REFLECTIONS OF MY BRIEF TIME IN PANAMA

When I arrived in Ciudad de Panama and almost immediately spotted a man in shorts wearing a Panama hat, white towelling socks and navy blue boating shoes of the fashion normally worn by men that own yachts, I thought to myself, yes, this is exactly what I thought Panama would be like.

But its not all like I imagined. Half of Panama City reminds me of Havana in Cuba, with its delapidated colonial buildings, city centre slums and poor people sitting in the streets listening to battery operated radios. The other half reminds me of New York, although that half, the sykscraper'ed half of Panama's capital is actually referred to as the 'Miami of the South.'

But whereas Cuba is a place stuck in time moving sideways, Panama is definitely a country on the up. I have seen more cranes in Panama City than I have probably seen in all the other Central American countries I have visited put together. The regeneration of Casco Viejo and the many big-chain hotels that are springing up along the sea front will generate more tourism, and the expansion of the Panama canal in a few years will generate more revenue for the country

According to the local girl Adriana that I met up with during my last day in the city, Panama made more revenue in the first two years of running the Panama Canal than it did in the previous eighty (80) years of the US running it. Now it's not got any greedy outsiders holding it back, Panama is a Central American country that is definitely on the up.

 

 

THE RBOS RUIN MY DAY IN PANAMA CITY

What annoys me more than anything about today is that I specifically told the Royal Bank of Scotland back in March that I was going travelling. Don't block my bank card if you see purchases or cash withdrawals in Central and South American countries, I told them before I headed off to Cuba. Yes, Mr McL____, they told me with a confidence that gave me confidence, we have put a note on your bank account so this definitely will not happen.

Today I went to an ATM in Panama City to withdraw some money, and received a message on the cash machine screen telling me to contact my financial institution. Assuming it was a mistake, I went to another ATM. Please contact your financial institution, the second machine told me as well. I was already spitting by the time a third machine spat my card back at me and advised me to contact my financial institution

The problem I had was that I was in Panama, my financial institution, the Royal Bank of Scotland is in Scotland, and I had about five dollars in my wallet to contact then. My first phone call to got me an engaged tone and swallowed my 25 cents. I was down to 4 dollars and 75 cents and starting to panic. So I called my Dad.

I called my Dad via Skype on the laptop that I bought yesterday in Panama City. The same laptop purchase that I assume caused the RBOS to put a block on my bank account, given I have withdrawn money in Cuba, Mexico, Belize, Guatemala, USA, El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa Rica and Panama over the last five months and not had any previous problems with my card being blocked. 

I am glad I had the laptop (which I bought because Panamanian electronics are cheap, and because I am sick of spending hours (and dinero) in internet cafes when there is free WIFI everywhere), and that there there was some aforementioned free WIFI in a nearby shopping mall for me to use so I didnt have to eat into my four dollars seventy-five cents. I am also glad my Dad was sitting at home in Scotland on his computer when I skyped him in a panic.

It took one and a half hours to get my bank card unblocked. One hour and 25 minutes of this was listening via Skype to my Dad get increasingly annoyed with several incompetent RBOS call centre monkeys that kept telling him I needed to call them myself, and couldnt seem to understand that I was in a country several thousand miles away with not enough money to call them. 

The other five minutes was spent talking to a call centre monkey myself, by my dad holding his landline phone in Scotland to his computer microphone, so I could talk to the monkey by shouting loudly at my laptop in Panana, whilst everyone in the shopping mall I was sitting in looked with bemusement at the rude extranjero with the increasingly angry red face.

Those Scottish wbankers have a lot to answer for today. They took 1.5 hours to let me re-access the money they were blocking with their own cock-up, made me 3 hours late to meet the girl I was seeing today, and left me in a foul mood for the rest of the day. WBankers.

The RBS share price over the last few years trended similarly to my patience with their call-centre staff today.

Footnote:  Thanks Dad.

TWO SMALL WHITE LIES IN PANAMA CITY

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. I told two small lies today in Casco Viejo, the old part of Ciudad de Panama.

The first lie involved an old man eating strawberry ice-cream in pink shoes at a street corner. I told that man that the photo I was taking was only of the signs above him, and that I was not trying to take a picture of him (in his girly shoes).

The second untruth I told today involved my feet, when I told a man in the street that had enquired after my big toes that yes, I had indeed had two recent accidents, rather than having to explain the real reason I walk about with two plasters on my toes whenever I am wearing sandals.

Amen.

 

HITTING SNOOZE IN PANAMA

I was lucky in my laziness. If I had pressed the snooze button on my alarm clock just a few more times this morning, I wouldn't have seen any ships passing through the Panama Canal.

My Lonely Planet guidebook (or rather Carlos the Mexicans Lonely Planet Guidebook that I took photographs of all relevant Panama City pages when I was with him in Costa Rica, since I myself am not travelling with a guidebook for Central American), advises that the best time to see ships passing through the canal is between 9-11AM and 3-5PM. This in mind, I should really have got up this morning when my alarm clock went off at 6AM, instead of hitting snooze many times.

I finally got up at 07:30, making it to Miraflore Locks on the outskirts of Panama City around 09:30, just in time to see two large container ships passing through the canal, and just in time to hear an announcement recommending that all tourists standing on the viewing platform take their photographs immediately, as the next ships were not due to come through the locks until 14:30 in the afternoon.

I would not have been very happy if I had arrived a little later, and had to wait 5 hours to see ships in the Panama Canal. Next time I will not be lazy. Next time, I will not hit snooze.

 

REFLECTIONS OF COSTA RICA, AS I HEAD FOR PANAMA

Travellers I met in Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras and Nicaragua had warned me that Costa Rica was expensive, so when I crossed into Costa Rica and paid 7 dollars and 5 dollars for a private room with shared bathroom for my first two nights in the country, I started to think things had been wildy exaggerated by penny-pinching backpackers trying to scrimp their way across Central America. 

As it turned out, they hadn't. Things were a lot more expensive than in the other Central American countries I have visited up to now. A bottle of coke cost the same in Costa Rica as it does back in Britain, and an Imperial beer cost the equivalent of GBP 1.50 in most places, which despite tasting good was a a hard cerveza to swallow when I had just been paying GBP 0.50 for a bottle of Toña in Nicaragua, and similarly low prices for cervezas in Honduras, El Salvador and Guatemala. I nearly fainted when I got charged GBP 1 for a stale iced doughnut, and today, I almost fell into a coma when a thieving taxi driver tried to con me out of fifty quid for a 10 minute taxi journey.

Life may be 'pura vida' here in Costa Rica, the self-named Switzerland of Central America, but its definitely an 'expensive vida' as well. Looking at my depleted bank balance in a Panama internet cafe this afternoon makes me want to break down and start crying, as asides from an expensive game of golf in Costa Rica (that cost more than eighteen holes at St Andrews), I have absolutely no idea where I spent all my money... 

A LUDICROUS TAXI FARE IN SAN JOSE, COSTA RICA

- ' Treinte cuatro.' the taxi driver announced. Thirty four.

There was no meter in the taxi, but I knew he couldnt be charging me 34 colones (~ 5 pence) for the 10 minute car journey from my hostal in Central San Jose out to the Ticabus bus terminal. Assuming he was telling me the charge was 34 hundred colones (about GBP 5.00), I passed him a 5000 colones note. It seemed a little expensive for such a short journey, but not overly so in Costa Rica, the Switzerland of Central America.

- 'No.' the taxi driver shook his head. - 'Treinte cuatro. Este es solo cinco.'

The blood started to drain from my face. The taxi driver was trying to charge me 34 thousand colones, about GBP 50, for a 10-minute taxi journey. We looked at each other intently, the dumbfounded extranjero half-expecting Jeremy Beadle to suddenly appear, and for the the taxi driver that was trying to charge him a ludicrous amount of money to start laughing and tell him it was all a joke. But the taxi driver didn't smile. 

- 'No tengo mas dinero.' I shook my head firmly. No way was I paying more than GBP 5 for the short journey I had just made.

The taxi driver shook his head back at me. After a few minutes of me explaining that the security guard had told me it would cost no more than 5000 colones for my journey from central San Jose to the Ticabus terminal, the driver made a phonecall to check the cost of the . A revised price of veinte cuatro thousand colones (about GBP 35) was quoted.

- 'No tengo mas dinero.' I shook my head again. I wasn't paying fifty quid for a ten minute taxi journey, and I wasn't paying thirty five either. I suggested we continued our conversation in the bus station terminal, as the employees there would know how much it should cost from such a journey and be able to help us settle our disagreement. The taxi driver suggested I was wasting his valuable time, and I could pay him the rest in dollars. Shaking my head again, I reminded him that I was not American, and informed him that 'No tengo mas dinero' meant I had no other money of any other international currency with which to pay him.

We stared at each other again for a minute or so, neither of us batting an eyelid. Eventually, the driver realised he was not going to sucker me out of any more money, sighed loudly, drove me a couple of blocks away from the bus terminal and let me out his taxi with no change from my 5000 colones.

I couldnt be bothered arguing, as 1) I had a bad hangover, 2) my bus to Panama City was leaving shortly and 3) my rucksack was in the backseat and I was sitting in the frontseat - I didn't want him driving off with my rucksack when I got out the car.

In the end, I caught my bus, inwardly celebrating somewhat of a moral victory. Paying 5000 colones had left a bitter taste in my mouth, but paying 24000 colones would have tasted like the taxi driver had just eaten a large plateful of frijole beans and then curled one off in my mouth.

Note to self: Never get in a taxi again that doesnt have a running meter.

Footnote:  The taxi drivers name was Julio. I might be wrong, but I have a vague recollection that that was also the name of the golden-toothed thief that trying to steal my wallet in Nicaragua. 

A QUICK VISIT TO A BROTHEL IN COSTA RICA

Last night I went to a brothel. I had already heard of the Hotel Del Rey in San Jose when Marcela, my Costa Rican drinking amiga for the evening suggested that we pop into the Hotel for a quick look at the local prostitutes, as the taxi driver that brought the Australians and me back from the golf course earlier in the week had recommended it as a great place to go for a night out on a Monday - he had clearly misunderstood me when I asked him where was a good place to go to drink with locals.

A picture tells a thousand words, but unfortunately I don't have any photographs of the first (and last) brothel I have visited in my life, as when Marcela asked four ladies of the night if she could have her photo taken with them as a souvenir for me, they were unsurprisingly not overly keen.

What I can say from my ten minutes in the Hotel Del Rey, is that it had a bar and casino area filled with about 100 lycra-clad ladies of questionable morals, 30-40 sleazy men of questionable marital statuses and was generally a little seedy and distasteful. 

The lovely Marcela and I had one quick Imperial and left for another pub.

Marcela and I drinking Imperials

CLIMBING VOLCAN URAZU

I didn´t climb Volcan Irazu today. I was supposed to, but that was before I met up with the gorgeous Marcela and her friends last night to go on a free bus tour of various museums and art galleries in San Josè. It was also before numerous bottles of Imperial cerveza, a vodka tonic and a glass of Sangria with the gorgeous Marcela and her friends in a Costa Rican rock bar after the bus tour.

I got to bed at 2AM after making plenty of banging and crashing in my hostal dormitory, and probably a fair amount of snoring as well. No way was I getting up at 7AM to head off to bag another volcano, not with the hangover I had this morning. My head hurts just thinking about how much my head hurt this morning when I woke up, turned my alarm clock off and swiftly went back to sleep.

GALLO PINTO WITH A LOVELY TICA IN COSTA RICA

Traditional Costa Rican breakfast with the lovely Fiorella

SLEEP DEPRIVATION IN HOSTAL PANGEA IN COSTA RICA

Staying in the Hostal Pangea in San José has reminded me of my three months of uncomfortable nights 'sleeping' in backpacker dorms in North America a few years ago.

A good nights sleep is virtually impossible in any hostal, and particularly in the Hostal Pangea. Most travellers use San Josè as a transport connection between other places, and therefore need to get up at the crack of dawn to catch their next plane or bus out of Costa Rica´s capital. Most of them will only spend one night in Hostal Pangea, and drink one too many Imperial cervezas in the bar, before staggering back to the dorm room, crashing into everything in the dark, before collapsing in their bunk bed and starting to snore loudly. Most of them will wake up around 4AM to catch their plane or bus and realise they forgot to pack their rucksack the previous night, and have to rustle about in the dark for 20 minutes in their rucksack, before staggering off with a hangover to catch their bus or plane.

All the banging, crashing, snoring, 4AM alarm clocks and rucksack rustling wakes me almost every night. It didn´t annoy me so much the first two nights as I was doing my own fair share of banging, crashing and probably snoring after drinking with the Australians in the hostal bar, however last night I went to bed early, but hardly slept all night. The fat swine on the top bunk above me woke me every time he rolled over in bed, which was approximately every twenty seconds. The fat swine above me also woke me every time he went to the toilet, which was three times. Several months of travelling on local buses with no toilet has clearly strengthened my bladder, as I rarely need to get up during the night after a skinful of Central American beers. In the Hostal Pangea, I just need to wake up to listen to other weaker-bladdered travellers getting up in the middle of the night to rush to the toilet before they wet the bed.

If the fat swine on the top bunk above me wets the bed whilts I am sleeping underneath, I will really be unhappy. If I have to sleep in a dorm room during my six weeks volunteering in Bogota, I will really be unhappy

CLIMBING VOLCAN POAS IN COSTA RICA

 

A SMALL WORLD IN CENTRAL AMERICA

It really is a small world. This afternoon, I was sitting in my hostal in San Jose, Costa Rica, telling Kirk the Australian about how I had seen the same German couple in San Pedro (Guatemala), Utila (Honduras) and then in Leon (Nicaragua), and how I had also just spotted a couple in our hostal that I recognised from Utila as well. 

Kirk nodded in agreement, and told me about how him and Fabian had bumped into a loud Austrian on three different occassions in Nicaragua, to the extent they had jokingly ended up asking him if he was stalking them.

An hour later, who should walk into the hostal bar but the very same loud Austrian. The very same loud Austrian who I quickly realised was the same loud Austrian that laughed at his own jokes that I met when I was climbing Volcan Cerro Negro in Leon, Nicaragua.

It really is a small world in Central America.

RICHARD THE SHIT AMERICAN GOLFER IN COSTA RICA

- 'I could play with you if you don't mind.' the old man suggested, as Fabian the Australian and I stood on the first tee of Valle De Sol golf course in Costa Rica, waiting for Kirk the Australian to finish doing a shit in the clubhouse. Having spent a bit of time with Fabian and Kirk in Nicaragua and now Costa Rica over the last week, I have noticed that Australians like to tell you if they need a shit, are going to do a shit, or have just been and done a shit.

Fabian and I looked at the old man and then at each other. We didn´t really want to play with him, but were both too polite to say no. And so my game of golf in Costa Rica with two Australians that I had met in Nicaragua, became a fourball with two Australians that I had met in Nicaragua and a retired American living in Costa Rica. 

The retired American was called Richard. We quickly realised with dismay that he was particularly shit at golf, around the time he immediately lost the golf ball he had just shanked off the first tee into trees. To be fair, Kirk and Fabian did not come from the same golfing gene-pool as Greg Norman, and I am still awaiting my own first call-up to the European Ryder Cup team, but still, the three of us were a lot, lot better than Richard. We were soon spending an inordinate amount of time either looking for Richards ball, or worse, waiting for him to have his two practice swings before he hacked at the ball. 

All the time, I was looking at my watch. I had been informed in the clubhouse that it normally started to rain in Costa Rica about 2PM. With a 09:30 tee off and electric golf carts to bomb up and down the fairways between shots, Kirk, Fabian and I should easily have been home and dry and enjoying an Imperial in the nineteenth hole before the rain come on. Unfortunately, this was before Richard the retired American joined us. Richard´s slow play ensured we were still had a few holes to play after five hours, despite one of the Rules of Play on the back of the scorecard outlining a pace of play of 4 hours and 15 minutes over eighteen holes.

Ominously dark clouds started forming in the near horizon around 13.30. Lightning started around 14:05, in the distance but getting closer. Around 14:20 the torrential rain started, just as I was holing out a long second putt for a par 3 at the seventeenth hole. 

A siren back at the clubhouse was already sounding to tell us to get the hell off the course before we got struck by lightning. Cowering in our golf carts from the downpour, we quickly decided to get the hell off the golf course after the 17th hole, with me generously giving myself a par 5 at the last hole for a final score of 87. It could easily have been less than an 87 if I hadn't got a 8 at one hole, and four putted at another. It could probably have been less than an 87 if I had spent more time focussing on my own ball and less time looking for Richards in the trees.

NO CLIMBING ON VOLCAN ARENAL IN COSTA RICA

Whereas the Internet said it was possible to climb Volcan Concepcion in Nicaragua and it was just the tour guides that said it wasn't, the internet and the local tour guides firmly agree that it is not possible to climb Volcan Arenal in Costa Rica because it's too dangerous. Arenal spurts large lava rocks and poisonous gases into the air on a daily basis. Hikers have apparently died several times in the last few years after ignoring the warnings and trying to climb the volcano. Heeding the warnings, I reluctantly opted for an overpriced guided tour with Carlos the Mexican, a night hike to a safe distance away from the base of the volcano to hopefully see red hot lava in the dark.

Hopefully was always going to be the key word. There is always an element of luck in seeing a volcano amongst the cloud cover, as I myself found a few days earlier on Volcan Concepcion in Nicaragua. Some tourists apparently don't see Arenal during several day vacations in Costa Rica, but I was lucky to see an exploding cloud of poisonous gases, showers of lava rocks rolling down the side of the volcano, and just before the overpriced tour finished and we got the minibus back to our hotel, a small eruption of red hot lava into the night sky.

This is good photography (that I did not take) of Volcan Arenal erupting lava at night

This is bad photography (that I did take) of Volcan Arenal erupting lava at night

REFLECTIONS OF NICARAGUA, ON THE BUS TO COSTA RICA

Its a real shame, but I will probably not rememember Nicaragua for its picturesque colonial towns, the four volcanos that I climbed up to enjoy spectacular views and at the low price of GBP 4.50, one of the cheapest hotel rooms I have stayed in so far on my travels through Central America.

Instead, I will remember Nicaragua for the greasy, golden-toothed individual that came close to seperating me from my wallet, the hotellier that tried to seperate $35 from my wallet for accidentally breaking her rickety old table, and of course, I will remember that there were far too many Gringos in the country, probably the most I have come across in my travels thus far.

Leon and Granada in Nicaragua were the American equivalent of Malaga and Benidorm for the British, towns with far too many expats forcing their own way of life on a culture that was much better before they arrived. When I go to Spain, I don't want to eat fish and chips, see Union Jacks hanging from windows and hear loud English accents at every turn. Similarly, when I come to Nicaragua, I don't want to drink in a bar with all the Major League Basemall team jerseys on the wall and eat dough-based cakes in Kathy´s Waffle House, and hear loud Americans tell me to have a good day.

Camilo, my excellent Granadan tour guide to Volcans Masaya amd Mombacho explained that the Nicaraguan goverment is actually encouraging this Gringo influx, by offering tax-free living for 10 years for any foreigners that start businesses in the country. Apparently 80% of the Nicaraguan population are under the age of 30 as a result of the civil war that ended in the late 1980´s, and the country relies heavily on the foreign investment to create jobs for its young population.

Calle La Calzada, or Gringo Street as Camilo humourously referred to it because of the large American presence in Granada´s main street, had a bar owned by Americans, an bar owned by an Irishman and a tour company part owned by a Dutchman. Pali, Nicaragua's largest supermarket chain was bought over by a certain Walmart family two years ago. The locals are getting jobs, but the rich foreigners are getting richer off the fat of Nicaragua's land.

From my perspective, Nicaragua (and poorer countries in general) need foreigners to invest in its people, not its country. It needs local entrepreneurs to be given the opportunity to create locally owned businesses, and not the opportunity to work for foreign-owned busineses and help extranjeros get richer and richer. Camilo my volcano guide graduated with a degree in business studies at university, and has plans to raise some capital and start his own tour company and stop working for the Dutchman. I really hope he succeeds.

CLIMBING VOLCAN CONCEPCION

I had read on the Internet that the local guides on Ometepe Island won't climb to the top of Volcan Concepcion because it is too dangerous, but that didn't stop me asking yesterday, when I was organising my tour up the Volcano.

- 'Too dangerous, too dangerous.' the guy in the tour office shook his head firmly at me. His name was Manuel, and he told me I could only climb to 1300 metres.

This was disappointing news. Volcan Concepcion is 1610 metres to its top. I wasn't even going to get high enough to smell some volcanic sulphur. - 'I read on the Internet that its possible to climb to the top.' I shook my head back at him, my wallet still firmly in my pocket.

Waivering at the possibility of me taking my business elsewhere, Mauel made a call on his mobile phone to the guide that would actually be doing the climb with me, out of my earshot. For a minute, I thought the stubborn extranjero was going to get his way. But he wasn't. - 'We only climb to 1200 metres tomorrow.' Manuel came back off the phone, shaking his head again. Apparently there were two other tourists already booked to climb Concepcion tomorrow, and they only wanted to climb to 1200 metres.

Sighing loudly, I handed over my deposit. I had already asked in another tour office and been told it was impossible to climb to the very top. and decided I had better sign up for this trip before the guide haggled our intended altitude down even further. 1200 metres up Volcan Concepcion would have to do.

 ***

As it turns out, I have absolutely no idea how high I climbed on Volcan Concepcion today, as it was so cloudy that I could see neither the top nor anything around or below me that was further away than twenty feet.

The views from Volcan Concepcion were a little depressing

I had read on the Internet about other climbers having sore legs for days afterwards, and having to climb part of it on hands and knees from being so exhausted. I had even prepared to the extent of packing tins of tuna to give me energy incase I started flagging half way up. Tins of tuna that went uneaten, along with about half the bottled water I had carried up in my rucksack. 

 Ross and Roos at 'the top'

 
I had also read on the Internet about it being a hard 7-10 hour slog up the Volcano, but it only took me and Roos, the Dutch medical student with whom I did the climb up Concepcion a meagre 5. Luis the guide said afterwards we marched quickly, and indeed we did as it turned out Roos has a similar philosophy to climbing steep volcanos as I do: walk quickly to shorten the misery. 

But I still have my doubts that we got to 1200 metres.  I don't think I am superhuman, and even with our fast pace, I don't think I climbed near to the top of a volcano in half the time that most other climbers take. Instead, I suspect our guide Luis scammed us in the clouds. I will unfortunately go to my grave not knowing how high I really climbed on Volcan Concepcion.

I wonder if these people went to their graves not knowing how high they climbed