Ok, much has hap­pened, as things tend to. Cur­rently in the islands of Bocas Del Toro, about 2 hours out of Costa Rica. One needs to arrive here by water­taxi, which is a trip in itself. Through nar­row rivers (if that’s the proper word) between psuedo-land made up of red man­groves, then out into a bay, into rough ocean, back in, et cetera.

This key­board is tai­lored for another lan­guage, so bear with…

How to here…let{s see…finally left San Jose after a day … not really a good time there … your aver­age city with your aver­age things, which is not to say I didn{t enjoy myself, but, you know … although I did go to a casino and dou­bled my money on a new game I learned there called Caribbean Five Card … played just against the dealer … that was ok. But then we left for the Caribbean … a bus ride to Cahuita, which usu­ally takes 2.5 hrs, took 8 or so … roads washed out due to heavy rains the day prior … this was actu­ally one of my favorite moments, which will be impos­si­ble describe, I think … we stopped for well over an hour on a moun­tain road, just out­side of Tur­ri­abla, and there were a few small houses there on the side of the road … the rea­son all was stopped was because traf­fic was rerouted from the main high­way to this small road, which could not accom­mo­date 2way traf­fic with such large trucks, mostly haul­ing green bananas under blue tarps … the locals all started brew­ing up cof­fee in a hurry and started sell­ing cups there, peo­ple rushed up with buck­ets of oranges for sale … a fine cama­raderie there on the side of the road, which I couldn’t take as much part in as I{d have liked to due to my lack of span­ish prowess … any­way, can{t really get it out right and proper …

The next day, in Cahuita, which is a SMALL costal town, hamacas abound, ganga, what have you … a big dif­fer­ence, as the cul­ture here is more afro than the inland his­panic … more patois being spo­ken than any­thing else … any­way, we head into the jun­gle of the Par­que Nacional there, look­ing for beaches between there and Pueta Viejo (super rasta town), check­ing out bugs and bird calls and what have you, then, a sweet white faced mon­key … look how cute … a few peo­ple gather round … pic­tures snap­ping … then he climbs down, and is look­ing at me facelevel from a branch, sniff­ing … jumps down, starts play­ing cute, up on hind legs … comes up to mid-thigh … then starts claw­ing at the small bag of food I had been des­ig­nated to carry at that moment … ok, start mov­ing along … oh shit, he{s fol­low­ing, get­ting aggres­sive … ok, start mov­ing quicker … then the trees start rat­tling, vines are trem­bling, and fuck­ing mon­keys are com­ing out of every­where … i expected to see Tim Roth in an ape out­fit jump out of a tree … then, this one mon­key, a wooly beast, comes down to the same face level and fuck­ing screams blood freez­ingly at me, bares hsi 4 good teeth, which just so hap­pened to be giant fangs … ok, fuck this, I drop the bag, and its a fuck­ing feed­ing frenzy … mon­keys in the bush with bags of fried bananas and a great load of coconut bread … after it set­tled, we grabbed the bag and high­tailed it, man­aged to sal­vage a loaf of bread and an avocado …

Then, after 2 days there, a rick­ety bus­ride to the bor­der, last stop — Six­houla, so impov­er­ished and hun­gry for tourist money, it was sad and i felt like a fuck­ing chump, gringo with wide eyes with a FANNYPACK (yeah, I know) … it was par­tic­u­larly bad due severe flood­ing the day before … all the garbage wound up in the cen­ter of town … migra­cion, then a long walk over a pre­car­i­ous train­tres­sel to Guabito, first stop in Panama, far more sketchy, hands mov­ing every­where … Toy­ota Taxis to Chin­guala, which was where the water­taxis that brought us here were stationed …

Last night finally arrived in the remotest spot I think one can find, a small island named Bas­ti­mento, no cars or road, one con­crete path down the shore for less than a km, 400 peo­ple total on the island … stay­ing in a lit­tle clap­board shack over the water, which sounds great til you’re told by Jaguar, the ‘inkeeper’, that ”all the ser­vice from the town runs into the water,” and that ”only the tourists swim in it” … stayed up on the porch there, sodft sewage water lap­ping benath the floor­boards, drink­ing guaro and play­ing domi­noes with my travel mates (Maja, Drew, and Jesse) and two girls from Hol­land named Heidi and Heidi …

Got up at sun­rise today, laid in the hamaca on the porch, ansd shortly there­after things got weird … peo­ple were work­ing on a sketchy lit­tle ”pier”, or dock, or what­ever, none but 50 feet away … the rhythm of mal­lot hit­ting bam­boo all­morn­ing, bro­ken only by some scream­ing and boys start­ing to jump into the water, then a woman SCREAMING, the death wail, ugh … they wind up pulling a body up out of the water, a local, maybe 30 years old, pants around his ankles … peo­ple start run­ning down the path, and pretty soon the whole town in on the dock or in the nearby par­que … seems that Willy, who has fits, went out this morn­ing at five-thirty to work out on a boat, which the townd­folk say they frown upon because he DOES get sick … twice before he had seizures while out on a boat, and had to be res­cued and mouth-to-mouth, the whole deal … so he had a seizure again, this time no one there …

Ugh. A strange day.

Bye.