Soft Landings

So there I stood, smiling, at a Y intersection backed up with buses and taxis, cars and trucks.  It must have seemed odd to some of them because I got two private car ride offers, and two taxi drivers rolled down their windows just to chat, never trying to solicit a fare.  I was waiting for my couchsurfing host, Adriana, to show up at the Albrook Terminal bus station.

I had come into town a day early to try to set up a ride on a sailboat through the Panama Canal, working as a line handler.  Even on the 26´ boat that I would be crossing on, they were required to have 4 line handlers to secure the lines rapidly for the boat within the locks.  The evening prior I had emailed Adriana on short notice to see whether I could add a night to my 2-night stay at her family´s place; however, she already had a couchsurfing guest, so she had arranged for me to stay at a hostel.

After dropping my bags at the hostel, my host took me for a brief tour of the neighborhood before heading out for dinner to the causeway.  One of the more famous tourist attractions of Panama City, the Amador Causeway had been built to link the city to 4 islands located near the mouth of the canal.  It now houses several marinas full of boats waiting to transit the canals, an unfinished bio-diversity museum designed by Frank Gehry, and multitudinous shops and restaurants to support the marinas and tourists.

Frank Gehry´s Museum of Biodiversity

After some excellent conversation, margaritas, and ceviche, I was dropped off at the hostel with my host´s encouragement to explore Casco Viejo the following day.  I assured her that I would, and I did, but I was not prepared for the beauty of old town Panama.  The original Panama City was built in 1519, but ordered burnt to the ground by its own governor in 1673 so that it couldn´t be taken over by the dreaded pirate Henry Morgan.  Casco Viejo was the next iteration of Panama City, built on a small peninsula so that it was more defensible.

It reminds me of the French Quarter of New Orleans, and was granted world heritage site status by Unesco in 1998 due to its representation of architectural styles, particularly French and Early American.  I spent 6 hours walking around, taking photos, exploring back streets, and building interiors.  There is currently an exposition of artists in public places throughout Casco Viejo (murals, sculptures, graffiti) that made the old town even more appealing.  The area is in an intense transition;  construction is happening everywhere as the second wave of investment since the US vacated the canal zone in 1999 hits full stride.  One of the guys on the streets of Casco Viejo who tried to hustle me yesterday to allow him to be my tour guide made an estimate that within 3 years the entire area will have been renovated.  I´d say that his guess is about as good as any.  An Australian from Perth who was staying at the hostel was in town to buy property in Casco Viejo in the $500K to $1 million range as an investment.  His estimate was that the investment would triple in 5 years.

Regardless of the financial aspects of investing in Casco Viejo, it is simply one of the most beautiful aspects of a city steeped in a rich, historical past and an emerging future.

Colectivos, Buses, and Hustlers

The taxis and their drivers are all waiting to intercept the Puerto Jimenez water taxi passengers before they can get to the bus stop just 40 meters away.  In Costa Rica, both the standard taxis and the colectivos (the small vans and buses in which one can travel more cheaply due to cost of the ride being split between more passengers) are painted red so that potential passengers can see them easily and so that fake taxis can be avoided.  Not wanting to miss the bus, I was quickly walking past the colectivo driver when he shouted out:        ``Frontera!``

``¿Por cuanto?`

``Forty dolares.``

I resumed my pace.

``Bueno, 5000 colones.``  (Which is the equivalent of $10)

I slowed down and repeated his offer as a question. ``5000 colones?`` He assured me that I had heard him correctly, so I handed him my heavy backpack.  He opened his trunk hatch with a screwdriver, slammed it shut 3 times, and began calling ``Frontera!`` to the most recent passengers to debark the boat.  No one joined us, so we sped away toward the border leaving the others waiting at the bus stop.

Miguel was pleasant but taciturn until we picked up other passengers, whom he called ``Mami and Papi``.  ``¡Hola, Mami!  ¿Pa`donde vas? Cierra la puerta bien dura, Mami. ¡Ay que bonita la vida!``

The colectivos and taxis communicate with passengers and other drivers by honking short bursts to announce their presence and availability.  The prospective passengers respond with a barely perceptible nod or finger movement to accept, a head-shake or look-away to decline. The taxi swerves over and stops abruptly, loads on the passenger, and continues down the road, alternately gobbling then jettisoning its human cargo.

Finally Miguel and I arrive at the border.  As I`m counting out the fare, a guy sticks an emigration paper for exiting Costa Rica into my hand, grabs my backpack, and beckons me to follow him to the window.  I fill out the form, get my passport stamped, then head to the Panamanian side to complete a similar procedure.  On the way there, he starts to run his first scam.  He stops me, says I have to have a plane ticket out of Panama to show at the Panamanian immigration window, but since I don´t have one, I can get a bus ticket at a nearby window for $21, no refunds, that will suffice.  I tell him that I´ll take my chances, and head to the Panamanian side, with him running alongside.  Once again, they stamp the passport, and I´m back in Panama.  My hustler takes me to two different bus stations, and at the second one, the colectivo is already loaded and on the way out the door, so they grab my bag and throw it in the back while I toss my hustler a $2 tip instead of his $20 request, and jump on.

I change from the colectivo to the Panama Express in the town of David, enjoying the luxury of air-conditioning, drop-down TV screens, and new, faux-velour recliner seats, leaning back for the 8 hour ride to  Panama City.  My assigned seat is in the back of the bus because once again, the bus was on the way out when I walked up.  The ride is a comfortably fast 8 hours.  In Panama City,  I leave the crowded, bustling station on foot, walking over to a nearby gas station where I stand on the corner, smiling, waiting for my couchsurfing host to pick me up for the final chapter of the trip.

On the Road

I wanted to make sure that I caught the 6 AM  water taxi out of Puerto Jimenez on Thursday morning because Panama City was minimally 12 hours away, assuming that all connections were short and smooth.  My backpack seemed lighter every day, and it was a short walk from my hotel to the town pier, but as I approached, I noticed that the pier was already crowded with passengers and well-wishers waiting to see them off.  With no way to tell how many of each there were, I grew a bit anxious that my journey across the Golfo Dulce might be delayed for more than 4 1/2 hours until the next taxi´s departure.  My anxiety increased when a short, stocky man with a family of five pushed his way through to about mid-queue.

This, then, was one of those opportunities that Pema Chodron writes of.  He, the man with the family, was one of the Juans who pushes my buttons, so that I cry out in my mind about injustice, or I get angry and respond in a way that I regret, or I get sullen and stuff my odious feelings toward the Juans that push their way to the front of the world, disregarding everyone else´s well-being.  Ms. Chodron tells us that this taxi line    incident was creating a mirror for me to examine an aspect of myself that I have rejected long ago, a chance to make peace, an opportunity to be grateful to everyone, beginning with myself.

As soon as this realization formed, my self-talk changed.  I looked him up and down, thinking: ``He is protecting his family.  He is a good provider.  He has a sick child, or values the importance of education and wants to get his kids to school on time in Golfito, or is taking them for a family outing that has been promised for a while``. Other story lines came to mind, focusing on the positive aspects of the Juan who had unknowingly been pushing my butttons.  Because the buttons were definitely mine.  The buttons were on MY shirt, MY coat, MY skin, MY psyche.  I became grateful to Juan for the opportunity to take one small step to disconnect the button from the buzzer.  Shortly afterwards, I stepped onto the boat.

The water taxi driver was an accommodating man, so very few people were left on the dock.  I needn´t have worried.  Some 15-20 people got on after me.  In certain places along the boat, 3 people sat in seats designed for 2.  Several people stood in the center aisle.  One woman sat up front on the prow.  The taxi seemed overloaded.  I began to worry that with the Golfo running as choppy as it was that day, that there was indeed a chance for a serious accident.

 Are you beginning to catch a theme here?  Part of the reason that I`m writing this blog is to expose my inner workings to the people who are reading this, most of whom I assume are people whom I know and love.  One of my major quests on this journey to Central America is to reveal myself to you.

The other major quest is to make these small steps of self-forgiveness. I have been such a stress puppy all of my life, and my reactions under pressure are usually events that I regret later.  They are the ugly deeds that I want to hold to the mirror and forgive myself for so that I can move on.

So the taxi is overloaded, the gulf is choppy, and after getting up to full speed, the boat begins bouncing and side-slipping.  What are my options?  What can I control?  Can I call out: ``Turn the boat around!  Put me on the dock!  I`ll wait for the next one!``?  Good luck with that one.  Can I magically transform myself into a basilisk lizard and walk on water?  Oh, wait, I forgot.  They can only do that for about 10 meters before they have to start swimming.  So what can I do?  What can I control?  Only the limits of my awareness and appreciation.  I can expand my vision to the beauty of the gulf, the daylight on the water, the lush forests coming right down to water´s edge, the search for dolphins, the appreciation of conversation and laughter around me, the appreciation of life jackets above me.

Time is transformed.  No longer are the seconds like hours.  This is not to say that time disappears completely.  But it slips away and hides for much of the trip, finding some convenient hammock in the back to snooze in until it is needed.  We pass the point which protects Golfito´s bay from the winds and waves driven in from the Pacific, and the waters calm.

Minutes later, I step up to the dock and the beginning of the rest of my journey.