dream in jungle.

I had a dream last night that I was looking at pictures of the Camino, but all the pictures were of things that never happened. Still, I looked at them with the same fondness, love.

(I know) I am haunted (here in this jungle).

Here in this jungle the sounds of geccos, of howler monkeys ring out at 5 a.m. and the wood smoke from the fire billows through the cabin. We crave coffee this early, this hot and the floor boards creak under blistered toes and the sand drips from pores all the way down the stairs.

The house sits back from the ocean, tucked into gardens and trees with so many white-faced monkeys swinging, babies clutched to backs, throwing mangoes at the tin roofs.

Head sits in elbow at 5 a.m. as the sun rises out in the distance and the barrel of the Pacific crashes on the Playa Grande just into the yonder. It smells of salt, and sweat, in that elbow.

At 8 a.m. it is hot. Bothered. And the work is tedious, difficult (sometimes), dirty (mostly). And the sweet pineapple compensates, when it can make its way to camp.... otherwise, the fire burns the rice and beans and we hunch tired over bowls, laughing.

Hammocks in the sand at the burning bits of the day. Those afternoons... Sweet breezes, where they can be found and that fresh water pool two beaches over. Homes for all those burning daydreams.

Then the sun sinks early and the guitar and woodsmoke and cards sift through the air until the candle light melts away.

Darkness, bed with clean skin and all that sand and dreams of all those lovely things that never happened.

Bocas (in ten lines.)

Arrived in the searing heat of a tropical sun, sweat for days and body angry from all the hot.

Wandered that one main street backwards and forwards until that Camping Spot appeared, then wandered from there to the casa for ages.

Left a language, found a language, never understood that tight-lipped Panamanian of the Señora except when it came to scrambled eggs and feeling like family.

Explained wisdom and Jenga to Rodolfo, then sat silently for hours in the aftermath watching that tower sway precarious.

Was scarred by that mystical sea creature and the appertaining booty shot, antibiotics.

Danced in the street late into the night with that Costa Rican musician, to that sweet music I couldn´t hear, swaying.

Broke my heart good on that idle Thursday evening outside that Campíng Spot.

Broke someone else´s in misplaced... everything.

Bastimentos, mud.

Left Bocas in a mad rain storm, sweating on 2 hours sleep and that sting of goodbye.

(now Boquete.)

red frog.

Went to the beach the other day and for hours after felt the undertow pulling at me, the force of the waves crashing against my back.

Residual motion.

I´m sure some part of me is still out there, buoyed to those waves. I find sand on my skin, constantly. Expelling that ocean from pores.

The beach I most love here is named Red Frog. It´s the one that tanned me the most, bit me the most, is the most furious, beautiful. You get there by boat. Across the bay in amongst those other islands and past that expanse that spreads endlessly to the Caribbean Sea. Then down the straight into the marsh land on the gentle rolling waters and sounds of birds, flapping, all the way to the other tip of that isla named Bastimentos.

The boat docks and cracks against those wooden beams.

There are countless pathways to that beach. Some are raised pathways over mirky swamps that open onto gravel roads and twist around the low hills. Others are grassy, lush jungle walks through that reedy low hanging canopy with the sloths and flying things and other creatures unseen. Some ways are unmarked and secretive. Secret to you, to me. All of them open up to the gleam. The perfect brightness of sun hitting white sands and one hundred immaculate breaks rolling at your toes. That living thing crashing the color of emerald and spraying salt upwards, frothing at the feet of the jungle and the belly button of the sun.

Moving, always, pulling.

This beach is framed by points. Great bluffs extending like tropical towers at either end. Pathways twist up and into forest and slide with walkways of mud made from the rain. Wet earth squishes between toes and the salt water calls.

The sun burns quickly on this beach, but for all the heat there is also shade. Shelter, under those trees with the leaves the children make into cups. Cool, under those trees with the edges to hang clothes away from the ants and the sand that itches clean bodies. Safety from the sear of sunburn.

On the beach, local children run wild up the trunks of trees on tiptoe and across rogue branches to watch the tourists doze on brightly colored sarongs, with coolers of rum and Platanita Loca. They all carry purses of banana leaves housing tiny communities of those rare red frogs. They pose for photos in exchange for things like cookies and sometimes just purified ice that they melt in the big leaves of those low hanging trees and drink like the water they can´t.

But they mostly like Oreos and cheese flavored Pringles, and that´s my favourite part. Those children on the beach hand in hand with the tiny Red Frogs and the perfect waves rolling...