The State Department is Looking For You

“No one knows anything about this guy. This is the first time I’ve worked with him. His name is Lucho and here’s his number. I just called him but he didn’t answer. Just go to Isla Grande, I think he is there or on some other island near there. Call him when you get there and if he’s somewhere else I’m sure you can meet him in Colon. The trip will be four days, with two nights in the San Blas Islands and you’ll land in Cartagena, Colombia. You have to go now or you’ll miss the last bus. And remember to tell me about it when you’re done, so I know whether to recommend him to other travelers. Sorry for throwing you in blind.” We ran out of the hostel in Panama City to catch a diablo rojo, Panamanian slang for old American school bus, to some town that Stewie didn’t know the name of. From there Stewie’s only advice was, “Just tell them you want to go to Isla Grande. Someone will point you to the right bus. I don’t remember the name of that town either, but there’ll be guys on boats at the dock to take you to the island.” In a famous line that will likely shape the rest our lives I shrugged and said, “Trisha, this is how we make all of our best decisions.” On the street we passed Restaurant Jimmy, still confused as to why it was a landmark in the city, and headed to the Super Rey on the next block. The first driver we approached quickly shook his head at us when Trisha asked for Albrook and then drove away. Sliding in the backseat of the next cab the smell of air freshener flooded around us. At the terminal we climbed onto the bus going where we apparently needed to go. This particular bus had one square food of windshield space that was not covered in bright greens, reds, purples, and golds. The packed aisle was lined with air fresheners depicting Jesucristo , tasseled fabrics covered the seats, and a mix of reggeaton and 80’s musica en ingles blared from the speakers. Trisha snagged the only seat left, the dreaded wheel well seat. We crammed our backpacks in the leg space and snuggled up for the 6-hour ride to wherever we were off to. The bus let us off at a Super Rey outside of Colon where we were going to find our way to Isla Grande and Lucho. With a bit of trepidation I approached the sketchier of the men sitting in the vendor booths. He had cornrows, gold teeth, and if I remember correctly only one black shoe. Our self-proclaimed traveler’s Spanish got us to the right road where the man tried to tell us that the town we were going to was ‘La Guayra.’ I didn’t understand and he changed the subject to why we were here. When I told him we were headed to Colombia his response was “Oh, very dangerous,” a strong statement coming from this man. He left us, but luckily two American girls who collectively went by the name Patricia (Pah-tree-see-yah) got enough attention in this out of the way bus stop that the entire street full of people helped us to find the right bus, waited until we got on it, and took our packs to the back for storage. From this point on when I say Trisha and I managed to do something what I really mean is Trisha, I, and the 50 people around us managed to do something. Four hours on the diablo rojo took us through winding hills and an unbelievable, unplanned for monsoon, all on dirt roads. Four boys at the dock sold us trash bags for a quarter each (getting ripped off at every turn is a constant theme of these types of travels) and we each put them on us and on our bags. I was left with a group of around 20 men while Trisha faced the storm to get Pringle’s for a dollar fifty, ripped off again. That day will remain in our memories as the best time either of us got whistled at. As Trisha, in her figure flattering trash bag, splashed through the street back to the dock, the whistles came from the porches of the multi-colored houses lining the bay. A boat was coming toward us from the island and after the usual negotiations took place we sat down, in our new rain gear, off toward the floating Jesus that greeted us to the shore of Isla Grande. The streets on the island were flooded with water. Carrying our packs wrapped in trash bags we set across the island with water up to our knees looking for El Bodega Super Jackson. We prayed to that Jesus swaying in the water that there would be a room. Dark now, the man following us a few steps behind didn’t create the romantic island atmosphere we had imagined from stories of Panama. The nicest woman we had met so far helped us call Lucho and we planned to meet up in the morning. At 8 Lucho met us in front of the bodega. When he unzipped his yellow raincoat I looked at Trisha as she strained to ignore his pants that were not quite sitting on his waist. He grabbed our bags, tossed them in a small, red, fiberglass dingy tied to the dock and set up a plywood bench for us to sit on. After a handful of attempts at starting the red dingy we were off. There were a dozen or so sailboats in the water and each looked at least sea worthy. Motoring across the bay we got our first glimpse of the boat that would become our home for the next four (or so) days. It was walking the very thin wire of sea worthy. Lucho taught us the artsy technique of getting on the boat, which involved some minor acrobatics since part of the wood on the step was rotting and broken. Lucho, who will from this point forward be referred to as ‘The Luch,’ asked for our passports and told us he was off to customs in Colon, the customs office in Portobelo was closed for the holiday season. As we watched our passports being rolled into a plastic bag and stuffed in The Luch’s raincoat we realized we didn’t have money to pay the captain. Trisha, The Luch, and Sofia (The Luch’s “girlfriend”) headed to Colon. They still hadn’t returned by 7 that night so Luca, Manuel, our two Italian shipmates, and I captained the dingy to the island to get some dinner and beer. The monsoon had returned after a brief 20 minute viewing of the sun earlier in the day and the dingy soon filled with water. As Luca maneuvered the boat into the anchor line of another sailor’s ship, Manuel told me that when they were in Colon yesterday the Policeman at the docks had told them that foreigners disappeared weekly and were never seen again. Foreigners were kidnapped, chopped up, left to the sea and no one knew about it. A few Soberannas (take the name literally, Sober Anna, and don’t ever drink it) later we were back at the Odysee II; I was more than a little surprised to see Trisha had returned. “I got on the bus and el capitan dropped his beer. At 9 am. I shrugged and sat next to a kid who promptly puked into the aisle. When we finally got to Colon the customs official told us we didn’t have the correct papers, so we bussed the two hours back to Portobelo. Upon our return with the new papers the official told us it was too late to stamp our passports. Luckily, however, when we got on the bus to go to the Super Rey the driver pulled out a stamp and we were officially on our way out of the country.” This was the start to our trip from Panama to Colombia with The Luch, Sofia, Luca, Manuel and two Spanish women: Carmen and Laura. We went with the Luch to La Guayra in the morning. "I always tell them to fill up the gas, but it is always empty when I start the dingy." The same men from before lined the dock and looked onto the street from their porches. Each house was three or four different colors, the doors were all open, and the mix of music fell into the streets that had once been concrete. The village dogs swarmed around us. Before we left we had been talking to the Luch about perhaps getting a few limones. "Come sail the limon fiber." We had no idea what he was talking about but now in the mercado in La Guayra we were dissapointed to find absolutely zero limones and the only beer in stock was Atlas. If you are looking for a good beer, don't go anywhere near the Panama border. The girls had prepared our breakfast by the time we returned and Luca and Manuel were suited up for snorkeling. The rest of the day passed and Trisha and I swam to a log floating a hundred or so meters away. The Luch finally realized we were not going to make it back to the boat alive and sent the dingy out for us. The log trailed behind the dingy as Trisha was continuously splashed in the face with water coming from underneath the "banana boat." Finally prepared to take off, the Luch flung his body over the rail at the front of the boat and while yelling something at Manuel pulled the anchor from the bay. For 20 minutes we were in the way wherever we sat or stood as the Luch frantically ran around the boat adjusting ropes, pulling levers, yelling at Manuel. The sky became bluer with every meter further away from Panama we sailed. “Why didn’t you tell me you got sea sick?” “It’s just the kind of thing you leave out when you are trying to convince someone to sail from Panama to Colombia.” Manuel in the kitchen, Lucho tending to his plants, the girls cleaning and preparing dinner. Everyone was helping: Trisha and I sat on the front of the boat taking back a few Panamas and Balboas. We didn’t realize it, but at this moment we defined our roles on the boat for the remainder of the trip. We were the worthless American girls. Slowly the sun fell over the horizon, the water picked up, and Ben Harper came streaming out from the cabin. Sofia came to the front, inviting us to dinner. The light hanging overhead swung, revealing each of eight faces in turn. Italian bickering turned to Spanish while the Luch tried to explain the difference between school and university to us in English. “School is for idiots. The University makes professional people. Professional people.” The large dinner and couple of beers moved with the roughening sea as Trisha decided to lie down in the bed. We, as the worthless Americans, chose the largest of the beds. It was for three people but no one dared move in on our space. There was one smaller bed in the front of the cabin, a small bed that was in a “cave” at the back, and a couch that was less than a meter wide and two meters long. These were the sleeping arrangements, and we took the largest bed. After the dishes were done and I was awkwardly left out of the conversation I joined Trisha in the bed. As I climbed in she rolled over. “Will you get me a bowl?” I brought back a Tupperware with its lid, anticipating a long night. After about an hour she capped the Tupperware and set it in the corner of the bed where it stayed. As the sun brought blue skies and calm seas, the Luch got out his paper and bottomless jar of pot; he prepared his hourly smoke. Sofia made the three of us a cup of tea; a series of six islands spotted the sea in front of us. Announcing the San Blas Islands, Lucho began his frantic preparations to set anchor. I watched the land growing as Manuel and Lucho worked steadily on the sails. Steady now, between two islands, I dove into the water. On one side of the boat was El Porvenir. The capital of the archipelago, this island was no more than 50 meters long, but supported the international airport of the region. Lucho had explained to me over his joint that the island on the other side was the most populated of all the San Blas islands. More than 80 houses were packed onto the land and only a dozen or so palm trees struggled through the thatched roofs and chipped paint. Each of the other hundreds of islands in this part of the Caribbean housed only one Kuna man or family. Dori’s scattered the shore of El Porvenir as Luca, Manuel and I watched the plane turn, gain speed, and take off. “You’re already drinking beer?” “Manuel had cookies for breakfast.” Trisha and I polished off a few Panamas before swimming to land. A long concrete wall was crumbling with the waves at the end of the runway. I crawled behind Trisha as she slowly balanced her way along the slippery, algae covered concrete. I slid off into the shallow water and my body tightened. I was face to face with my worst fear; the coral reef system that protected these islands also nurtured the growth of plants that covered the floor. I knew from experience that sea urchins hid in the shadows of this type of vegetation. Exploring the island took a mere five minutes, but crawling the 10 meters back to shore let 30 minutes slip by in excruciating fear. As we swam back to the boat the Luch was handing a baggy to a man in one of the dori’s as he pulled 10 jugs of water on board. “No puedo creerlo!” I looked over to Trisha who was watching blankly as the Luch put his binoculars down and hopped into the dingy. Within seconds he was out of sight. At lunch our biggest fears came true; we sat down around the table and were confronted with three topless women: Sofia, Carmen, Laura. Uncomfortably we ate a huge cabbage salad and downed a pitcher of jugo. They had been topless for the past two days and apparently felt comfortable enough now to share meals with us sin camesas. Salty and burnt, our first shower with gallons of water stung and cooled our red skin. Putting the gallon containers back under the deck I noticed the red dingy was roped back up to the boat and the Luch was mumbling something in the cabin. “Can I help you find something Lucho?” “My tools. My tools. I need my tools.” “What are you fixing?” “Nothing. I need my tools. Go up to the deck. I need my tools. I need to work.” The Luch proceeded to tear apart our bed and lift the floor boards from the cabin ground. His tools were scattered throughout the kitchen, living room, on all of the tables. For hours the Luch worked on the inside of the boat, on the sails, on the deck. “It is my Hungarian friend. Atilla the Hun. Hungarian friend. His name is Adrian. I can’t believe it.” A blue boat with Atilla painted along the outside pulled up and set anchor down no more than five meters from where we were. A large man with dread locks pulled himself onto our ship. Night approached, the music grew louder and smoke swirled up from the cabin, around to the front where we had set up our bed for the night. Luca and Manuel came back to bring us dinner. Manuel’s almond eyes were filled with the expression they made when he was trying to figure out what he wanted to say to us. “Did Lucho tell you we are not going to Cartagena?” “What?! No. Where are we going?” “To his home. Sapzurro I think. It is very beautiful so we don’t mind, we aren’t in any rush. You can get a bus to Cartagena.” The boat rocked and the stars invaded the sky, invaded our sleep. Before the sun touched the horizon the next day, the Luch was climbing around us, flinging himself to retrieve the anchor, and preparing the sails. “You are one hyperactive mother fucker!” Adrian smiled to me and let out a loud laugh. The boat sailed out, further from Panama and the Luch dug out his tools from underneath our backpacks. “Trisha. You see these plants. Make sure nothing happens to these plants. Very important. They go under here, but no bags can fall on them.” “Dude, the Luch is growing pot in the storage area.” “Ahh, that’s how we get our fresh water.” The water was the calmest we had sailed on yet, the sky was a perfect blue, and as we pulled into Cayo Olandese we felt ourselves slowly sinking into paradise. We sat up to look at the islands surrounding the “swimming pool” when the boat jolted left and the bottom scraped along a series of reefs scattering the entrance. “Oh! No lo vi!” “Are you kidding me, he didn’t see that. I saw it, sitting on the deck.” “We’re never making it out of here.” We didn’t know how ironic those words were. The Luch had been telling us earlier in the day how he bought the ship. This was his first trip from Panama to Colombia in the boat that he paid $15,000 for. Apparently he had two years to pay it off. All of these words reverberated in my head as the ship shook. Despite the few things that had broken so far in the trip the Odysee II proved to be sturdier than it appeared and we prepared to spend New Year’s Eve in the most beautiful place on earth. A dozen other sailboats sat in the middle of a pool surrounded by islands. The islands were walled in by coral reef and all around us waves crashed a few hundred meters away. On the edge ready to jump in after Manuel, who had just recently learned to dive, I noticed a current surging through the water. When I surfaced after plunging into the cool water I was 10 meters past the boat. Trisha jumped in and we swam with the current to the closest island. “Patty. Did you just pee up stream from me?” “No dude, there are hot springs in this water. They’re everywhere.” Conca shells were scattered all over the beach of the island. Some had been fished and were cut open but others lay untouched, unaware of the sailing culture in their walled city. Our skin started to twitch and sting; sand flies had found us and forced us into the water. Realizing what I had walked into a tear rolled down my cheek. I was standing on the ocean floor, meters away from the shore, my feet covered with the plants that thrived in reef protected bays. Crawling back to the sand with my hands feeling the ground for urchins I couldn’t help the tears creeping through the corners of my eyes. Tiny fish swarmed around my arms running into my elbows as I slowly made my way through the battlefield. Remembering the current we walked to the furthest end of the island before swimming back to the boat; to gain some headway. We were 15 meters behind the boat, swimming. Each stroke was more difficult and the Luch laughed at each failed attempt to break the waves. Breast stroke, back stroke, doggie paddle. Swimming, swimming, breathing and the Luch laughing. It took no less than 30 minutes to swim those last 15 meters. “Hey do you know where we put the beer?” “It should be in the refridgerator.” “There isn’t any there.” “Then it’s under the floor by the couch.” “Where’s all the beer?” In Colon Trisha had bought 36 beers for us and 36 beers for the boat to share. I had bought another 24 beers while the boys also bought 24 beers in La Guayra. Then Lucho bought more beer at El Porvenir for himself and Adrian. It was the third night and all the beer was gone. It was gone. There was nothing in the refridgerator and maybe a 6-pack in the underground storage. We counted how much we each drank and it equaled about 25 between the four of us. We had bought over 100 beers. Synchronized we all looked at the Luch, still working on the deck with his tools scattered on the table and two empty MGD’s next to him. “All the beer is gone, and it’s New Year’s Eve.” “Hey do you know where we put the beer?” “It should be in the refridgerator.” “There isn’t any there.” “Then it’s under the floor by the couch.” “Where’s all the beer?” In Colon Trisha had bought 36 beers for us and 36 beers for the boat to share. I had bought another 24 beers while the boys also bought 24 beers in La Guayra. Then Lucho bought more beer at El Porvenir for himself and Adrian. It was the third night and all the beer was gone. It was gone. There was nothing in the refrigerator and maybe a 6-pack in the underground storage. We counted how much we each drank and it equaled about 25 between the four of us. We had bought over 100 beers. Synchronized we all looked at the Luch, still working on the deck with his tools scattered on the table and two empty MGD’s next to him. “All the beer is gone, and it’s New Year’s Eve.” “We only have one more night and we will be sailing to Colombia, we’ll be fine, we can celebrate there. It’ll be okay.” We sat at the table peeling garbanzo beans to make hummus with the light above us swirling in the breeze. Inside the cabin the lights were off and the Luch was lying on the couch smoking cigarette after cigarette. In the background we could hear music. Well, everybody hurts sometimes, Everybody cries. And everybody hurts sometimes And everybody hurts sometimes. So, hold on, hold on Hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on Everybody hurts. You are not alone The song was on repeat. With each cycle of the song the Luch pulled out another cigarette. “Dude, the Luch is totally coming down right now.” “Yeah…really hard.” The Luch didn’t join us for dinner and once the girls did the dishes I set up our bed while Trisha was brushing her teeth. Manuel was making tea so I came into to grab a cup and the sleeping bag. Trisha was talking to Sofia in the kitchen. “I know this seems a little late, but which one is the fresh water in the bathroom?” “Here, I’ll show you. Don’t get them mixed up or you’ll be washing your mouth with shit.” “Hahaha.” “Dude, we’ve totally been using the wrong one.”