Click on one of the photos to see the rest.

Here is a shot near the summit when I climbed up solo. Whiteouts and highwinds made it difficult to enjoy the view at the top (or capture many photos).

Goat, Simon and I are leaving  in a few days to climb Cotopaxi and Chimborazo.

Photos and updates are soon to come.

Cool bike statue in Ecuador.

Christmas gathering roasting up Cuyes, tasty roasted guinea pigs.

I’ve had a bit of time to make some updates. Got around to adding some more photos from the Cricamola River Exploratory to the Panama Photo Gallery. Click the photo above to see the updated gallery.

We think it must have been somewhere near the town of Quimbaya where JJ was bit by a mosquito that carried Dengue Fever. Cycles of fevers and chills swept in and out each day and he knew he had more than just an average flu. A clinic diagnosed him with Dengue and recommended a lot of water and rest while his platelets are restored . Here JJ is trying to get some rest (and raise his platelets) in a park while mobbed by the usual crowd of curious locals.

“It is far too dangerous to cross right now, please wait for the bulldozer.” Somebody offered, even stepped aside to make room under the shelter.

It was true.  Rocks were continuously tumbling down, some encouraging smaller slides to pile up against the mass of earth slowly taking over the final piece of road.  We waited for about five increasingly uncomfortable minutes; our clothes of course dripping wet, our bike shorts like soggy diapers.  Rocks kept scrambling down the sloppy earth.

Against their wishes I decided to go for it.  I backed around to get some momentum, hoping to get through the slide as quickly as possible.  A path large enough for a motorcycle or bike remained, but was filled with boulders, larger than my head.  Smaller stones sunk below the huge flooded puddle that marked the path to follow.

I watched the rocks sliding down from the very top and started pedaling across, trying to time my entrance as cleanly as possible.  Once in the slide, I could no longer watch the falling rocks, as I had to pay attention to the technical riding in front of me.

About halfway across, a car apparently got panicked and began to speed into the “derrumbe”.   Their tires fought for traction and skid from left to right before grabbing and jolting forward.  I like to believe they did not see me because they were on course to plow right over me.

I jumped off my bike and desperately dragged it off into knee deep mud, avoiding the car by mere inches.  Just as I got back on my bike, another car took the same line, putting me back into the mud.

Briefly, I looked up at the slide to see if any of the rocks were careening my way before continuing through.  The last ten meter stretch offered the frightening reminder of how dangerous these conditions could be.  A boulder the size of my front tire crashed into another just three feet in front of me and smashed into tiny pieces.  I was left only to imagine the potential carnage that offered me or my bicycle.

This was just our first real landslide, one of about a hundred to come as we made our way across the “trochas” (small dirt roads) of Colombia.

I paid closer attention to the roads as we made our way up a pass that would drop into the colonial town of Santa Fe de Antioquia.  We were on a road that was sporadically paved, and often taken over by the muddy mountain slopes.  Many sections left only enough for room for one lane of traffic to pass.  The power of these slides were visible long after they had been cleaned up, rocks falling from cliffsides high above, splintered the pavement into a spiderweb of cracks around the tiny craters and large sections just fell away, leaving a terrible void.

After climbing up the mountain pass, we blasted down the windy cliffside road that appeared almost apocalyptic. Destruction extended for miles without break.   Rocks the size of cars had fallen from the face of the mountain, forcing us to swerve dramatically across the road, while having to avoid the equally dangerous piles of small rocks that were carried across the road by streams of mud.

From Santa Fe de Antioquia, we found an old route into Medellin that passed high above the newer road made possible by a lengthy tunnel. At every steep corner we could look down at the flurry of cars and appreciate how sparse the traffic was on our road, even if it meant more climbing.

In Medellin, we spent time with some people we met in Capurgana during our kayak trip.  We also stayed in a hostel for a few days to check out their “Zona Rosa” (Discotecas, etc) and some nights we danced until five in the morning.

A television station from Antioquia put together a program about our trip, interviewing each of us and tagged along as we climbed out of the valley and its impossibly steep hills (which would have terrible landslides just five days later taking the lives of 22 people).  After partying in Medellin, we were a sad sight trying to climb those hills.

Pavement soon ended and we began passing through the smaller towns.  Our roads got progressively more challenging, particularly as the rain failed to ease up.  Coming out of Sonson, we were escorted by a police unit to help us find the entrance to the road we wished to take.

It began with a lengthy drop to the river below where a sizeable mudslide broke away just before the bridge.  Sounds of distant thunder came from the flooding river as boulders got pushed down the watercourse.

A motorcycle came across the bridge and the driver pleaded with us not to continue.  Apparently, he had tried to take the road and finally gave up after getting stuck in a “derrumbe peligroso” (dangerous landslide) crossing.  Cars had long ago given up on the thought of passing this road, even the chivo bus (colorful public transit so named for their ability to carry goods from farmers way out in the country) turned around half a day´s ride back.  Our path became two rutted out channels that soon flooded with water and mud; rocks began tumbling down with the torrent.

We took refuge for the night in an abandoned shell of a chivo bus.  Apparently, anything of any value or use had already been scrounged from it and farmers nearby used it to store sacks of chayotes they harvested and planned to carry to town on horseback.   The rain did not stop.

Early in the day we could still find dry channels to ride in, but as the road deteriorated more and the flow of water increased, we were left to search for a line with the shallowest water.  Xtracycles put all the weight towards the rear and gave us pretty good traction, even in streams of mud.  As the road got steeper, the terrain got frightening.

What were normally mere technical rock obstacles, had become raging rapids, and our trail was in every way a small flooding river.  Waterfalls of mud brought huge rocks crashing down from the cliffs above, across our path and falling into what used to be part of the trocha; now abandoned to the valley below.   Some stretches threatened to take you with the current and forced me to step off my bike and drag it through the current.
During one such section, I stepped back on my bike, and felt the alarming sensation of the chain popping and my feet spinning wildly.   I tossed down my bike and grabbed onto my chain hoping to salvage the Powerlink and make a quick repair while stopped at a place where a landslide was not just possible, but very likely.   Unfortunately, the Powerlink was swept away in the current.  I started cranking on the chain tool reconnecting the links until I discovered another broken section of chain in my hand.  My rear cassette started winding back taking the rest of the chain back through the derailleur.   I grabbed onto the end of it before it got dropped into the flooded trail.

I looked over at Goat who had witnessed what just happened.  “That was Sketch, man.  We don´t have that much extra chain,” he said to me.

“No kidding.  That cascade of mud looks ready to go.   I wish there was somewhere we could go.  Tough working on a bike in these conditions.” I replied.

“We´re basically at the bottom of this mountain, this flood is not going to end anytime soon.” He said, while looking over my shoulder at the torrent ahead.

It was a scary scene seeing the water charging its way down.   A few kilometers further up the hill we came upon a few isolated houses.  Some women were building up some embankments to divert the water from flooding into their homes.

“No pueden pasar por alla.” One of the women said with an edge to her voice, tinted in fear.
They explained to us that just three hours ago the road fell out and the river had been filled with mud and rocks.  

“Por favor.  Por Favor.  No pasear por alla.” Another beseeched.
JJ greeted me at the beginning of the mudslide,  “Let me help you cross this one.  Sean got swept up and stuck under his bike.  It´s pretty gnarly.”

A cascade had collapsed and taken with it the narrow corner of road.  Large rocks were lifted up by the muddy current and shifting the pattern of rapids while other parts were deceptively deep with mud.   Dragging the bike through it was quite a challenge, even for the two of us.

For the next few hours we were fighting the flood and landslides.  Knee deep mud and waist deep puddles made it a messy enterprise covering any ground.  Our bikes suffered from the exposure and soon my small chain ring was inoperable.  Within a few spins it was sucking into the frame and forcing me to step off.  Only my big front ring was left, forcing me to power through the steep, technical sections which often enough proved too much.

We reached the granddaddy of mudslides towards the evening.  A 150 foot chunk of the mountain just fell off the obvious result of a recent slash and burn that still charred the surrounding land.  A 20 foot drop broke the road and opened up to a steep muddy pit of earth.
We pulled off our bags and tried to carry them up and over the high end.  This proved a huge detour along cracks in the landscape that threatened to fall below.  We opted to slide into the mud pit and drag our bikes across.

Some kids stood at the edge of the road, warning us not to continue crossing.  “You guys are crazy.  It is too dangerous right now.”  No doubt living along a road so frequented by mudslides has familiarized him with the tragedies involved in landslides.

The dangers were obvious, but soon enough we found ourselves on the other side and were stoked to be back on our bikes.   Mudslides were going to continue to destroy the road making it even more difficult to cross.  We knew we had to get across as soon as possible

After a long day, we reached a fork in the road and a small little tienda called “Cuatro Esquinas”.  For the life of us, we couldn´t see the fourth corner, but it didn´t matter because the sun made an appearance and we had made it to the top of the pass.

We all ordered cold beers and sat on a bench in front of the store relishing our recent adventure and watching the locals ride by on their horses.  One rode his horse onto the porch, dismounted and ordered a beer.   He began a game of pool with the bartender and would come out every few minutes to check on his horse.

He fed the horse some neon green galletas and looked down at our bikes, then looked over at us and said, “¿Nice roads out here, no?”

I couldn´t agree more.

Merchant ships that run products up the coast to-from the Panama Canal squeezed into the narrow channel that was lined with houses on one side and the streets of Turbo on the other. Smells of diesel fuel, sewage, and fish saturated the heavy tropical air as we paddled through the filthy water looking for a ship known as the ¨Nuevo Jerusalem¨. Arrangements had been made to carry our kayaks back to Capurgana, a beach town and tourist resort further up the coast.

In Capurgana, Juan David let us “kombuchar” in front of his vacation home. Drinking a bit of rum “en caja” (from a box) later that night, we told him about our plan to paddle until we could sell the kayaks, and that we imagined the most likely place would be Cartagena. Many calls were made, and eventually he agreed to buy them, putting us back on our bikes in Turbo.

Our frames had begun to show serious signs of rust very early on our trip, and the aluminum nipples on my rims started to disintegrate. Reviving them in Turbo was ideal.

We were repeatedly assured that “Turbo es no mas,” a joke that seemed to help Colombia cope with the city that they seemed to resent being a part of their country. Yet, our reaction, possibly tainted by too much time at sea was that it was a culturally vibrant and colorful port town. Certainly not a pleasant tourist destination, but a very interesting pocket of the world nonetheless.

A sudden and violent thundershower forced us to drag everything under an awning in front of a shop that closed up to keep the rain from coming in. Instantly, a tremendous pile of gear had accumulated against the shop´s wall, everything we carried down from Panama, some all the way from Alaska.

We were fortunate to find a hotel with owners kind enough to let us drag all our bike parts and equipment into one of the rooms. To fit everything we had to get another room so we could rebuild our bikes, which we did for most of the day. If we weren´t working on bikes, we were eating.

Our time at sea , kayaking through the Kuna Yala had given us what I would consider an unhealthy appreciation for various canned meat products. There was a certain brand of “jamonada” called Black Label that we became particularly fond of, and then it vanished, leaving us with the inferior brands. In Turbo, we relished all the foods that didn´t exist while in Kuna Yala. Empanadas, fried with meat and potatoes, fried bread and cheese, fresh fruits and vegetables all became immediately available and eating occupied a good amount of our time.

JJ and Sean came back to the hotel and relayed a story to me. They had passed by the fishmarket and saw a salted fish slip off her stand into the sewage water below. She climbed over a railing and slowly made her way down to the fish. Out of curiosity, they stood around to see what she planned to do with it. She reached into the putrid water and grabbed the fish by its tail with her forefingers and clambered back up to her stand, wiped the fish against her apron and placed it back on the pile of fish.

Incidentally, after our third or so day in Turbo, we had gotten just about all the bikes put back together and were making preparations to leave. I woke up in our hotel room to the sound of J scratching frantically. I looked over at him and his hands were elevated and still. They were red and swollen, appearing deformed like old fashioned baseball gloves. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and saw that J´s eyes were swollen shut. He was in such bad shape I found myself avoiding eye contact with him. I offered to get him some food and some anti-allergy medicine.

Benadryl got rid of his itching, but the allergic reaction still progressed, and he started to develop hives on his arms and stomach. He slept the whole day away, hoping he would wake up from the nightmare. After two unsuccessful days of self-treatment, we talked him into going to the hospital where he was given an IV and treated with “fuerte” (strong) drugs.

Everybody asked him if he had eaten anything strange, and collectively we couldn´t come up with anything out of the ordinary. We even considered medieval possibilities, that maybe the sewage drainoff outside below our window was producing fumes that he was allergic to. After his treatment at the hospital he came back healthy as ever, and we could practically watch the hives disappear. By the end of the night they were reduced to tiny spots and eventually vanished.

The next morning the swelling had returned and a good 80% of his body was covered in hives. It was turning into a really ugly scene. He returned to the hospital and was there for a good 7 hours undergoing multiple treatments.

The hospital sent him away with about 6 vials of the drug and some new syringes and absolutely no clue what caused such a powerful reaction. Sean was designated to give him his twice daily injections as we hit the road.

Our first day of riding took us through cane fields and flatlands. The sun was shining, and we were glad to have begun riding as the sun came up. This would be the only day we´d ride without rain for the next month in Colombia.

Some cyclists at a small “tienda” invited us over for some “tinto” (tiny cup of coffee) and asked us about our trip. As we were getting back on our bikes, a motorcycle pulled up with the owner of the hotel on back.

With a great big smile he asked Sean, “¿Necesitas tu pasporte?” (You need your passport?)

Apparently, Sean had left it in one of the rooms as we packed up in the early morning hours.

Further down the road we passed multiple military checkpoints, maybe one every four kilometers. One of the “puestos de control militar” (military checkpoints) even stopped us to get our fingerprints and attempted to acquire a detailed itinerary from us. We did our best to entertain the idea of having a “plan” but they eventually realized how futile it was going to be, and released us. Fortunately, they called ahead to the next checkpoints and cleared the way for us.

Though we could pedal through the military checkpoints, they still had their eye on us. A few times I´d see a young soldier pop his head up from the thick roadside jungle. We even started to make bets amongst us, to see who could spot the most soldiers spying on us.

An entourage of tanks stopped when they saw us pedaling by. All the soldiers cheered us on as we passed by, asking us where we came from and where we were headed. They wanted to make sure we felt safe in their country.

Around the third day of riding we began to start climbing. There would be two large passes before we dropped into Medellin. The first climb took us up into the mountains, and tiny “derrumbes” (landslides) scarred the roads forcing traffic into one increasingly smaller lane.

Little did we know, landslides would define our experience in Colombia.

TO BE CONTINUED……

                     Our final crossing of the Gulf of Urabà was nearly complete. Turbo was close enough to make out the trucks and buses spewing exhaust along a coastal frontage road. The most striking characteristic the mystical fantasy world known as the Kuna Comarca was its absence of automobiles. We hadn’t seen a car in three weeks, yet Turbo had been waiting all along to reacquaint us with reality.

                      It was the home stretch of our Kayak trip, but fate would have it that our last day at sea would be no walk in the park. There we were, pushing hard in the blistering midday sun. Usually, around noon, we pull over in a shady beach for lunch. In this part of the Urabà Gulf, along the Mouth of the Rìo Atrato, vegetation was sparse. For the first time on our Kayak trip there was not even a hint of breeze, no cloud cover, and not a single palm tree to be seen.

   Just an hour ago, Goat and I had beached in front of a Colombian military base to ask if we could rest for a few hours. Our reception had been less than welcoming.

            “What’s inside this Kayak? Take everything out and show me piece by piece.” ordered the base commander.

               After we had painstakingly unpacked, the commander, drowsy and impatient told us to repack. Without comment he took his leave to go back and administer practice drills to his unit. Obviously the odd gringo traveler wasn’t worth his time.

                Eventually Goat and I came to resent the fact that we were left to stand in the open sun with a machine gun toting guard.

                “Do you think it might be possible to stand in the shade over there?” I asked the guard.

                  The soldier blinked, looked over toward the base commander, took off to ask permission. A few minutes later the base commander stomped over.

“I’ve had contact with higher command… by orders of General (so and so) you are to leave here immediately for Turbo.” Somehow this allusion to a recent communiqué just didn’t seem believable.

                        “But…”Goat started up. “We’ve got to wait for our friends!” Naturally Jacob and J. were nowhere in sight.

                        “I am sorry.” sighed the commander. “There is nothing I can do.” He was doing a poor job feigning a tone of lamentation.

                   Several stone faced guards closed in to expedite our departure. As we took up our paddles, a motor boat raced toward the base at full throttle. Some broad shouldered, imposing figure crouched low bracing himself against the wind, clenching a smoldering stub of a cigar between forefinger and thumb. By the looks of it, those grunts lined up practicing drills back at the base were in for a real ball busting. It was easier to understand how our arrival had been such an inconvenience to a base commander preoccupied with preparations for an inspection by “High Command”.

                   It turned out that Jacob and J. had somehow paddled ahead of us. I had received the news from an aging fisherman taking his midday lunch rest beneath a plastic tarp tent rigged on top a small sandbar.

               “They passed here half an hour ago, looked like they were taking a direct path across the bay.” Offered the fisherman. “The current is fast, you could make Turbo in an hour.”

                It seemed plausible that Goat and I would be able to catch up to them midway through the channel crossing. But as usual my grumbling stomach craved food and I popped open a tin of sardines, pouring the contents down my throat in seconds. The scene must’ve been somewhat disturbing to the fisherman who, suddenly shouted out:       

                “Look, you guys eat fish?”

                   We eagerly nodded.

                  “…And Plantains?”

                  “Yeah.”

     “Why don’t you sit for a minute and eat some of the fish stew in that pot.”

       As we were finishing off the man’s soup, another fisherman docked his boat on the sand bar.

               “Your friends are just beyond that point.” he said, pointing toward the murky water beyond the river’s mouth.

                 Goat sped ahead and caught up to Jacob and J. just as they were heading out to the bay. They hadn’t eaten, or at least, not in the luxurious manner that Goat and I had eaten.

               Within half an hour of paddling, I could feel the heat affecting basic cerebral functions. My brain like some squishy rubber ball squirmed languidly against a scorched skull.

               I was rambling to Jacob or J. “There is no Turbo; we are doomed to roam unfamiliar seas, hauling these deteriorating bicycles that’ll never touch land.”

   Everyone was constantly dousing themselves with unrefreshing sea water; Jacob with his rotting sponge, and me with a raggedy white shirt donated by some teenage kid who took pity on me back in Capurganà. Drinking water had exactly zero impact on our thirst. It had to be at least one hundred and ten degrees, with a hundred percent humidity.

               “I´m about ready for a helicopter evac, that 911 button the SPOT messenger is looking really tempting.” cried out Jacob, with the GPS unit in his hand. His finger was dangling over the 911 emergency button on the GPS device. It looked like he was desperate enough to push the button, and I was too haggard to convince him otherwise.

            Suddenly two motor boats approached from behind. It was the group of fisherman on whose island we had kambuchared the previous night.

              “Now tell me, have you ever seen a Colombian take a bike across the sea and then try to ride it over his entire country” blabbed one of our fisherman acquaintances. “No, only a tourist would do that. You’d never see a Colombian try this type of adventure.”

         “Hey Gringo…” Called out another member of the motor boat crew. “You need some water.”

            “I’ve got plenty… actually.” what I wanted to say was, please, just stay beside me on idle and provide a slight shadow, a buffer against the relentless sun. But I was incapable of making the translation.

            “All you had to do was wait Gringo, and we would have given you a ride.” Laughed one of the Boatmen.

     “Damn, these boys have no idea. As soon as they make the landing in Turbo they’ll be ripped off for sure.” Pointed out another.

            “All their bags, and boats, and bike parts… what’s going to keep the thieves at bay?” Said another.

                        Eventually the fishermen waved and took off at full throttle. Were they right? Would we all just be sitting ducks, an obvious criminal target? 

                        Beach front cafes with their umbrella tables were visible. Despite the booming bass of a Bob Marley song rattling through an overworked subwoofer, I swore I could hear glasses clinking, frosted mugs of delicious tropical juice blended with ice. We were so close. It was such an effort just to dip my paddle in the water.                                      “J.”I yelled. “Don’t get alarmed but I’m throwing myself over. I’m going to tie a rope around my shoulders and swim the boat in.”

                       “I suppose, ah…  I support that.” He mumbled. “Probably make about the same progress.”

                     The only thing that dissuaded me from trying the swim and drag technique was the presence of some bright orange rotting fish guts floating on the surface. But then, much to my disbelief, we made it, gliding up to the shallows where some thirty or forty locals waded and swam. I dragged my heavy rig up on the beach and kissed the sand; that tropical sun would torture me no more!”

                     At a café we had Coca-Cola instead of the refreshing tropical fruit juices of my dreams. We were all exhausted, but it was looking like we would have to paddle some more after lunch. We were sending our kayaks back by boat to the resort town of Capurganà. There we had made a new friend, a lawyer from Medellìn who had purchased our Kayaks and arranged for their transport aboard the Nuevo Jerusalem on Friday morning. It was Thursday evening.

                    “Really we should try to get a hold of the ship captain tonight.” commented Goat. “Who knows how early the boats leaving… and whether it’ll still have space aboard for our stuff?”

                   “It might take us another two hours to reach the moye (docks).”said J. Basing his prediction on observations from out at Sea. We had noticed that all the boats were continuing far up the coast from Turbo´s public beaches. Of course the moye was just on the other side of town, but a long peninsula still had to be circumvented to reach it. “We don’t have that much light.”

                 “Well we could give it a try and camp out somewhere down the line if we have to. It was all uninhabited land by the looks of it.”

                   We wedged our aching bodies back into the Kayaks. Feeling particularly devoid of motivation I paid a kid fifty-cents to push my boat into the water.

              “For the same price, you could’ve had your boat taxied the quarter mile to the moye.” Taunted J.

                    Why the hell didn’t I realize before? “It’s still a possibility.” I shouted. “If they got a come-along and a long plank, they could just ratchet me and my boat right on top of their roofrack. Wouldn’t even have to get out`a the `yak.” But I had already drifted too far away from my helper to put the idea into motion.

                    My Kayak pitched and rolled with the turbulent swell. It must have been the roughest water we had seen on our eighteen days at sea. Not more than a quarter mile down the coast I heard shouting. It was an officer on some hole-in-the-wall military base. Several young soldiers, rifles at the ready were running towards the road, apparently trying to head off Goat and Jacob who were up ahead and couldn’t hear the order to stand down.

                  “Come over here.” Yelled the commander. “Where are you going?”

     J. and I tried to get in close to the shore along the military installation, but it was all heavy surf crashing into sharp rock. With his Paddle outstretched, J. tried to brace himself well enough to comfortably pass on the necessary information. It looked like he would capsize at any minute.

                 “Look,” said the Commander. “The Military operates this coast… all of it, up until the docks of Turbo. You can’t be floating around this close to our operations.”

     “Yeah, well its getting dark…”Started J. “…and we’re not sure we’ll make it to the Docks by nightfall. Since we’re already here, what do you say to us setting up a Kambucha (This was the Colombian military’s word for camping) on your base? It’s much safer for us here with the military then with the thieves on the docks, no?” We both tried laughing to impress the fact that we were amiable enough

               Instead of saying no he shook his head slowly: Are you kidding me?”

           “What do you mean you might not make it?” Asked the commander. “You’ll be there in less than half an hour. The moye is right around the next bend.”

                The base commander’s prediction turned out to be accurate. In another half hour, just as it was becoming dark, we were pulling into the tainted waters that double as both sewer and harbor for Turbo’s commercial dock. There were no ‘minimum wake’ zones to ensure smooth sailing into the harbor; speed hungry people (of all ages) would zoom by and kick up a hefty swell. A pungent odor of fecal matter mixed with Diesel fuel and motor oil choked my sinuses. There were too many merchant ships to count; some brightly painted, others disheveled and falling apart, and a few completely un-sea-worthy shells sagging against the pier. But then we had no trouble finding the Nueva Jerusalem.

               “Hola,  donde esta el dueño de este barco?” Not wasting any time, we all started shouting for the boat operator.

              He came stumbling out the pilot house and looked down at the four gringos floating on their miniature boats.

          “We think that our friend from Medellìn contacted you… about transporting four Kayaks back to Capurganà?” Said J.

            His expression betrayed bewilderment. “No, I don’t know anything about it.”

                    It was no use trying to conduct negotiations from our disadvantageous position; the captain looked miles above us. We tried maneuvering in between the Nueva Jerusalem and the pier. J. and I managed to get up alongside the sea wall and pull ourselves out of the kayaks, but there was no room for Goat and Jacob.

                “We’ll go down the moye and look for a better place to disembark.” Goat shouted before taking off.

                 Many curious eyes had already gathered around J. and I; “Fools, your boats will be crushed between the ship and the sea wall…” Warned the dueño of the Nueva Jerusalem. “All it’ll take is one motor boat going by.”

                  There was at least a two and a half foot distance between the top of the pier and our boats below. Each of our boats weighed something like two hundred and fifty pounds. By employing three hands to each boat we were able to lift them out of the water and set them to balance precariously at the Pier’s edge. J. commandeered someone’s cell phone and tried to get in touch with our Lawyer.

          “Alright, this is the guy who claims he already had your consent to transport our boat,” said J. passing the cell piece over to the boat captain.

                  There was a small coffee table with five loud men playing cards. Money exchanged hands and drinks were brought from a local bar. Momentarily I got distracted from the lively gambling scene by a few questions from the local kids. When I turned my head to follow the action again, I was shocked to find the card players dispersed, and the card table being carried away. Thirty seconds later the clouds above opened up and released a torrential downpour. My clothes were soaked through in seconds. Everyone was running for cover. There was a sound like a shotgun blast as a halogen Street light exploded. The captain had retreated back into the pilot house to continue negotiations with our Lawyer. When he came out again, he gave us the thumbs up.

                 “Alright, we’re going to load your boats up on the deck tonight.”

         And with that we were officially finished with our Kayak trip. Goat and Jacob found a seedy hospedaje that would let us use one of their cardboard cells as a Bike repair room. In the morning we would begin the long tedious process of sanding down our bike frames. Three weeks of near constant immersion in sea water had wrought havoc on our equipment. It would days of sanding, greasing, and reassembling before we would be ready to hit the road.

I was ready to go at dawn. Fishermen were already trolling close by, and the sounds of livestock wailing and townsfolk awakening drifted from Mamitupu. Goat yelled at me from his hammock as I packed my Kayak; “Are you not going to cook breakfast here?”

“NO,”I growled, grumpy and wanting to eat. “Once we reach Mamitupu, I’ll cook. I don’t want a repeat of yesterday morning.”

“Are you mad…? Do you realize how miserable it’ll be, the whole village swarming around our stove…”Yelled back Goat from his Hammock. “You know, it took that police unit till noon to get off their ass and inspect our scene.”

Goat had a point of sorts but I decided to ignore him rather than argue further.

The inevitable Kuna greeting party was there to meet us on the shores of Mamitupu. It consisted mostly of women in their gowns of intricate geometric patterns (called Mola) cradling, without rest, their small children. A man, presumably the most fluent Spanish speaker at hand, stepped through the crowd to decipher our needs.

Goat carefully related the terms of our predicament including how we had spent much of last night searching the nearby bay for our friends.

“Ah, so it must have been you guys who were scaring the hell out of all the boatmen.” our helper said with a grin. “Everyone’s afraid of the eye robbers… Have you heard about this?”

“We have heard.” I answered, “and we are terrified.”

“We’ll call up the Panamanian Army.” Continued our helper. “They’re stationed in Aligandi and will be able to send a boat out to search for your friends. It’s easy.”

Unfortunately the public pay phone of Mamitupu would not be operational for another two hours. Some attempt was made to special request a pre-business hour transaction from the phone operator, but the phone turned out to be broken anyways.

“It’s ok.” assured our Spanish speaking helper. “I’ve got my friend coming; he’ll drive you out to Achutupu. It will only take ten minutes, and you’ll have a direct line to the Military.”

“Motor boats? Military patrols?” These measures sounded like last resorts, but then I couldn’t really envision anything else that would bring about a resolution to our problem. It seemed that Goat and I had been conducting a fairly thorough search and rescue operation, yet without any results. It was probably time to bring in a third party.

“My friend…”went on our helper. “He wants five dollars to cover the cost of your transport.”

“What do we need with a boat, we have our own boats.” I said to Goat. Then turning to our helper: “Thanks, but we’ll paddle ourselves over.”

The essence of our strategy seemed to be: “let’s not hesitate to throw ourselves at the mercy of the sea. J.J. and Jacob have to be out there somewhere. We could still find them. We could probably even find them without the luxury of being fed. And yet, dissatisfied by the absence of breakfast, my stomach was up in arms over the morning workout. Arriving in Achutupu completely famished, I quickly snuck away to a restaurant leaving Goat to deal with finding a phone. Breakfast was hot dog and corn cake and I had a to-go bag made for Goat.

We spent an hour and a half placing calls between Aligandi and Ustupu. After twelve attempts all we received was one busy signal after another. Some local man insisted on dialing in our calling card codes for us, otherwise we would’ve given up much earlier.

We were sitting on a bench across from a Kuna woman with a thick gold nose ring, an extravagant Mola blouse, and incredibly tight Wini -threaded beads wrapped around the lower leg that convey a Mola design. Sitting next to her was a military officer from Panama City, in camo-fatigues.

“They must’ve gotten in front of us somehow, cause no one around these parts has seen them.” said Goat finally. “There’s a military post in Ustupu, I think we should just go there and wait for them.”

“And not backtrack all the way to Aligandi.” I tried to sound sincere. “We’re so close man. And you know the whole town would be just ecstatic to see us.”

…… …….

Landing in Ustupu was by far the most tranquil town entrance we had ever made. No massive crowds gathering to stare and giggle, I felt like I could actually breathe. A short man of incredible energy (Unfortunately, none of us ever learned his name) instantly befriended Goat. He approached us out of concern that we had not asked permission to dock our boats.

“That yard you’ve got your boats on is owned by this lady.” the man said. “She’d rather that you didn’t continue using her space. But I’ve got a yard, and I’d be happy to provide a space for you till you find your friends.”

Just as the man had finished introducing himself, another man came running over with incredible news.

“Your friends have arrived.” He shouted, “They’ve just pulled up on the other side of the island.” Our new benefactor was polite enough not to press the urgency of moving our boats and accompanied us over to where our friends were rumored to be waiting.

We walked a trail snaking through the town, over long bamboo bridges spanning canals. It took us by the school, where Kuna Children in white collared shirts and navy blue trousers sung what appeared to be the national anthem.

“We’re getting jerked around…” I told Goat. “There’s no reason they would stop out here in the boondocks.”

Sure enough, every person we asked knew nothing about any Gringos in Kayaks. We returned to move our boats over to the house of our benefactor. A dozen or so Cayucos were parked in the back yard of the man’s house. It seemed he ran a kind of garage service for all the neighborhood boatmen. The man’s wife presented us with huge sticks of Sugar cane and obliged us to sit down and be entertained by the antics of the neighborhood children. They tried to implicate me in their favorite game, a version of Made-you-look without the hitting. Each time they caught you looking in the direction of their pointed finger they’d scream out: “Atras!”

“Gringo, come quick, a dog’s been thrown off a boat and is trying to swim back to shore.”

‘Ha, you think you can really get me to fall for that one.’ I thought. But the image tugged at the corner of my eye, a dog really was struggling to swim away from a dugout filled with rambunctious teenage kids enjoying a rousing game of Sink or Swim.

Older people as well were familiar with the pleasures of playing Atras! That afternoon, we were approached on three separate occasions by people claiming that our friends had arrived -conveniently on another side of town. Goat and I would follow the leader, ask the appropriate questions, and find out that actually it was us they had seen some hour and a half ago.

We informed some soldiers at the Panamanian military post of our friend’s absence, but all they really offered were consolatory words.

“Yeah the swell can be very rough out there.” the higher ranking soldier began. “Let’s look at a map… ah do you have yours by chance…. ah bueno… all right where did you lose them?”

“We lost sight of them somewhere between Mamitupu and Ustupu.” explained Goat, “But we were really far away from the coast, so it’s possible that they could have passed right by here undetected by us.”

“Yeah, the swell gets rough between here and that Mosquito Point. And not that you should worry about it, but there are sharks in these waters. I’m just saying… you boys are on those tiny boats out there, I don’t see why you wouldn’t be eaten.”

We lounged about the rest of the day underneath the incredible palm thatch roof, which had been constructed entirely by our benefactor.

“I had to trek out into the hills above the coastline to gather all the materials for this roof.” He explained. “It used to be that house building was a communal effort, everyone helping everyone else. Not so, anymore. You spend two or three years sweating over the process yourself and then all your neighbors send their children to invade your new home.” He smiled at the dozen or so kids rough-housing beneath his roof.

“You’ve hiked these hills often then… have you been through much of the Darien region?” I asked.

“When I first started as a missionary I spent a few years teaching in villages in the Darien.” It turned out that the man was a missionary with the “New Tribes Mission” -an evangelical Christian group that recruits disciples in the most remote indigenous areas on the planet. “In, let me see, 1993 I believe, I was working among some North Americans in a town called Pocuro. There were three men there with their families, and one day, they got taken by the Guerrillas.” Incredibly enough he was referring to that highly publicized event when Dave Mankins, Mark Rich, and Rick Tenenoff were kidnapped by the FARC. The New Tribes Mission couldn’t pay the five-million dollar ransom demanded by the FARC and all three men ended up dead.

As our host went on impressing us with his eventful life, who should have walked through the door but two lost souls risen from the dead.

“Good God, I guess the sharks thought you gringo boys too touch to chew.” I greeted J. and Jacob.

“Why’ve you guys been staying here the whole day? We’ve been out at Mosquito point waiting for you guys to show up.” Started J.

“Well, we had no idea that you’d be out there.” said Goat.

“Ah… but its like, we saw you last night heading toward the Island. I mean, you were so far out to sea that maybe you didn’t see us, but we were probably about twenty minutes behind you. I saw you stop for a minute and then start to head back toward the coast line, so I thought, great, they’ve finally realized what a crazy out of the way course they’ve been taking. You guys literally passed right in front of me. I mean I was probably just outside of shouting distance. I couldn’t figure out why you kept continuing on to the coast, except that maybe something went wrong and you had to pull over. I figured you’d definitely run into Jacob, who was just a little ways behind me.”

“Wow, that’s pretty shocking.” I said. “Cause I was looking around… I mean for the most part I was actively searching for you guys, and seriously, I really didn’t see either of you.”

Jacob, who’d stayed quiet up till then, spoke, “See that right there is hard for me to believe. I saw you guys and I was further away from you than J. The thought hadn’t crossed my mind that it was a matter of you not seeing us.”

“Yeah, I couldn’t see you either.” said Goat, “I was looking hard as well.”

“Goat, how the hell did you get so far out to sea.” went on J. “I mean, we overshot Mosquito Point ourselves and had to work back a bit towards the coast and we were no where near as far out to sea as you were.”

“Yeah, I don’t know,” Goat replied. “Sean said as much yesterday. It just looked right to me at the time.”

“Alright, it’s hard for me to talk to you guys right now.” Jacob mumbled. “J. and I haven’t really eaten today. Let’s go get some lunch.”

On our way to the eatery, we passed by that most helpful of soldiers.

“Ah, the Gringo’s have been reunited. Boys, your friends here were in tears the entire time. ‘The sharks ate them they cried, over and over.” He made a big show of acting out our displays of grief, knuckles rubbing eye lids.

When he passed, J. wiped his brow.

“Damn, I thought that guy was going to hand us the bill for that rescue plane that flew out.”

“A rescue plane searched for you guys?”

“Yeah, didn’t you have one sent?”

“No way!”

“Well I guess the Panamanian Tax payers get to handle that one.” said J. “That plane flew right over our heads and didn’t see us at all. Just kept on searching.”

After we had all eaten our fill we went over again the events of the previous night. It seemed that Goat and I, due to our position of looking into the sun, just didn’t have the same depth of perception available to Jacob and J.

“I guess that’s something good to know about sea travel.” said Jacob a little wearily. “Jeez, we just didn’t communicate at the beginning of the day what we’re heading for… make it clear to everyone where or when we should meet up.”

It was difficult to feel satisfied by any of the attempts to explain the last nights’ separation. If something serious had happened out in the ocean, if someone had capsized out at sea, nobody would have been in a strategic position to help.

“So,” I turned to J. “Did Mosquito Island live up to its name?”

In response, J. rolled his eyes into the back of his head. “You see my lower neck, right?”

“Of course, I was just wondering how far that rash extended.”

Both J. and Jacob pulled up their shirts to reveal, literally, a thousand tiny red bites.

“Dude, I’ve never seen anything like this place.” said J. “A cloud of jejenes rushed right into my hammock as I was getting in. You can’t kill them. And you know, this entire morning, while I was sitting out on the point waiting for you guys to show up, all these Fishermen were calling out to me: ‘How you like that Island… lot of jejenes huh.’ They were laughing at me…laughing as I suffered.”

“Yeah.” I laughed. “I can’t believe you guys camped on that god-forsaken island.”

“What I can’t believe is you guys paddling all the way back to Mamitupu last night. That’s burl. You guys would nearly be to Puerto Obaldia had you just kept going straight.”

“It might have been hard… but damn, I didn’t get bitten by a single mosquito last night. Our camp spot was as near to paradise as you’re going to get in Comarca Land.

J. Thought a second and said. “You’re right. A camp spot without mosquitoes might have been worth the extra effort.”

We spent the night at the place of our Missionary friend. He cooked us up an amazing Octopus stew, and played a few songs for us on his guitar for entertainment. In the morning we headed out for Mosquito Point Once again. For the first fifteen minutes we stayed in a tight formation. Then Goat started his weird swooping pattern.

“What the hell’s he doing?” Shouted Jacob. “He’s drifting way out to the left again.”

“Yeah, he’s way out there already.” I said. “At least we talked about stopping at that point.”

“Uh…. yeah… I guess he’ll get to the point before any of us despite his convoluted route” Said J. “No use really worrying till he’s plain out of sight.”