The Sound of Longing

I just sat down at my tablet to do some reading. I'm currently in the bar of the jungle lodge I've been working at for the past few months. Looking out the window, banana trees and dense jungle are the forefront for cloudy, Panamanian skies. The room I'm in is decorated with funky paintings of pit vipers and colorful amazons. There is no backlit Budweiser sign behind the bar, but a collage of piecemeal flattened Balboa cans. My setting is not my usual one. I am not at home.

I put on my headphones and opened TuneIn Radio. This has been my closest replacement for Pandora, which doesn't work outside the U.S. I selected Bluegrass as the genre of radio for my little study session. I opened up my notebook as the music buffered slowly -- jungle wi-fi can be a bit dodgy. The music came on, and the plucks of a banjo hit home. All of a sudden, I was holding my little cousin Zoey and dancing around my Mamaw's kitchen. Somebody had just come in from smoking a cigarrette, and Mamaw was pulling a muscedine cobbler out of the oven. Emily was making everyone a cup of coffee while Papaw flipped through the guide on television. It never seemed to leave breaking Fox News, football, or the Gaithers. Uncle Clyde was outside laying in the grass, head propped up on a gentle hand, smoking a filterless Camel. Either barefoot little kids would be falling over him, giggling, or he would be playing fetch with someone's dog. Three or four men were huddled around the open hood of a truck or the antlers of a winter buck. 

Traveling around the world, meeting new people, and experiencing different cultures. All of these things thrill me. I love the nomadic lifestyle that my backpack has opened me up to. I have loved all of my trips, and I'm constantly dreaming of future adventures. With that said, while I'm away the pull of home gets stronger every day. Familiar scents, tastes, or views make my heart actually ache a bit with longing for home. Talking to my family over the phone or Facetime help, but it was pretty rough around the holidays. It seemed like every time I talked to Mom she was with the family, all gathered together. I've watched Dale, my sister's dog, get bigger and bigger with each video call. 

Don Cune's Organic Paradise

We took a trip down past the closest village, Valle de la Mina, and visited a farmer known for his wild blend of German, organic farming techniques and local superstition. The result is the finest coffee in Panama, and we were privileged enough to have Don Cune walk us through his farm -- quite possibly the most beautiful explosion of life, scents, and tastes that I have ever experienced.

Into the Clouds

For the sake of not putting myself any further behind on the blog, I will let these photos stand alone. They begin with a view back to the road and the Lost and Found Lodge sign while I was ascending the mountain the first time. The lodge is located in the Chirquí province of Panama, more specifically in the Fortuna Forest Reserve. The reserve is a cloud-rain forest, and it is such a different climate than anything I'm used to. Weird bugs, deadly snakes, cute monkeys, torrential rains, citrus fruits the size of your head, and fantastic people. I hope you enjoy the photos. Thanks to my momma for the awesome camera. "Look mom, no filters!"

Arrival to Panama City

My first time flying with Spirit Airlines brought me from Atlanta to Ft. Lauderdale, and then from Ft. Lauderdale to Panama City, Panama. Within seconds of stepping out of the airport, wading through a hoard of eager taxi drivers looking for a tourist to rip off, I was dripping with sweat as the humidity punched me in the face. Welcome to Panama. It turns out that I did allow one of these taxi drivers to rip me off, given that you can't buy a bus card at the airport. So, thirty minutes and $28 dollars later my taxi driver dropped me off at Los Mostros Hostel... but only after nearly killing us sixty times on the carretera. The hostel didn't allow the AC to be turned on until 9:00pm, and it only ran until 9:00am. Best twelve hours of my life. Alright, that's a bit dramatic, but damn it was hot. 

The next day was a quick tour through the city. We started with a walk along the cinta costera, stopped at a local fish market for ceviche and fresh coconut juice (the most wonderful elixir in what was still a humid hell), and then to the old part of town - casco antiguo. Xavier, an amiable cab driver that we lucked out with, drove us out the the Amador Causeway and showed us the Panama Canal. Ships - huge freighters - covered the horizon, anchored and waiting for paperwork to clear so they could pass through the canal, saving weeks of transit otherwise. After seeing Amador, which is gorgeous but completely touristic, we decided to lose ourselves where the locals go. I asked a panameña where the locals go for a market, and she pointed us to la Plaza de 5 de mayo. A 25-cent bus ride (with AC, praise the Lord) took us to the station. Hours later, after wandering through mazes of artisan craft booths and street peddlers selling bootleg movies and discount cologne, our hunger drove us into a hole-in-the-wall restaurant offering typical Panamanian food. For $3, my plate was piled high with rice, black beans, chicken, vegetable, and a salad of carrots and potatoes. I only finished half. The heat doesn't really make one want a hot meal. 

Back at the hostel, we made use of the pool to cool down, showered, and hung out with some of the other guests. There were two German gals who were heading to the Albrook bus terminal, same as us, and we decided we would share a cab over. Leaving at 8:30, we took a cab from Los Mostros so we could be at Albrook early for our respective midnight buses. The story gets fun here. When they were trying to check in, the two Germans, who speak no Spanish, were told by the apathetic ticket-teller that they were not allowed to pass into Costa Rica from Panama. The problem was that they were "missing" a card that should have been given to them upon departure from Ecuador. Nobody ever gave them a card. They asked me to translate, and after about 5 conversations with woman at the counter, and even going so far as to call the German embassy in Panama, there was simply no way they would be allowed to board the bus. Hoping to have better luck by leaving for Costa Rica from Davíd, they bought a ticket on our bus and rode with us through the night, six hours, to Davíd. 

Once we arrived to Davíd, our first goal was to find the Tica Bus office and attempt to straighten our Eliza and Daria's ticket issue. The first person told us that the ticket vendor was actually located in a shoe store - I know right- and that it was on the same corner as the Hotel Puerto del Sol. Easy enough. We went. No shoe store. So I waltzed into the hotel and asked where the Tica Bus office is. 

"One block down, turn right for three blocks," she said. 

"One block, right, then three?" I asked. 

Hesitation. "Hmm...four blocks."

"One then four?" I asked again.

"Sí. No, tres cuadras."

Unsure whether this woman had any clue at all, we struck out and walked, not three or four blocks, but six without seeing anything. Asking directions again, someone overheard and told us with full confidence that it was just around the corner. Success! We thought. These directions took us to a hostel being remodeled, inside which the owners told me that there did indeed used to be a Tica Bus office next door... fifteen years ago. Desperate and pissed off, and needless to say sweating, we decided to just get a taxi to the terminal and ask someone more official. As we were loading into the cab, a very homeless-looking American ex-pat walked up and, in a comforting mid-west accent, said, "Hey you're looking for the Tica Bus office right? It's at the very top of the bus terminal, you can't miss it." Great! We're heading that way anyway. None of you will be surprised to hear that there was, once again, no Tica Bus office. It was at this moment that I remembered a lesson I learned when lost in Argentina. Typically, people from Central and South America have such a strong desire to be helpful that they will literally invent directions to a place that doesn't exist, just so they don't have to send you away without an answer. 

For anyone wondering, there is not... NOT... a Tica Bus office in David. So don't even bother.