dusk, idle bets.

An idle bet in that mountain town called Boquete, and direction changes.

I arrived in the blessed cool of nightime. Streets illuminated by the warmth of so many people in curb side cafes, laughing. I arrived to the Getsemeni with the sound of salsa breezing in my ear and the stars, clear up in the sky.

Cartagena is like a dream. Those delicious and infrequent dreams that take bits of memories from past loves and plaster them together with that sweet hue of fondness.

It feels like Paris, like Barcelona, like Santiago, like Montreal.

There is some kind of magic here, undoubtedly. Somewhere, buried in the mortar of the old city walls, the bricks of fossilized coral, the slow moving hands of the clock tower, the chipped yellow paint of so many buildings, or the flooded tunnels of the Castillo, there is some magic.

This city has a brightness, with so much yellow, orange. It makes the sun feel closer, like it could be touched only by running fingertips along those old walls of those old buildings.

Burning.

The city seers and laps steam into the Bay at midday. And when the rain comes, it comes hard, making swimming pools out of potholes, sidewalks.

In the evenings, the waning sun burns down the backs of buildings, alleyways, and turns everything golden for that small bit of time. It marks out small pathways for that dry lightning that billows to the sea every night in this season. Those white flashes casting strange shadows off the tips of roofs, down onto busy streets.

So the dusk burns down to fires in the sky and sultry struts through that old town, with vendors selling mangoes, and fried cornmeal and cheese cakes, and fresh fruit juices, beer. It vanishes to the bare bulbed delight of cabinas of book vendors and the smell of grilled meat, potatoe, the constant click of horses and carriages, and the warm tones of music always in the air.

An idle bet and I find Columbia.

san blas, translated.

I arrived to San Blas in the biggest storm. I was on a tiny boat crossing the water to that island called Diablo when the sky turned dark gray and the ocean got so angry. The waves stood up and went over the boat with so much fury. It was stunning, frightening.

I arrived drenched to the bone... papers, clothing, identity, self.

The islands of the Kuna Yala are beautiful, isolated. I could almost wrap my arms around them and carry them away. They are small, perfect, drowned into the ocean as they are. Yet, I walked around them and felt lost, after Bocas and so many people and...

The sand of Diablo was clean and white and burnt toes in the midday sun. The water was a blue that lives mostly in dreams. The sky was always clear, bright, except at noon when the rain came through, always. It hammered on the grass roofed huts and dripped dampness, down onto hammocks.

At night the leaves on the trees made the sound of raindrops and the sky blew the wind around the slats of those huts, and I dreamt of things that have passed and people I miss and...

I dreamt of speaking perfect Spanish, articulating all those things that need out, with that softness that flows the words off the tongue, loose. I dreamt of what I should have said, and I woke up wondering where to find all those words lurking around my subconsious. Words of perfect Spanish for...

I dreamt of goodbye. And missing things.

I bought a new camera in the city and I kept trying to take photos, to start the archive of experience over, but all I can remember is those pictures I took at the last goodbye, and how I wish I could get just those back.

Now.

I lost a bet and came to Columbia. Sweet Cartagena.

quelonios, unembittered.

(My favourite project, despite the thievery.)

Dirt constantly under finger nails from so much scratching, so much digging in the weeds. So much sand and salt expelling from pores, always. It`s hard to feel clean anywhere here, tangled up in the mangrove of wetlands. It`s sickly sticky, sour from the sweat. Try to clean it, wash it all away but it`s already permeated. Already a part of that intangible thing that will become the new you, somehow.

Tired, constantly, despite the hours upon hours of attempted sleep on those rough wooden slats and that slight piece of foam that presses into your one sore hip sharply. Struggling to stay asleep under that fallen mosquito net while the sea crashes deep just over yonder and small Spanish voices speak and poach turtle eggs down by the break.

It´s painfully beautiful on that island, lead to by endless water ways with uprooted trees guarding secrets and making cages for all the things that creep in the dark. Shades of every green shine in the sun and are dotted by the spiky red flower who`s name I never know. When there is red here, it is exquisite, intangled in all the green.

Here, the ocean moves pale grey in every direction and makes awkward swimming, standing. Everything about it is an opposite to it`s sweet sister down the coast that sways slowly with white sands and cristalline green waves.

At night the sea creatures crawl upon the sand like ancient things. Those leatherbacks, heaving and hawling all of themselves out of the surf to nest. They labour over the sand, digging into it for ages. Making it perfect. Making it sweet. And when the work is done, 100 eggs lay in the coolness below. Hoping for new life... on that island called Quelonios.

it`s tuesday somewhere.

Here is the part I`m at: the things that I have the hardest time forgetting always happen on idle Thursdays. Broken hearts, bad news, insolent dreams.

The days keep melting into each other in a very disconcerting way. Like just around the corner, time is going to bear it`s teeth and gnash at my burnt skin and that will be the end. I`ll be scarred by all those spent days.

I can`t keep track. That`s really the problem.

Right now, I`m going backwards in a thin attempt to remind myself why I want to continue going forward.

Costa Rica got to me. That`s the plain truth. Admist the tangles of mangroves and salty sea air, in the clear mountains, or in the dampness of those wetlands I could never quite find a connection. It felt edgy, in a way that made you keep your things close, or argue with taxi drivers trying to overcharge, negotiate the price of a mango, or talk back to those leering boys. It felt, exhausting. And in the end it doesn`t matter because if they want your stuff, they`ll go into your room and get it while you`re relocating a nest of turtle eggs at 3 a.m. on an idle Thursday, somewhere on that remote island called Quelonios.

And that`s how Costa Rica became erased. It vanished along with all those woven bracelets, and sweet shell pendants from Montezuma, and my favourite pen. It went along with my camera and wallet and 2gbs of memory and all those beautiful shots of friends and beaches and homes for the small time they were all mine.

All I can hope is that my stuff fed someone in need.(Though I doubt my favourite pen could buy a grain of sand.)

I`m still a little bitter.

Mostly because of the law of 3`s. Hopefully this is it. Either way, I`m outta stuff. Clearly. So I`m thinking of having a t-shirt made that says:¨No Tengo Nada¨, so the next guy is at least warned. Though I assume that would only attract more leers. Cultural differences abound..

(One day I`ll tell you about the day I wore my I heart Panama shirt.)

So.

Right now, I`m going backwards in a thin attempt to remind myself why I want to continue going forward. I came back to Bocas, to a family and friends and town that are familiar. To happy hour at Mondo Taitu and that electro 80´s night. To the Columbian vendors across from the Iguana that drink boxed wine with me and tell me how beautiful and safe their country is. To that special place with the hammocks and tents where so many hours have been spent and that I always carry in my heart.

And here, I`ve been stuck. In Bocas. Because that`s what happens here. People stay. The searing heat, and golden sun, and sweet air make everything slow, easy. Like being stuck in a vat of syrup. Delicious and hard to escape from.

But I know I have to move on. I have to find those other places where my spanish is more necessary. Where I can find those friends that moved on ages ago to places like Columbia, Peru. I need to pull at the thread and tear away...Panama City, going backwards. Mañana, talvez.

xoxo

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...