed downtown for some treats before hitting the sauce again. Bosco and I found ourselves on a little restaurant’s back deck, sitting at wet table and enjoying some ice cold Panamas before our eats arrived (so much for food before sauce). My beach soccer, winded, ball hogging, Spaniard of a teammate from the previous day’s mess of a soccer game passed by and we exchanged pleasantries. Bocas proved to be a very small town in which we constantly ran into people we “knew.”
Dinner night 2 in Bocas.
Ummmm. . .Panama beer. You can drink about 50 of these and still not get drunk. . .or should i stay still not get arrested for being drunk :)
Bosco and I decided to try and “run into” the friends I had made on the beach earlier. It probably looked a bit stalkerish when we hit the front “door” of the Shipwreck at the same time they did. I promise. . .it was sheer coincidence. Those who know me well know I’m not one to aggressively pursue. . .let alone stalk females. The four of us grabbed a table near the dance floor and began shouting through generic conversations. Bosco being the dashing, light footed latino, made good use of the dance floor and salsa music. I on the other hand, was drug out to the dance floor by Catherine for an ad hoc salsa lesson. I think I may have split one of her toenails or at least ruined her pedicure. Needless to say. . .she didn’t drag me back out there again. The music seemed to be getting louder so we moved to a table further away from the “scene” and situated ourselves on the pier like section of the bar. Our table just so happened to overlook the namesake of the bar, a sunken ship that rested in the shallow waters. They had built a deck around the downed boat which creates a pool like setting. The signs warning people to swim at their own risk removed any temptations to dive into the water, “Swim at your own risk, EVERYTHING cut you.” As if the threat “EVERYTHING will cut you” wasn’t enough there was a diagram of a swimmer missing their leg and a bloodthirsty shark enjoying a mouthful of leg. Point taken!
The sign didn't come out clearly in this photo but this is the site of the "EVERYTHING WILL CUT YOU" sign and shipwreck.
Bosco, myself and our companions for the night. . .shipwrecked ourselves.
We stuck to drinking and lots of laughter. Erin kept “cockroaching” beers. This apparently was a skill she had picked up along her travels, stealing beers off the table when her own ran dry. It came to be a great source of entertainment and frustration. With about 70 empty bottles on the table it was difficult to keep track (I’m still not sure if it was the volume of bottles on the table or the effects of draining them that created the challenge). The four of us wore out our welcome at the Shipwreck (that’s what happens when you enjoy the local produce while sitting at a table, at a bar) and headed down the street to a place a little closer to our hotel. I was determined to find my way home in a reasonable time that night. On our way to the next watering hole we ran into our friends from the night before. . .you know. . .the ladies my trusty wingman left me with. The now six of us meandered through the streets of Bocas looking for a lively place to stop. We pulled off at another noisy establishment on the corner. The DJ was playing your standard dance party USA hip-hop. I stepped up to the bar and order a round of drinks for our crew. A few of the ladies made their way onto the dance floor only to be assaulted by the local contingent. I kept my clumsy feet on the sidelines and chuckled as the drunks spilled all over each other. Bosco disappeared again, under the pretenses of getting more money, again. My legs were full of booze and it was time for the old man to go to bed. Bosco was nowhere to be found so I headed back to the hotel. When I arrived at the room Bosco was in there doing who knows what. I stripped down to my shorts and flopped onto the bed. Bosco was still charging and did his best to drag my weathered old bones back out into the street. . .to no avail. He ventured back out into the night and I crashed hard, only to wake up to Bosco in his Man-kini. . .once again.
The next morning the rain was coming down hard and both Bosco and I had seemed to drink ourselves to exhaustion the previous night. We played some Farkel and Switch as we tried to wait out the rain. Just then, Bosco got a call from pops to let us know that our (his) presence was being requested back in the city. Bosco made a few phone calls to the airport and we managed to get a flight back to Panama that afternoon. It was time to bid farewell to Bocas as our cab rushed through the rain soaked streets to get us to our flight. We managed to leave town with very little permanent physical damage, the psychological carnage is yet to be determined (Bosco and those damn man-kinis).
Coming Soon: Marooned. . .
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