Colombian Regrets, Part 2

---

---

Our original plan to head to Turbo for a boat to Panama was altered when we heard from a helpful man in Monteria that it would be easier to find a boat from a small port on the coast, the name of which I have now forgotten. From there we hired a fishing boat to take us to the nearby island, Isla Fuerte, where larger merchant boats stopped before heading to Panama. Arriving on the island was surreal, as we were greeted with stares and curiosity that bordered on hostility. Ushered to the presumably one place on the island where we could buy a bed for a few nights, we haggled with the owners until we were both satisfied, mas o menos. The man in Monteria was right; bigger boats did stop in at the island. We would take turns swimming out to each anchored boats, about half a mile out, and bargain, ask and eventually beg for a ride up the coast. After a sailboat crewed by rich americans and three decrepit old wooden shipping boats that filled up on 'coconuts' all declined, more or less politely, to take us, we realized we might be stuck.

For most people, the idea of living on a small, relatively unpopulated island in the Caribbean would be heaven. The crazy lady on the island, conveniently located across the path from us, showed us different. She would scream and shout and bang things all day and night, and was rumored to be a witch or possessed by the devil by the other islanders. She was locked in her house, and would peer out and wait for someone to pass by before starting her wailing again. Fed only by her daughter, who brought plates of food every day to slide under the bars, she was someone the islanders seemed to fear, and hate. Many ideas crossed my mind, from setting her free to trying to convince her daughter to, but all these were impossible. The island was just that - alone without easy escape, and it would be unwise to anger a whole island with no way out.

Our money was running out. We pooled together what we had, and decided to sleep on the beach in order to still be able to buy food. Within several nights of living on the edge of the jungle in the bug-ridden sand, we were taken in by a kind family, seemingly the only of such on the island. They let me hang my hammock in the main room, and gave Guido one of their mattresses, and we would switch every night. We would buy the tiny fish, oil that you could get in tied plastic bags, and plantains, and they would cook them over their fire. It was here where I discovered my love for patacones, the cheapest and most delicious food ever. The only possesion they had was a tv, on which they would watch the Colombian show Joe every night for 2 hours. They lived there with their 4 year old son Diego, who's only toy was a broken wrench and pieces of the crumbling floor. They were gifted the hut from their best friend's grandfather, who was not pleased at us staying there. The only time he came to the hut, we were told to leave and wait for him to go, as he would spit at us and swear at us if he saw us anywhere near. It was on this night, walking around the tiny little town and listening to the crazy womans frantic screams, that we met the self proclaimed king of the island.

We were approached by a man, who told us that Juanino wanted to talk to us. Following to meet this man, we found another dark man sitting on a chair against a wall, out of the fire light. We sat on the curb to the side of him, but were quickly told to not put our backs to Juanino, so we sat cross legged in front of him. He asked us all sorts of questions on what we were doing, where we were going and, in general, who the hell we were. He became friendly once he convinced himself that we were harmless backpackers, foolish and stupid, but harmless nonetheless. Apparently 2 journalists had been murdered on this same island the previous year. He proceeded to tell us how dangerous the colombian coast was off the Darien Gap, and gave us names of his contacts through each seaside town on the way. Isla Fuerte was a cocaine smuggling hub, the place where the cocaine was put into coconuts or other mediums and sent to Panama and onwards, eventually to reach the land I had originally came from. Released from his attention, we returned to the beach, to talk about what we would do next. It was decided we would head back to Monteria, and try to reach Turbo like we first had planned. This would be the worst night on the island. Lightning flashed, without thunder, and the crazy lady howled as our hosts told us how the island worked, how we were idiots to explore the farms on the hills and walk around town, and how they couldn't leave because of their son and the fact that there was nowhere else to go. The father told us he would give us a ride in his boat back to mainland in the morning, as he thought it would be a good idea to get off the haunted island. A short dawn launch and a ride in a refashioned 70's American schoolbus through the muddy jungle later, we were back where we started.

Reaching Monteria again, our thoughts turned to Turbo and Panama again. The bus to the coast was the worst bus ride of my life. Lasting the entire steamy day, we managed to cross a flooded river by ploughing through it after watching a 4 by 4 do the same, and the bus broke down after this several times. So did many other cars on the side of the road, and our friendly driver kindly overpacked the bus. After hours of bouncing and jerking in massive heat, the 3 children on board became sick, puking on the floor, seats and themselves. It grew so bad I had to half stand with my head out the window, until the boy next to me looked at me, and I gave him my seat to stand in the aisle for the remaining hours. Every time we stopped for maintenance or more passengers, we would all crawl off and try to refresh ourselves on small red fruit in the trees to the side, before piling back on, back into the stench and sweat. Trust me when I say that finally arriving in Turbo, a crazy unregulated Colombian town, in the middle of the Copa Nacional match between Colombia and Ecuador, was one of the best moments I have ever had.

Finding the cheapest place to sleep for a few nights until a launch left for Capurgana, we wandered around town, finding something to eat and a heaven-sent beer to drink. Attracted to huge crowds outside a certain bar, we watched the last minutes of the game as Ecuador tied, and then lost the final match. I have been in Rome when Italy won the FIFA World Cup, and that was insane. This was even crazier. All night long, open bed trucks packed with painted girls and boys rushed around the streets, blending their honking with that of triple-manned motorcycles and mopeds, everyone waving flags and shouting. I was amazed that I didn't see any major crashes, although you had to constantly watch everywhere around you in case a biker decided he wanted to ride through the bar. It was excellent, a perfect sendoff for the boat up the coast.

The next day, we were waiting for the launch to Capurgana, when me and Guido met a man who told us his story, real or imagined I still have no clue. He was a famous violinist, fought in Vietnam and worked construction in New York, and was from Ecuador. After giving us cigarettes, he leaned in close and whispered, " I collect ice". Sharing a look, me and Guido looked at him silently. "When people disrespect me, Fuck that shit. People, Fuck that. I collect eyes". Breaking out a bottle of rum, we shared his liquor as the launch sped away, and he finally got dropped off on an abandoned beach, where in the jungle he told us his hut was." Cities, towns, fuck that shit. I have a hut. My own, fucking, hut. On the beach." With those words, he leaped overboard into the surf, carrying his plastic bag and bottle of rum, and disappeared into the jungle.

When we got to Capurgana, we both fell in love with the town. It was perfect; friendly people, beautiful women, tiny population and absolutely wonderful in any way you could want a caribbean town to be. We slept on the dock or the wharf or the beach, wherever suited us, and bought delicious baked pastries from one of the few stores in town. I met a girl from Miami, who was on vacation with her family. Hanging out with her and the locals in the one bar in town, playing football on the beach with the local kids and swimming off the dock; it was perfect.

However, like with all things good, the government has to ruin it. Taking the next launch to Puerto Obaldia, we were stuck for days trying to get a stamp into Panama. First we needed money, then papers, the copies of our passports, then more copies, then tickets. My friend Guido was treated horribly by the officials, for some Panamanian-Argentinian issue I had no knowledge of. Even so, we managed to pay very little and eventually got through, but with a problem; not enough money left to pay for the boat onwards. We split one last plate of food, and then sat and waited and thought. I tried busking with my violin, but didn't recieve a single dollar. A family from Ecuador bought us loaves of bread, and we spent our time playing football and basketball with the locals again. Sleeping in an hut next to the guard office, we managed to wait out several days of hunger, drinking coffee with the men from a bakery and exchanging music from my violin and Guidos guitar for bread from the family. It was fortunate that their young boy played violin as well, and I traded a lesson for food as well.

We eventually found a launch captain who was willing to take us to El Porvenir on the condition that we pay the driver who would take us to Panama once we got there. We accepted, and spent the next few days passing the Kuna Yala islands and taking an amazing truck ride, with monkeys and parrots, through the jungle to Panama City. I sat on the window the whole time, just watching the Caribbean fade into the jungle and listening to the monkeys jumping in the trees above. Driving back into a major city induced the effects of culture shock, and it took us a while to get used to the paved roads, myriads of people and unceasing noise.

---