Maya to Kuna

Blur.

Where has the time gone? Damn.

Since my last posting, I closed the necessary chapters in Guatemala (summited one last volcano, kissed the last Guatemalteco, drank the last favorite café, spent money down to the last Q, strolled through central parque one last time...) and journeyed on to Panama.

The 4am shuttle to Guate City never showed up. Time was seriously running out and I am running around the streets of Guatemala at 5am trying to find a phone, or a taxi, or a chicken, or damn TukTuk for that matter. Not safe, nor easy. Under a delirious panic, I was throwing my bags around in the street, tossing the gallon of water into the air and crying like baby without Mayan tit. I wanted out of Guatemala. Wanted out of Antigua (gracias a dios). Wanted away from Bobby. Wanted to get to Panama to meet Craig.

I made it to the airport and to the gate with a few seconds to spare. Por supuesto, I didn`t have enough money to pay my government exit fee of $3 and the frijoles and pan that I ordered 20 minutes ago, still isn`t ready. Gracias adios that I am getting out of Guate. Love the country to Ashley Simpson pieces of me, but damn...tired of the pace, the slowness, the lack of urgency, the "I will make your damn frijoles and pan sandwich when I get to it" attitude.



Panama City was exactly what the doctor ordered. Craig and I made great use of the hotel with aircon, the downstairs café with taxi drivers that accosted us at ever sitting, and cable teley (con HBO, Cinemax, and BBC). We saw movies, cruised the mall like dolled up teenage girls, and even ate at Dunkin Donuts (yes, it tastes the same).

We spent most of this week on the islands San Blas in the Comerca de Kuna on the Caribbean side of Panama, circa de Colombia. Not to take my love for Vieques PR down or to minimize my love for the Puertoricano agua, but when I say we were on a deserted island...this is serious. Our island was about the size of a small Walgreen's store. Blockbuster, if you will.



We flew from Panama City to the northeast part of the country to Porvenir and then took a tree (read: a boat hand carved out of a tree) one hour to the ``Island With No Name´´. You could see a few islands of similar size off in the distance, but we were deserted. We had a thatched palm hut with earth ground and 2 hammocks. A little thatched hut built on stilts over the ocean served as the toilet. Very interesting feeling; both experienced mild panic attacks when we realized that cameras weren`t actually on us and Jeff Probst wasn`t waging peanut butter for an obstacle course - we were seriously alone and without anything.



On the second day we hired a tree to take us to the nearest Kuna village about 45 minutes away - Matartupu. Surrounded by Kuna women in beads (lots of beads), traditional dress and makeup...children and albinos clawing at my skin. We searched the island for Pepsi Colas and Balboa cervesas, water, even took the last of the island´s chips and cookies back to our oasis. The time on the island was too short of time and I`m already already anxious to return.



We took the tree back to Porvenir at 4:30am. Totally refugee-like and escapeartist-esque, motoring for an hour through the complete darkness in the middle of the ocean is a smidge nerve-racking. I was barreling out the water in the bottom of the tree with an empty milk carton. All of my belongings were on that boat and the waves were coming straight from the set of the Perfect Storm.



After a quick layover in PC, we jumped back on a flight to Bocas del Toro where we are now surrounded by middle-aged white men from up north who say things like, ``Yeah, I`m from Toledo, but I own an island here.´´ Felicadades fucker. Now, go shave that mustache and cut your balding pony-tail. And turn off that damn Jimmy Buffet already. I mean, comeon. What`s that about?

This journey is slowly creeping to a halt. I may write but just once more, or the next time you hear from me will be on my American cell phone. The panic of returning to the States has already kept me up at night with fright, tears and night sweats. Oh wait, maybe that was the cockroaches in my hair or the sweltering 90 degree heat.

Con besos,
Ryan