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Published: August 17th 2011
'...A person needs new experiences. They jar something deep inside, allowing him to grow. Without change something sleeps inside us, and seldom awakens. The sleeper must awaken.'
Duke Leto Ateides, 'Dune' (David Lynch, 1984)
TJ, Anja and I made our preparations to leave our friends at The Naked Tiger hostel in San Juan del Sur. I gently kissed long-term travelling companion Ben's passed-out forehead by way of good bye and then toyed with the idea of smothering him with a pillow. Such is the effect that Ben has on people, the cocky little twat. Genuinely though, I was worried that I wouldn't see the lad because, like some kind of twisted sadist, his plan was to head back to the Posta Rojo tree house for a couple of weeks. Presumably he liked being dirty and enjoyed the sensation of flies flinging themselves up his arse whilst sitting on the toilet. Despite the tumult of feelings I had whilst standing over his crumpled frame, I couldn't help but harbour an inkling that I would, in fact, get the opportunity to gaze upon his red headed features again...
After a confusing round of hugs, handshakes and highfives (a nightmare for any
Brit), we completed our goodbyes (Megan, my dear, if you are reading this: you are a stone cold fox and Canada should be very proud indeed) and hopped in to a taxi which had been ordered for us by the kind staff of the Naked Tiger. I might have already mentioned how amazing The Naked Tiger hostel is but let me iterate: you have to be some kind of registered moron not to stay there if visiting San Juan del Sur or, indeed, Nicuragua in general.
The taxi driver was a perfectly nice chap but, we noticed he had a German eagle crest and swastika tattooed on his arm (apparently that whole scene was quite big at one point according to TJ who knows everything) so we were pleased when he dumped us at the border betwixt Nicuragua and Costa Rica.
Having completed all the boring boarder crossing milarky (John remaining calm, cool, collected; Anja and TJ flapping their arms in panic like Ewoks fleeing from cool looking storm troopers) we hopped on a Tica Bus which I had suavely arranged whilst Anja and TJ attempted breathing exercises to calm their stress.
We were bound for the
capital of Costa Rica, San Jose. Heading to the capital cities of Central American countries is a necessary evil, eloquently summed up by my good friend and former colleague, Charles Warren, in an invaluable missive, sent to me a month or so before my departure: 'Don’t go to any capital cities because they’re all and dangerous but you’ll probably have to pass through most of them. Just get the out and don’t hang about.' Thanks again, Charles. With this in mind, upon arrival in San Jose we chucked Anja on the first taxi we found because she was really narking us off. Only joking... Anja had some family who are clearly mad and who went to San Jose on purpose. She went to spent a couple of days with them.
San Jose is a horrible dive and the travel savvy TJ and I clocked this immediately. TJ commented that all the girls were ugly and I concurred quietly whilst patting my trusty Glock 17 which I had previously procured from some dodgy types in Rivas, Nicuragua along with a very nice SLR Camera, a swish Lumix point and shoot and some contraceptive pills. Casing the place, blending
in like locals, we realised we needed sun, sand, palm trees and relaxation, not this guttered hell hole of stares and criminal intent.
Our intended destination was Puerto Viejo which, having glanced at my Central America on a Budget (No it isn't a stupid Lonely Planet 'Central America on a Shoestring', it's a Rough Guide okay? and do you know why? Because Lonely Planet is irritating and describes restaurants as serving 'the usual local fare with top notch people watching' and if THAT doesn't want to make you either be sick or throw the blasted book at someone then you probably thought 'The Divinci Code' was quite good AND you probably think Tom Hanks is still a good actor and that bloody 'Castaway' was a valid piece of art and not a bloated over-budgeted advertisement for Fed Ex and you also enjoy watching Top Gear and think Jeremy Clarkson* is funny). Unfortunately, we couldn't get to Puerto Viejo that day because we arrived in San Jose too late (my fault, according to Anja, due to me sleeping in that morning). Unperturbed, I glanced at my trusty Rough Guide and noticed that Puerto Limon was propper close to Puerto Viejo
and was probably alright. We bought our tickets and boarded the bus, still wary of all the dodgy types we were forced to travel with.
In between several blistering rounds of 20 questions, TJ suggested we had a quick read up about Puerto Limon, seeing as we were going there and everything. It read a little something like this: 'Whilst Puerto Limon's reputation of being the drug trafficking capital of Central America is somewhat over exaggerated, it is still unsafe to explore the city solo during the day and is very dangerous at night.' Cheered by this glowing report, we did some calculations and surmised we'd arrive there at approximately nine pm. We hastily picked a hotel from the book and made plans to jump straight in to a taxi upon arrival, with guns blazing/waving shanks.
Puerto Limon is probably the most horrid bombed-out looking addict-infested dive I have ever seen. Hotel Miami was, alas, too close to the terminal and no taxi would take us. After cradling TJ for a half and hour or so, whispering soothing words in to his ears we set off for the hotel, following directions given to us by the most trustworthy
of a bunch of untrustworthies. Hotel Miami is in a pretty good location for getting the bus to Puerto Viejo but doesn't sell beer. 'Drat', we both said in unison (it was the worst word we knew and it wasn't nearly bad enough) before dumping our valuables, pocketing some change and heading out in to the dangerous gloom of Puerto Limon at night. We nervously quaffed two beers (we actually bar hopped, we're THAT bad ass) before heading back to the Hotel and hitting the hay, ready for our journey to Puerto Viejo the next day...
...Which costed about a pound and only took an hour and half. Puerto Viejo was MUCH more like it. Palm trees and sea and all that jazz. TJ and I ponced around the town for a bit, having checked in to Hotel Puerto Viejo. I took him to the supermarket, I don't know why but I had to start it somewhere. So we started... there.
We left the supermarket shocked; it was more expensive than frikkin M&S. But we got some bits (Rum and Canada Dry which I get a penchant for from time to time). We headed back to our Hostel
to hang out and because TJ is addicted to his iPhone and there's free wifi. It was whilst we numbly flung back rum which cost more than my mum that we were accosted by Captain Zero. He is a surfing legend and somewhat of an American Howard Marks (see 'In Search of Captain Zero' by Allan Wiesbecker). He was full of himself and actually a bit of a twat but he did give us some jolly valuable advice about how to spend the next day in Puerto Viejo. We were to rent a couple of bicycles and head to Punta Uva. Once there, we were to climb some rough steps in to a small section of jungle which lead out to a darn good look out point, with gorgeous views of the coastline. And we did just that. And it was one of the best days of my life, such was the challenge of the ride and balls-to-the-wall beauty of the area, teaming and glistening with life. The pictures, at this point, speak for themselves. We carried on up the main road to nearby Manzanilla and were shocked to find numerous gated hotel complexes on route and loads of minted,
Punta Uva
That massive tree is the Big Tree that has featured in earlier photos. I think it looks a bit like a bunch of grapes which might be the reason why the outcrop is referred to as 'Grape Point' or 'Punta Uva'. Boom.dull and infuriating family holiday makers. They were the very reason why there wasn't more of this amazing stretch of coastline more readily available to the locals, let alone us: humble, ripped backpackers. Indeed, we learnt later that Evil American landowners had bulldozed local houses down near Manzanilla only days before, the brutes, which explained an edgy police presence.
And so we felt we'd seen enough of Costa Rica, having spent the night in Puerto Limon, horrible dive and in desperate need of some of the money that America was pumping in to the country like a reverse oil rig only an hour and half up the road. It's worth mentioning here that Anja Popp popped up again and we continued our travels with her to Panama. Our destination: Bocas Del Torro which, we found, is a bit like Ibiza in that people wander around handing out flyers for ladies nights and stuff.
TJ and I were relaxing at the main backpacking hostel and party hub of Puerto Viejo, Mr Snake's (or something). We had a couple of heroic cocktails and talked about not much whilst playing pool. Up popped Anja again who had, minutes ago, made a
Deep smugness en route to Punta Uva. One of the best days of my life
'Today I didn't even have to use my A.K.
I got to say it was a good day '. Nicely put Ice Cube, and most appropos when taking in to account my awesome board shorts. new friend in the striking form of Ben Absalom: Australian Man Totty. We all bundled in the to the cab, hooting happily about being on our way, TJ and I drunk as lords. But all was not well. TJ's insistent penchant for 'going skins' meant he left his favourite posh lightweight, UV protected t-shirt back at the bar. Here is TJ's account of things, having reminded me of the events some months after my trip had finished:
'Yes, me and John were quite pissed after drinking and playing pool. Ah day drinking. So fun until your favorite t-shirt is lost. Anja was spitting her Spanish game to the driver at my behest, John was in his typical fugue state, and Ben, you comforted me in my loss as we crossed the CR border to Panama. Good times indeed.'
Well done us. More about my 'typical fugue state' in a minute...
We stayed for probably too long in a hostel called Mondo Taitu which I would recommend if anything for the ultra friendly staff and excellent happy hours which are nightly. They have air con dorms which are a bit more costly but the fan dorms are stifling.
Punta Uva
Once here, we climbed up in to the jungle covered outcrop like a pair of nature loving Gs. Due to budget we opted for the latter. And so the party began. There are all sorts of bars around Bocas Del Torro and they all tacky twat shacks which one either has to go with or reject. We went with it with a level of gusto but despite all this hilarity, my habit of naval gazing in hammocks persisted irritatingly, an affliction which had burdened me on and off for the whole trip. I was still cut up by the break up of my relationship and I've always been far too fond of brooding on things whilst listening to less than cheery music by the likes of Joy Division, the Smiths and Radiohead (and, might I add, Broadcast which isn't so much as gloomy sounding but the lead singer Trish Keenan died earlier this year). But then I realised I was actually quite bored of moping about like a tanned Morrisey. I agreed to go for a wander around town with TJ and Anja because I thought it would be a good opportunity to fling some cynicism at them which I did ('So what if we miss the sunset at the stupid Aqua Lounge? The sun will go down
then come up again, the same as it does every day in a pointless never ending spiral of nothingness´ etc)
Presently, we found ourselves in a tattoo parlour. I decided to get the tattoo on my back modified. It's a compass design which incorporated the letters C for Christian (one of my best friends; my oldest friend, Matt Scott, will have his name plastered on my buttocks before long), a J for John and an O for Oriel, my ex. The O was the centre of the compass. I had got it before my trip with Oriel to South East Asia, knowing that it was highly unlikely that us (then a trio of three fairly inseperable friends) would be living in a happy bubble in Bristol again. Therefore, my artist friend, Philip, whom sketched a few ideas, and I decided on a compass in order to find each other, wherever we may be. It should be noted that Philip also drew up the final design as is a rather excellent artist (http://www.philipdownsart.co.uk/). Whilst I certainly don't regret the O (it marks a significant point of time in my life when I was lucky to have two people I love
dearly in once place) I felt I had to make some kind of change to tattoo so I got it filled in red (red, by the way, for no particular reason other than for aesthetic value). Whilst discussing this with the man, TJ suddenly started hooting on about getting some old tattoos of his touched up and I, in turn, blurted that I wanted a tattoo of the Philippines on my right forearm; just the outline. And so, with Anja perched inbetween TJ and I, asking silly questions, I got the Philippines indelibly mapped out on my arm whilst TJ got touched up by a Colombian. This was not only a time of healing for me but I also came to terms with an awful lot and felt ready to carry on with life. It was a warm, exciting time which I have TJ and Anja to thank for.
Days followed nights which followed days and finally, FINALLY, we had to say goodbye to Anja. And this time, for this trip at least, it was for good because she had not much time left and wanted to do a two day trip to the San Blas islands before jetting
back to blighty. So it's good bye Anja. Byyyyyyeeeeee.
Meanwhile, TJ and I, along with some new found friends you shall doubtless grow to know and love set about organising a proper boat (a catamaran, no less) through the San Blas Islands to Cartagena. This we managed with every success and (wait for it) even learnt that Ben will be joining us for the ride. Joy. We are to sail on the 18th of August. But what to do with all that time? Well, TJ and I booked out of Mondo Taitu the day after Anja left with a mind to relax on the nearby island of Bastimentos which is beautiful, slow and relaxed. We made friends swiftly with a motley crew of travellers, alll staying at the excellent Hostel Bastimentos. Unoriginality of name aside, you can get a private room with a fan, for $8USD a night which, in Strong British Pounds only equates to several pence. At the back of the Hostel, a lovely Swedish couple have started a cafe bar and the prices are as fair as they can get (they just want to be able to break even and continue to live out there). Zanna
and Joel are both, in their own way, mad as badgers but it was really special to spend time there starting from just four days in to their business enterprise. Me and a friend, Kora, helped paint the sign so I feel touchingly involved in Djungle Cafe's history and long may it contune. We also met up with a couple called Catherine and Leigh who we had not only seen on and off since Guatemala but whom we are also sailing with and generally chilled out in preparation for an all out blowout of a do, back on Bocas Del Toro, organised by our tattoo artist on the date of the full moon. This turned out to be a bag of naff which will happen in Bocas. We were all glad to book our nightbus out of there; TJ, Ben (he found us, the blighter), a lovely German lass called Kora and Californian named Sherry who has Filipina roots. A good omen.
We were now convening in Panama City with plans to stock up on booze for the boat trip and bond with our cabin mates. Since getting there, we spent a day in a mall (reminding me a
lot of my last trip to SE Asia) where we all spent far too much money (I spent $40 on frikkin' PANTS for heaven's sake).
After a fairly standard night of drinks, I woke up hungover and annoyed. But this was to be a good day. First, TJ, Ben and I strolled down to the ATM and pulled out vast quantities of cash. Then we stopped off in a cheapo store to look for objects of amusement for the boat trip. I bought a seriously brilliant set of dominoes for $5. Sweet. Ben bought a knock-off version of Frustration, a frisbee (for ace, jumping off the boat, action pics) and a water pistol which we will no doubt tire of and fill with rum and coke. Back to the hostel to celebrate purchases and break in the bones. We played two brilliant games of dominoes, the latter ending in a tie between me and Ben. Like some kind of genius, Ben spied a sign for a party bus tour around Panama City, open bar, for two hours for $15, starting at 8 this evening. The three us said 'count it!' and signed up instantly. Going on tip from some
friends we met in Guatemala, we got a group together and nipped in to a bunch of cabs to Trump Tower and had cocktails by the amazing infinity pool, overlooking the ocean. 'We can't stop here' I muttered after an hour or so, 'this is Clarkson country; no place for the Loony Left'. So we taxi'd it back, ready for the party bus which was cheap, nasty, pointless (we saw none of the city and our only stop was an empty car park) and therefore completely brilliant. We took on the free bar with a level of gusto and I can't remember getting home despite being seen in the hostel bar, having an animated convo con TJ and some daft Aussies. I managed to convince them that I was Filipino and I intended to undergo surgery in order to fit in 'with my people'. It was such a genius day... the only way it could have been improved was if Andy 'Dufresne' Bacot - erstwhile travelling companion and thoroughly decent chap - was with us. We gave him numerous toasts and continue to miss him an awful lot whilst sending him our warmest wishes.
*Jeremy Clarkson is
Satan's sweaty, racist scrotum and if his love of promoting the careless pollution of our planet isn't enough, the bastard also uses up oxygen when he breathes.**
**Ma, I can make no apologies re language here, for this is Clarkson we are talking about***
***Sorry for saying 'arse' and 'bloody' before.
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