Homeless By Choice

This morning I had to get a notarized document sent to the states. I received the document in my email, popped down to Bocas Realty Services and they graciously printed it off for me. A hundred yards later I entered the municipal building for Bocas Town, the capital city of Bocas del Toro, Panama. The sign on the notary’s door indicated he is only open on Tuesday and Thursday.

Back to the apartment, drop off my stuff, change into suitable gear, pack camera and various sundries in boat bag and head off for a day of kayaking. On the way I stopped by a smoothie stand, operated out of a small trailer attached to a small sport utility vehicle.

“¿cuánto cuesta un batido?” “Tres Balboa.” Three bucks for a smoothie? “¿Grandes?” “Si.” Ok, if there big, why not. “”¿Fruites?” “Mixto.” Sure, mix it up. Papaya? Yes, Banana? Yes? Mango? “Todo” Give me everything. Typically smoothies are made here by adding fruits to ice, throwing in a little condensed milk and quite a bit of ice. This guy just kept pulling out pre chopped frozen fruits and throwing them in the blender. The industrial blender was filled to the top. He reached over took my bottle of water, “Hey, that’s mine!” “Bien.” Yeah, he probably has to buy water and picks all the fruit off his property.

He stepped outside the trailer, fired up the tiny generator and blended the smoothie. He poured me an enormous glass, I took a sip and gave a satisfied shit eating grin. He was prepared for this and had whipped out a Nikon SLR digital camera and snapped a picture of another satisfied customer. After I drained my glass, he pushed the pitcher over and indicated that the entire contents were for me. Not only was this the best smoothie I’d ever had, it was enormous.

Next stop, get a kayak. I stopped by a scuba shop that rents “Ocean Kayak” kayaks, a brand I am considering buying. But he only had the low end units, he didn’t have the back support seats, I’d have to kayak through the heavy water taxi boat lanes and he was twice the price of the Cosmic Crab. So I grabbed a water taxi to the Cosmic Crab, put my boat bag and the remaining water on the dock, got out, tender a buck to the pilot and saw a whole lot of closed place. Not a person to be found anywhere, no guests, no workers, not the owners who live there. An Indian walked by but indicated he wasn’t a worker. I looked across the water that I didn’t wan’t to kayak through; no way in hell I’m swimming the half mile through that boat traffic. No way to call a water taxi. Now what?

I left a note telling my story on the bar, grabbed my boat bag and helped myself to the kayaks which sit unguarded near the shore and headed out to Playa Buff, where the surfers do what surfers do. One way I approached a green atoll. What a magnificent picture opportunity. I reached behind me, got my boat bag, unrolled the top, which had been rolled over twice more than the recommended three and found a very wet camera bag with a compact digital camera marinating in salt water. I removed the battery immediately. My water? Oh, hell, I left it at the Cosmic Crab, no way to rinse the camera with fresh water now.

Heading back to Bocas Town I pulled up to the dock of a friend and hoisted the kayak to his back porch along with the paddles and knocked on the door. His boat was there but there was no answer. The half deaf poor SOB probably couldn’t hear me, he was two rooms away. So I jumped in
the water and made my way to shore. On my way home I picked up yet another bottle of water and a five pound back of rice and made camera casserole.

First I rinsed the camera five times in fresh water, then I wrapped it in a paper towel, half filled a bowl with rice, put the camera on top, covered it with rice and covered the bowl with a sheet of plastic. Only time will tell.

I hope tomorrow turns out better.

As it was time to give my feet a few days to callous over those blisters I developed yesterday I decided to go kayaking, you probably guessed that already. I walked to the spot down near the police station where the water taxis dock. You can never get very near if you give any indication that you are actually going to be looking for a water taxi before you are jumped upon by some guy that trains the people who work in used car lots.

I asked the price of a ride to the Cosmic Crab, on the nearby island of Carenero and was told it was a buck and a half. I shouldn’t have asked. I know the price; it’s a buck. But it is Easter Sunday. The captain led me down the dock to a boat that couldn’t have been more than 10 feet long. He insisted I put on a life jacket. I can float for hours in salt water with no exertion. Maybe after a good two or three months of exercise it might require minimal exertion, but as for now I am not at fighting weight. I picked up a life jacket he indicated I should use the other, mas grande. Yeah, it’s much bigger, still it’s only fit for an Indian that would come up to my sternum.

Forty seconds later I got off at the Cosmic Crab and recognized a few people, the wife of the couple that owns the place, their two kids and a couple of locals. They tried to show me the buffet, all I could eat for $17. Looking at the food, there was not much I would eat, at any price, but it was late in the day and the pickings were slim. “I want to rent a kayak.” This threw the guy for a loop. “We don’t rent kayaks.” “Yes, you do, they are over there, they rent for $10 a day.” He pulled out a cell phone, made a call and indicated that, they do in fact rent kayaks for $10 a day. I gave him ten dollars. He wanted to write up a ticket. “Name?” “Isaac Jones.” “Where hotel are you staying at?” “I live here.” “Ok, have a nice day.”

I walked over to the kayaks, looked for and found a paddle underneath the stairs of the house, grabbed a kayak carried it over to the sea walk and trod through the exposed low tide muck, continually retrieving my crocs, which sunk in the muck and didn’t come back up with my feet.
A few minutes later I threw my boat bag into the kayak and headed off back in the direction from which I came and followed the shore line around the south of the island, past the ferry, Stephen’s house, Casa Verde, Ola’s hotel and further into territory I had not previously explored.

Mangroves lined the shore amid shacks. Outhouses that had never seen maintenance in years sat over the water. I proceeded further, I was going to follow the cove around but the foul smell of the fetid, stinking water was more than I could bear and I cut a chord over to the Marina and headed out to Bastimentos. I looked for my water bottle and remembered I left it on the water taxi. I drink a lot of water, ten to fourteen liters a day, when out in the sun and exerting myself.

I spotted an ice cream parlor and headed over, “Vende agua?” Why was I talking to a black man in Spanish? For 90% of them here, English is their first language. “Yes, do you want a big one, 1500?” Yeah, a liter and half sounds about right. I paddled over he gave me the improbable price of $2.75. Hell, you can by five liters for $1.75 half a mile from here. I have him $2.50 rather than break a twenty and headed back out.

A lovely stretch of white sand beckoned me. A couple reclined on deck chairs on the beach. I pulled up the kayak and the woman asked, “What are you doing on our beach?” “Your beach? This isn’t your beach.” “Yes it is.” “I have news for you, there are no private beaches in the whole country, it’s illegal.” After a brief swim, I got back in the kayak, got a dirty look from the woman which I returned with, “Have a great day.”

Bastimentos didn’t seem very appealing at this point. I paddled around the island and returned to the Cosmic Crab, returned the Kayak and walked over to the restaurant. “Need a drink?” “No, I’m good, thanks,” was followed by another couple of big swigs on the water. I asked the bartender to get me a water taxi and a couple of minutes later one appeared. A minute later I was back in town, gave the guy a buck without asking him the price, he didn’t squawk.

Then,the usual, home, shower, wash clothes, head out, grab notebook computer and headed down to Casa Verde to do some more research with plenty of eye candy running around. Now let’s hope the usb wifi adapter I ordered works on linux. I also ordered a replacement keyboard for my notebook.

Dinner on a dock at a hotel with a bud, long conversations on boats and motors. Thanks, that seems like the place to get the outboard, gotta have the four stroke if 2 stroke oil is fifty bucks a gallon and mixed in a 20:1 ratio. I don’t mind the extra weight of a four stroke and I like their quietness. Now to find a 22′ panga, probably have to get one delivered out of Panama City, but Costa Rica is an option.

After a few hours of hiking, I decided it was time to hit Boca Drago. I started to walk there, it is but 16 kilometers, but my feet were getting hot spots, the precursors to blisters. My feet are a bit tender from having spent a sedentary several months and my socks are just about to be completely worthless. I have but four pair of socks and each of them must have serviced me well for over a thousand miles. So I strolled back to town.

I walked down to the central park and ran into a couple of cute young woman. “Is this where you get the collectivo to Boca Drago?” I couldn’t think of any other reason they would be sitting there. “I sure hope so, that’s where we are off to.” The reception wasn’t warm, there was no more room on the bench and I took an open seat a couple of benches away and watched the Easter weekend festivities and activities in the park and surrounding areas.

I looked around and the young women were gone. A hundred yards down the street a collectivo, (a mini bus) sat at the curb. I strolled down and saw what appeared to be a full vehicle with a dozen people standing at the curb. The bus conductor informed me that there was more room. I boarded the bus and we quickly took off.

We traveled from Bocas Town, on the south end of Isla Colon through the dirt road in the jungle. Vast areas of verdant hills were cleared as grazing land for cattle, but not one was to be seen. The scenery however was captivating. Twenty to thirty minutes later we pulled into Boca Drago. A hawker in front of a restaurant was gesturing toward the restaurant in front of which we had stopped and offered skewered pineapple slices.

I walked past the guys offering boat rides to “Playa Estrella” which literally translates to “Star Beach” but is generally called “Starfish Beach” by the English speaking. The walk was but a mile or a mile and a half along a narrow white sand beach. The high tide line was strewn with coconuts, palm fronds and driftwood. This is a natural beach, not one of those manicured beaches found in front of resorts. Ten meters from the shore the dense jungle abruptly began. On my right, the waters were crystal clear and quickly turned to a deep blue. For most of the trip the beach was empty except for a few tents erected just above the high tide mark.

Arriving at Playa Estrella, it was obviously a holiday weekend, Donzi’s with dual 200 HP outboards and inboard outboards were beached, stern in and the pangas, the most common boat down here were in great abundance. The locals run tours from Bocas Town to various destinations, including “Bird Island” and Playa Estrella is one of the de rigueur stops.

People hung out on the cool beach on the overcast morning, others waded and observed the starfish. A few actually swam. Several hundred meters later the beach gave way to the mangroves. I returned to an empty stretch of beach, shed my fanny pack, hat, boots, and shirt and swam for a while, keeping an eye on my possessions then returned to Boca Drago in water soaked boots further aggravating my feet.

At Boca Drago I took a seat at a restaurant. Waitresses everywhere stood in small groups chatting. I failed to get service then noticed a group enter and approach on of the groups of waitresses and place an order. The last two times I was here I got table service. I approached one waitress and asked for a menu. They were out of the ceviche pulpa, octopus ceviche and settle for the fish ceviche. A short while later my liter and half of bottled water and a small serving of ceviche were delivered. I couldn’t find the waitress to pay my tab, so I placed eight bucks under my plate and walked back to the beach. The next collectivo was in a hour, or so I was advised, so I swam some more.

While swimming, I saw the collectivo pull in. I swam to shore, quickly grabbed my clothes and headed down to the collectivo. It was leaving in five minutes, a half an hour before the time I was told. I dressed and took a seat and headed back. I told the driver to stop at the chino on the corner, half a block from my apartment. My neighbor greeted me and invited me over. “Sure, right after I take a shower and wash these clothes.” You have to get sea water out of your clothes with at least an industrious rinsing or they will will smell like something died.

I have laundry soap in bar form, which is great for backpacking so you never get powder all over everything and washed my stuff in the kitchen sink and hung it over the fence. The clouds had burned away, these high tech fabrics would be dry in 10 minutes.

My neighbor is an interesting guy. He is in his mid sixties, a black guy who was born in the house across the street from which he lives. He scratches out a living performing a wide variety of tasks. He cleans my apartment for me, he is thee caretaker for this place, a group of four separate single family casitas “little houses”, he also repairs bicycles and appliances, sitting outside on the deck in front of his house. I needed another ceviche fix and asked him where the nearest place to buy some was. He popped in his house and returned in thirty seconds with a quart of octopus ceviche. I bought a small container for $1.75 and I must say, it was the finest octopus ceviche I’ve ever had. We chatted for a bit more.

I grabbed my computer and headed back across town to Casa Verde to do a little work. Women were disappearing into the bathrooms and returning wearing sensual high fashion dresses. What the hell? This is bikini country. A couple of other women started running a nylon line through a folded and sewn edge of a sheet and hung it like a drape on the end of the dock. Oh, fashion show tonight, what will Chester think of next?

After a I while I was holding court with a couple of women from Ethiopia and a guy from Germany. They were heading to Costa Rica and had been told by the house staff that I was the “go to guy” on travel. I discussed the various areas of the country, backing up my descriptions with pictures from my web photos. A big guy walked up and said “Don’t believe anything he says.” I couldn’t place him until he referenced Santa Fe. He was the guy I was going to buy the 40 hectare from until, well, you’ve read the story. The women went off to shower and Steve and I had a long chat.

I got an email from my good friend and real estate agent Walter, telling me he was looking for. I walked down to his office but saw no one. I continued on to Casa Verde, greeting and being greeted by expats and a few locals, just passing on the street, calling out from their businesses, or waving out of a notorious strangely painted red micro van.

Arriving at Casa Verde in the course of 50 feet I was informed by three women that Walter was looking for me. One called him on the house cell phone. He said he wanted to go out and show me some of the resorts I wanted to inspect for comparison purposes.

But, this is banana’s country.

He said he would be down in fifteen minutes. I waited then walked to the real estate office. He was gone, he would be back in an hour. At least they had made a very attractive addition to the office staff. I killed some more time. Hours later we had lunch and decided to take the boat tour. It took half an hour to find a captain, but between a defective prop, an engine that burned too much oil, not enough gas, the marina being closed. We finally game up with plan 13 took a ten gallon gas tank to the only gas station on the island to find it closed.

We gave up, picked up another bud and just spent three hours touring the shores of Isla Colon.

We held mom‘s funeral yesterday and immediately the family gathered and addressed the thank you notes followed by a little target practice in the back yard. After seven days in the hospital, a day at the funeral home and a funeral my relatives are all back to work and my son back to Purdue to take his exams which his professors graciously allowed him to postpone; “They are all caregivers, dad, they understand.”

During the week, at the funeral home and at the funeral many “Mom Tales” were told.

The Tree House

Twenty years ago my nieces, Julie and Cathy wanted a tree house so the boys got together and slapped together a typically Schmidt undertaking, a 12′ by 14′ house with screened functioning windows, a loft, a door, electricity, heating, television, phone and a deck, in the woods behind my brother’s house. The kids loved the place and spent a great deal of time there. My mother, ever the pragmatist, gave Cathy a toilet seat for her tenth birthday. How exactly it was to be employed shall ever remain a mystery.

Questions

My mom could ask more questions than anyone could possibly answer. During a tribute a brother said, “I was told that ‘your mother would have wanted…’ I replied ‘How could you possibly know? Every question was answered by a question. Mom loved hot dogs. Last week I called her and said ‘Mom, I’m passing in front of Coney Island, do you want me to get you a couple of Coneys?’ She replied, ‘Where are you?’ I said nothing. After a long pause, mother said ‘Are you going to answer my question?’ I replied, ‘I asked you a question, you haven’t replied yet. You answer every question with a question.’ To which mom replied ‘Do I?'”

Take out the Garbage

My younger brother Paul recently degraded into becoming a Facebook user. One of his first postings, not too long ago recalled the time back in ’72 or so when a galvanized bushel basket filled with metal was left on the curb by the Grosse Pointe trash collectors. Mother ran out and told them to take the contents of the basket and was met with the reply that it was too heavy to pick up. Mother stormed down to the curb, picked up the hundred pound container and hoisted the contents into the back of the truck. Don’t mess with mama.

Poker

Nothing like a family night of low stakes poker and beer. But if you bet out of turn and mom was around, you had to bet again when it was your turn. She had a wonderful poker face, you could never tell when she was bluffing or had a straight flush.

Grammar

Mom was a stickler for grammar. Walking to the cashier’s she looked at her basket, full of goods and at the sign that said “10 items or less” and gave a resigned shrug. “I know mom, they can’t help it.” It wasn’t that she couldn’t check out in the express lane, it was the fact that the sign should have read “10 items or fewer” that bothered her.

Old folk’s email

Mom wanted to keep up with things going on in the family. She kept the broad band connection even after dad died, but couldn’t get the hang of using the computer. One Christmas we got her an “old folk’s email” machine. It would dial into a provider, download email and print it out. One day she called me to tell me she couldn’t stop laughing about an email I sent her. She made many copies and posted them to her friends. My kid brother was appalled at the type of stuff I sent her. Here is the one she liked most.

Stocks

My brother sent his stock broker to my mother’s to give her advice on her investments. After and hour he called my brother and said that he could be of little help. I am sure she was outperforming his portfolio.

Once I tried to get her to enter her holdings into Yahoo finance, then she could see her position with the click of a mouse, but she would have none of it. While entering the second stock for an obscure bank I had never heard of I was shocked to see that it had appreciated 48% in eight months. “Where did you hear about this bank?” “From my hairdresser.” Whatever, it worked.

She would sit at the kitchen table and with a giant ledger calculate her position over an enormous quantity of stocks, she sure believed in diversification, every position was small but she tracked them all. The light over the kitchen table had three bulbs and cast shadows. Peering at the newspaper through a magnifying lens she would write down the closing value and multiply it by her shares held and then tally up the figures. The shadows were problematic so I offered to install a new fixture. We parked in the handicap spot, she got out her walker and slowly, ever so slowly walked down the aisle of Home Depot with the aid of her walker. Finally she chose a fluorescent fixture thirty inches square. I removed the old fixture and wired in the new holding the fixture to the ceiling with my head as I tried to screw in the anchors. Every few minutes I uttered an expletive.

I looked down to see her trying to climb a ladder to help me. “Mom if you try to get up on that ladder again, I’m going to leave the new fixture and the old fixture on your table and walk out the front door. Sit down.”

My Thanksgiving Facebook Status

After I posted last Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving. The godless son of a bitch that I am gives thanks to my parents for the wealth of experiences and instilling tolerance of mankind and love of nature. My mom wanted it framed and hung on her wall.

Fishing on Lake of the Woods

I was in a small boat with my father, while my mother and a different brother, not to be named, but younger than I and older than Bob, were fishing in another. A whoop, a holler and some very excited laughter poured across the lake. I said “He must have caught a big bass.” My dad said, “Your mother must have fallen out of the boat.”

My mom called into school again

Mom was always getting called into school. This time, in seventh grade my book review of Gulliver’s Travels amounted to little more than “This is a Bakersque fantasy about an aberrant adult male and his fantasies of bondage and little boys.” Mr. Baker was the assistant principal, in charge of discipline. The teacher attempted to get my mother to admonish me for my report. My mom told her, “I would never give him the satisfaction.” We learned lot’s of things after we became adults. So did my mom.

Bob is a natural driver

Mom was telling Paul and me that Bob, seven years my junior was a natural driver. Paul and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. “What are you two hiding?” We confessed that when little Bob was 12, three years earlier we used to let him drive on the country roads and eventually the highway, twelve miles to my brother’s house. “You what? In my car? There is no insurance coverage on unlicensed drivers.” Then, she laughed and said “You two are incorrigible.”

Returning

United Airlines wanted more to change my flight than Spirit charged for a one way no notice fare. The Spirit website is atrocious. I attempted to reserve a seat on the evening flight but the site crashed so many times while trying to choose a “premium seat” (there are no free seats on any flight apparently) and paying extra for a single checked bag that by the time I was done they had changed the fare class. As a result I am flying out in the morning, hoping that the limousine service actually shows up on time. This will be the first time in thirty years that I didn’t have a rental car or allow my mother to drive me at her insistence.

My older son, Karl will hopefully be joining me in May to get some new front teeth after a nasty incident between his face and a car. Mark, the younger son will probably be down in August. I’ll be back in the states on the fifth of never.

Travelers will find this boring, but for some reason the stay at home’s like to know about this stuff.

Yesterday I booked a flight from Panama, Panama, Panama (One up on New York, New York) to Detroit. The next mission was to get from this little island in the Bocas archipelago to Panama City. After a few cups of fresh brew I walked a block to the edge of the airport, down the balance of the fence along the single strip, across the width of the airport and to the tiny terminal. Purchasing a ticket took but 5 minutes. I had failed to bring my passport and in my befuddled state forgot my passport number, but I just provided my Texas driver’s license number. I took the ticket and my change and headed out the door. A bit thirsty I popped into a chino to buy some water. What is a chino? It is is mini-super. What is that? A grocery store that sells things in a addition to groceries. Like a supermarket, but smaller; makes sense, doesn’t it? They are called chinos because they are all run by the Chinese.

What the hell? I had more money than I started with. I’d have to track down the clerk later.

Returning back to my apartment I packed. I needed nothing more than most of the few clothes that I have and my toiletries and of course, my electronics, which far outweigh my clothes. My caretaker, Frank,was not home, but I found his wife and gave her $10 for him to clean the place up, in preparation of handing the keys over to a friend to use during my absence.

I was getting status updates from my son, Mark, from gmail chat to his phone. After I asked him to ensure that his old brother was aware of the situation, Mark called his older brother Karl, living in Austin. Within minutes I was advised that Karl had face planted into a car during a biking accident, gashed his nose and knocked out one his right upper incisor, his left upper incisor was ready to fall out and that several other teeth had been chipped. Karl was not going to be making it to Detroit.

Shortly after three I headed back to the airport, found my clerk, asked if he was short of money. He indicated that he was $152 short. I looked in my wallet and there were seven twenties, two fives ahead of my fresh ATM dispensed twenties. I handed him the money, much to his relief. A few minutes later I tried to clear security, but they found a switch blade in my day pack that I was trying to carry aboard. I took the knife leaving my goods there, exited security, found Edgar, the clerk, asked him to hold it for two weeks, was waived through security again and got on the little prop plane.

Within an hour we flew half way across the country, landing at Albrook airport, in the heart of the city. I found it difficult to find a taxi to take me to Albrook Bus Terminal as it was so close and taxi drivers are presumably allowed to decline rides, but finally found one and negotiated a fare of $2. The bus terminal is no more than two or three miles from the airport terminal, but the passage is not pedestrian friendly.

I discovered that there was a bus service to Tocumen International Airport that I hadn’t known about. Rather than the Red Devils, chicken buses which plague the city big, well appointed, air conditioned buses also had an express run. The line had three hundred people or so in it, but buses pulled up every couple of minutes and people boarded multiple buses simultaneously. Within 20 minutes I boarded a bus, paid my $1.25 fare and headed out to Tocumen. Thirty or forty minutes later the driver, yelled “Aeropuerto, Aeropeurto,Aeropuerto” assured that this gringo wanted and needed to get off here. I was the sole passenger to exit the bus, wondering were the rest of the passengers were bound.

A quick survey was sufficient to gather my bearings and I trekked off to the airport.

The United ticket counter was not open and I had 15 hours or so to kill, but better here than trying to find lodging, get a guaranteed wake up call, and a morning taxi. Unfortunately there is not much to do until one clears security. With access to a printer, I could print a boarding pass, but all such services were on the other side of security. I read “Origin of the Species.” and walked around on occasion, leaving my backpack unattended. The couches are ten feet long, have no arm rests and were well occupied by traveler’s killing time by slumbering.

Finally at 4:30 I waited in line in the United line. A dozen airlines sell flights, all operated by Copa. But the Copa representative told me that United didnt’ fly to Newark and to try with Continental. No way of knowing what time the Continental ticket counters would be manned. My PC was acting up,but I was able to check my gmail with my Kindle. Yup, a 10:04 flight on United and it was operated by Continental. At 7:00 a line started to form at Continental. At 8 or so they started to serve passengers. I got my boarding pass and cleared security. I checked my email and went back to reading having been awake 26 hours at this time. An hour and a half later I boarded the flight and flew uneventfully to Newark. On the way I filled out my Customs declaration.

Country of Residence: None

Occupation: None

Address: None

Foreseen Address: Various

etc.

I was directed from the US passport holder line to the foreign passport holder stations as they had no line. The chump at passport control was not amused and started to grill me?
“You don’t have a job? How do you support yourself?” “I have money.”

“Where do you get mail?” “I don’t get mail.”

“How do you pay your taxes?” “Ask the IRS.”

“How much money are you carrying?” “It’s on the form, $473.”

“What is the purpose of your visit?” “I am a U.S. Citizen, carrying a US passport, these questions are unwarranted please get your supervisor over here or let me go, I am not answering any more of your questions.”

He let me go.

Gate A23A. Down the hall, up the escalator, a flight of stairs, a train, a hallway a flight of stairs. That was easy. This is a tiny little airport after dealing with Heathrow, Miami and Dallas/Fort Worth.

Approaching TSA security, I stopped at the line while a big old white guy boomed out, trying to sound very official. “Wait behind the black line.” I boomed back, “The black line ahead of me, behind which I am standing?” He went back to examining a ticket and a passport as though inspecting art for forgery. The passenger went on his way. They guy looked up at me. I waited. He waited. I waited, He waited. I waited. He said, “Next Passenger!” I gave him my passport and Ticket and looked puzzled. He called over his supervisor, a smiling black guy in his late thirties. “The names don’t match.” On my ticket it said “Jim Schmidt” my passport reads “James Schmidt.” The supervisor took the ticket, the passport, marked the ticket stood behind the clown and shook his head as if to say “See the kind of idiots I have to deal with?” Handed me the ticket and passport with a smile and said, “Have a nice flight.”

The status boards indicated the flight was delayed. The Continental status board said “Next flight DTW 2:30 cancelled.” What the hell? Ok the two thirty was cancelled, that was hours ago what is the status of my flight, originally scheduled to leave in an hour? And why don’t any of these monitors display the current time? I kept running over to full departure monitors for the status update on my flight, they couldn’t bother to show it at the departure gate, or make announcements.

Finally I asked what the status of the flight was and was told that it had been changed to another gate. The monitors had not been updated. Going to the other gate, Continental announcements came in a flurry. Passengers at this gate had to go to a gate in another terminal, which meant, of course, a trek, a train and worst of all another TSA line and stupid rules.

Update after update on our flight, “The plane is coming in from Atlanta and will be arriving at Terminal A23A, it will then taxi over here.” We will advise. Who runs this airline? A23A was the original gate, an empty plane is arriving and having a little layover at the wrong gate.

Finally I flew onto to Detroit, walked down to grab my bags and was pleased to see my son Mark waiting at the base of the escalators on the way to baggage claim.

Well that journey was over, now onto fulfill the intended purpose of this trip.

I hate to say I’m going to my mom’s funeral while she is still alive, but based on all reports I will see her off in the two weeks in which I will be in the Detroit area. Mom is a most amazing woman. I haven’t talked with mom since the day after Christmas.

Today I fly from Bocas to Panama, tomorrow I fly from Panama City, connect in Newark and then on to Detroit to be picked up by my son, Mark, on temporary leave from his studies at Purdue.

I’m not going home, I’m going back. I’ll return home, to Panama.

My network interface card on my notebook was exhibiting consistently bad performance. It was able to detect networks but could not establish connections. I fiddled with the router. A German arrived in a zodiac dinghy, one of those little inflatable boats so common on large sail boats and used as tenders. He didn’t pay the $5 daily slip fee as he was ostensibly a customer of the restaurant. As a customer he does nothing more than occupy a chair and consume WIFI bandwidth for free. He chastised me for interfering with his network connection. I offered to give him some compensation on his room and asked which room he was in, knowing full well that he was not staying at Casa Verde. He departed in a huff. Good riddance.

After Walter graciously picked me up we transported my goods to the apartment after a run to the ATM. I made a partial payment and received a set of keys. We went back to Stephen’s and rode across the calm waters to the site of his home construction project which was currently stalled. Next we saw the lot we attempted to see the day before from the water front. The land was extremely steep and a long way from Bocas Town.

We rode back past Isla Colon to Isla Bastimentos to watch the boat races. The races were over but the boat parties were in full swing, 50 foot catamarans, the Janpan houseboat, some people pedaled foot powered surf boards when they could manage to balance themselves. We ogled the eye candy. In less than an hour we headed to go see the property I was most anxious to view.

As we neared the property I saw a 30” barracuda inches from the surface. The water was profoundly calm, as tranquil as a pond nestled in the hills, reflecting the mangrove trees. Translucent jelly fish the size of dinner plates populated the water in great numbers. Walter commented, “They need to stop killing all the turtles.” Yup, for more reason than one. The water was deep and we pulled Stephen’s boat right up to the shore. I hopped out in my sandals, as the water was sure to be over the top of my boots. After lashing the boat to a mangrove the others disembarked onto a strange stiff flora on which small crabs skittered. Toads, obviously in huge abundance croaked out a raucous chorus. I trod upon the fallen grass with an objective of spotting the source of all of this noise, but elected to retreat, this being hazardous grounds not being able to observe that which could lurk next to my next step.

Stephen, in the mean time was ascending the hill. I found what appeared to be the path of least resistance but found my footwear lacking. My feet, wet with muck slipped on the insoles and the sandals rotated beneath my feet. A strap gave way pulling itself out of the plastic sole. Every dozen steps I so I turned around to view the expanse of the bay. Far higher than the mangroves I gazed at the most placid ocean water imaginable. Every twenty meters I ascended about eight meters and the view improved commensurately. “Jim, this is where you need to build your house.” The execrable sandals failed to strongly diminish my desire to ascend to Stephen’s vantage point. Yup, Stephen, you are correct, this is the site of my new abode.

Five hundred meters separated us from the most interior border through lush jungle. The damnable sandals hindered my progress while my eminently suitable boots lay in the boat. Along the trail, the diminutive red poison arrow frogs, the adults of which are small enough to readily rest on a man’s thumbnail were observed in good numbers. We found a small clearing and watched a monkey, listened as the Montezuma Oropedola provided jungle sounds as we watched a monkey, high in a tree. “You’ll need to put in an observation deck here.” “Yup.” Three hundred meters of jungle before the end of the property I said, “I will return, donning appropriate footwear.” Walter gave me a benevolent smile; he had told me at least twice to wear my boots.

The walk back down was punctuated by pauses to observe the amazing surroundings. I stopped at the top of the clearing and doffed my troublesome footwear, descending barefoot.

As I walked to the boat, I found myself unable to tread on the hard, bristly terrain that my more prepared companions traversed and elected to wade through the muck. Bad call. My left foot sunk in far over my knee and my cell phone, cradled in the lower pocket of my cargo shorts was sacrificed to the god of the ill prepared, a fact that I did not ascertain until the following morn.

But a short ways after we set sail for home a dolphin and her calf frolicked off the starboard bow.

The three musketeers headed over to Almirante via BMT water taxi then walked a short distance to the lot in which Chester’s car was currently being kept. We drove over to see a lot on which Stephen had extended some credit, secured by the lot. The lot was on the water many hundreds of meters from the road, beneath a lot held by the lot owner’s father. Walter asked for permission to pass and the location of the trail. I grabbed the machete from the truck. A cross-eyed woman pointed the way. We walked down slopes populated with cocoa trees, the fruit of which were in every color I had ever seen, from a unripened green, yellow, ripe brown and dead and decaying black. Enormous nisporo trees had been felled near everywhere. Nisporo is a variant of ironwood, denser than water, it doesn’t float. It is also exceptionally hard; it is impossible to drive a nail into it. The trees had been milled with chain saws on the spot into every conceivable plank and post dimension.

At long last we queried our guide, “Do you have any idea where we are or where we are going?” Well, he didn’t. Using a compass we headed south, which was sure to get us back to the road somewhere. Eventually we ran into an indian girl probably four or five years of age walking through the woods with a what was most likely a younger sibling. Walter asked where the house was and she pointed the way. Within minutes we were at a house, but not the same house. Three Indian women sat around under the elevated house and nine kids milled about all clad in nothing but underpants. We walked back to the road, tried to take our bearings, Stephen headed uphill, I followed and half a mile later we arrived at the car that we had parked on the shoulder of the road.

Next we drove up to the area around the hydroelectric lake. We drove for miles past hundreds of barracks the housed the workers. Looking down on the small lake I pondered how much electricity this project could possibly produce. Without knowing the volume of water flowing out and the distance it was falling it is of course impossible to even estimate.

We reached the end of the passable road, encountering a manned barricade and turned around. A man on horse back indicated land was for sale. Despite the fact that I am seeking ocean front property we drove a couple of miles down a dirt road in the mountains and could occassionally see the ocean.

Finally we headed back to Almirante and sought out Luis, the crazy Colombian. Luis’ primary source of income is selling 60 watt solar systems to locals for $700. I have no idea how he can pull that off. He said his profit margin is 100%, but he buys the panels, rectifier and batteries. Me thinks his math is a little off. A discussion regarding prices of the various options for paid conjugal companions left me very bemused. He showed us a couple of tiny lots on the filthy river that “Would be perfect for a marina.” Right. If you want to invest $70k on land and $40k on docks, hire a caretaker would would pocket half of the $30 a day you might be able to make.

We caught a BMT water taxi back to Bocas. Stephen showing his pensionado card received his mandatory 30% discount while the near penniless locals paid the full $4 fare. Halfway across we encountered a BMT boat heading back to Almirante from Bocas. We sidled up, bow to bow and exchanged captains.

After dinner, Walter drove me around town looking for apartments. The first was full, the second was no longer renting. The third was half a block from the airport on the northern extreme of town. With two prop planes a day the noise is far less than in the boisterous town central. I agreed to take a two room cabin constructed of concrete panels. The pink building is trimmed with blue, red and yellow. It looked like somebody had transplanted a house from Key West. Sure enough the builder/owner arrived a few years ago from Key West.

In the morning Walter wanted to show me some property but I insisted that I was going to pursue this systematically, locating properties and plotting visits so as to minimize time and gas. A while later Walter told me he knew of eight hectare at Split Hill that was available for $80k. He summoned Pablo, the house boat captain. Finding the real estate boat not in fit order we took off in Stephen’s boat, with Stephen and spent five hours on the water or exploring property.

It took an hour to reach the first property at Split Hill. Arriving at the property we could not discern any hint of a dock on the western side among the mangroves. We cruised around the point to approach the property from the other side. The term “dock” was very generously employed in describing the rough hewn planks precariously straddling the poles stuck in the mud. This terminated at some dimensional one by tens that straddled four by fours, all hand cut by chain saws. The planks gave way, I supported myself on poles stuck in the mud. We ascended a small rise with a great view of Chiriqui Bay and the mountains on the mainland. The rest of the property was brackish swamp or rises with views solely of the higher surrounding rises. We encountered a giant orb spider at least four inches across the leg spread, directly subsequently Walter picked up a stick waving it in front of him up and down and in diagonal sweeps in exaggerated motions that are the essence of his physical expressiveness.

The far side lead down into a bog of cypress that indicate that this side of the island is an altar on which humans are sacrificed to the pernicious beasts known as chitra or sand flies. We returned to the boat and headed to another finca, even more remote which was started as a rustic resort by a woman who has since walked the trail to the destination at which all trails converge. We injudiciously walked the overgrown trails without a machete, stomping heavily to forewarn the irascible serpent the frequents the lowlands, the deservedly greatly feared fer-de-lance. I wasn’t hot on this spot either.

Proceeding still further we arrived at the dock at a property next to a property formerly occupied by Wild Bill a serial killer from the states who befriended expatriates, killed them, buried them on in the yard and claimed their property as his. This was not the most well thought out of operations but was seldom surpassed in the wantonness and evil with with it was executed. A dog barked at the end of the dock. Walter called out to the caretaker and we tied off. A large expanse of hill was planted with a wide variety of tropical fruit trees. Half way up a simple rectangular wooden two story house looked down over the lush lawn and fruit trays and across the bay to the mountains overlooking the blue waters of Chiriqui Grande. At night the strip of water through which we had just passed a lucky boater might chance to see a jaguar on its way to the fertile hunting grounds of Isla Popa. The jaguar is the third largest cat and has the most powerful bite. Their jaws readily crack the shells of giant sea turtles.

While the rest of the party stayed at the house I went down the trail through the densest jungle I have seen in Central America. The property climbs over the hill and descends again to the waters of Dolphin Bay. On the dolphin bay side, Bocas Town is half an hour away, on the side from which we approached it it an hour’s travel. We had an over an hours journey through some occasionally very shallow water populated with the little cayucas and Pablo was anxious to return before we lost light.

After returning we attempted to eat at Gringo’s, the Mexican restaurant of choice. As we drove by many people called out to Walter, “Hey.” “Stop in.” etc. At 7:30 the owner decided he was done for the day so we dined elsewhere. I returned to Casa Verde and caught up on my emails.