Grease Me Up And Wake Me When the Revolution Comes

March 22-27, 2008 – Day 848-854

Rumor had it the earliest ferry left to one of the Bay Islands at 9:00, but to which island was unclear. Truth be told, I was skeptical there even would be a ferry today because it was Easter weekend. But the only way to find out was to get up early and head over to the dock. Sonia and Ivan got their ticket to Roatan, which indeed did leave at 9:00, but I wanted to go to Utila, and nobody seemed to know what was going on with it. The ferry was sitting in the dock, and when Sonia talked to the captain, she found out that it had already dropped off a load of passengers from the island and was about to return empty to pick up another load. I ran over to it and jumped on board just as it was pulling away. They let me ride out to Utila as the only passenger on the whole ship, a strange situation indeed. The mass exodus from the island meant that I was able to find a place to sleep right away, so I guess the divine intervention of El Salvador worked out for the best.

The first thing I noticed when I got to the island was that the locals were speaking English to each other. It was a Caribbean dialect that was hard to understand (they say mon and riiight a lot), but delightful nonetheless. It had been over a year since I had been to an English-speaking place.

The Bay Islands are known for their cheap diving, to the point where many people end up staying for several months learning how to be a divemaster (a kind of an underwater tour guide) or an instructor. I signed up for some fun dives on Easter Sunday. A big group of us checked out the reef (the second largest in the world), including a wall that went thirty meters (100 feet) deep. Later, we went to a private beach for a barbecue, volleyball, and an underwater Easter egg hunt where the prize for each egg found was a bottle of beer. I didn't see anything life-changing on my dives, and I learned that overfishing had badly damaged the ecosystem around the island, but it was still fun getting back into the water.

Later I met a family from Alaska traveling together. Porsha did various things for a living, including playing in two bands and selling fruit smoothies at the farmer's market. One of the first things she was going to do when she got home was go caribou hunting with her brother Garrison and mother Katie. Porsha liked to tell me that if you didn't learn how to be self-sufficient by hunting and growing your own vegetables, you weren't going to survive in the future. She also told me that the US had more or less become a police state in the time I'd been gone. It all seemed far-fetched, but it also had an eerie ring of truth to it.

Another guy hanging out with us was Dave. Dave also sells fruit smoothies at the local farmer's market. He claimed that he only works four months per year, and only one day per week during those four months. That's been his only job for the last twenty years. I think I need to consider a career change when I get home.

The worst thing about the island was the sand flies. The first night I got bitten a lot, but then I learned that if you grease yourself up with baby oil, they can't piss directly onto your skin. The whole island looked like a big Mr. Universe pageant, what with all the athletic, deeply tanned people walking around in their swimming suits and covered with baby oil.

The other bad thing was the weather. Most days were cloudy with rough water, and the ferry service and even some of the dive boats became unreliable. A local rasta told me that around Easter it was always guaranteed to be hot and sunny, but the last few years have been totally unpredictable because of global climate change. So we've taken away the fish and the sunny weather, but at least there was still some coral. For a little while, anyway.

The Real Meaning of Culture Shock

March 21, 2008 – Day 847

The Bay Islands consist of three islands: Utila, Roatan, and some other island I can't remember, but that's not important. The backpackers generally stick with Utila, and those with a bit more money go to Roatan. Sonia had been living in Roata for the last year, and Ivan was going with her. As for me, I didn't much care which island I went to as long as I got there. I was supposed to be there a week earlier, but didn't make it because all the buses were sold out for the pending Easter week holiday, remember.

It turned out my decision had already been made for me. Sonia called the ferry company this morning, but there were none because it was Good Friday. Same deal with flights. Yesterday the water had been too rough for the ferry to make it, so that made two days with nobody coming from or going to the islands. That meant we had to stick around town with nothing to do because nothing was open due to the aforementioned holiday. It also meant tomorrow would be a long and hectic day as we struggled to get on the ferry, if it even left at all.

I think I've found the true meaning of culture shock in the last few months. Most people say it's something that happens right when you get to a new culture, and it goes away shortly thereafter as you make lifestyle adjustments. I think culture shock is more like being in a relationship. The little character flaws your partner has don't bother you at first. Maybe they even make that person more attractive. But over a period of months or years of being with the same person, those flaws work their way into your head and won't come back out again until you either leave that person or blow up in their face. Then when you look back at the situation years later, you find that time has its way of only making you remember the positive stuff and you're not even sure why you got so mad in the first place.

Culture shock for me has come in the form of all these damned holidays. These people will find any excuse to throw a party, and it disrupts the entire transportation infrastructure. There are no boats, no flights, and the few buses that still run become a deathmatch to embark. Hotels are all full and restaurants are all closed. There's nothing to do but sit around with your thumb up your ass and wait for it all to end. It wouldn't be so bad if it were only a few days per year, but it's nearly the end of March and I swear there's only been a few weeks so far this year without any holidays. And so today I walked around with the Colombian and the Spaniard with a look of accepted defeat on my face, like an old man who suddenly gives in to his oncoming incontinence. I had found my happy place.

The Colombian, the Spaniard, and the Unreachable Island

March 20, 2008 – Day 846

I tried to go to the Bay Islands a week ago but accidentally got dropped off in El Salvador. I had a decent time in Central America's smallest and least visited country, but the time had come for take two in Honduras.

I paid a premium for the luxurious direct bus into Honduras that would completely avoid the crime-ridden capital, but the glorious bus still managed to break down on the highway for most of the afternoon and I was forced to watch a string of movies starring Jackie Chan and Owen Wilson. The sun was already on its way out of the sky by the time I got to San Pedro Sula, the second biggest city in the country and only slightly less horrible of a place than the capital of Tegucigalpa.

I wanted to leave town right away but the bus company to go to La Ceiba was already closed. Worse still, transportation was due to shut down completely tomorrow because it was Good Friday, so it was looking like I would have to waste two days just to get to the islands. Suddenly I ran into a Colombian woman who lived on the islands named Sonia and a Spanish guy named Ivan who were traveling together and in the same predicament. A long time ago I learned to follow the locals in these situations, and these two were the closest thing to locals I was going to meet.

We took a taxi to another bus station, but it was closed.. We had one last chance at another bus station across town and went for it. The last bus for the next two days was on its way out of the parking lot just as we pulled up, and Sonia and Ivan wasted no time in jumping aboard. I was right behind them, but the assistant told me I wouldn't fit. I had never heard of such a thing as not fitting onto a bus in Latin America, so I pushed the assistant out of the way and squeezed in next to him. Technically I did fit, even though I was unable to take full breaths and nearly needed a bottle of grease to get back out. We pulled into La Ceiba late at night and got “lucky” again as we scored what was surely one of the only rooms left in the city. It was the size of a jail cell with only one bed, and as a courtesy, the owner only charged us double the normal price because he knew we were desperate. We all were hoping to get the ferry to the islands today, but delays made that impossible. We'll try our luck tomorrow. Why does Easter week travel have to be so difficult?

A Beautiful Colonial Town

March 18-19, 2008 – Day 844-845

I had to take a series of four buses to get across the country to the town of Suchitoto, but I was able to do it all in one day. After being in the boring, bland “flowery region,” I was blown away by the beauty of Suchitoto as soon as I got there. The whitewashed colonial buildings had a common familiarity to me after visiting so many similar towns, but this town happened to be on Cerron Grande, a huge lake surrounded by forests. It reminded me of Villa de Leyva, Colombia without the tourists and with a stunning natural surrounding. It was the best town I had visited in I don't even know how long.

I found a hostel overlooking the lake owned by a nice local couple that even had a few other guests. I loved being there but could only stay one day. I didn't want to waste time again because of Semana Santa, so I bought my bus ticket out of El Salvador a few days in advance. Coming to El Salvador early actually seems to have worked out well because I got an email from a girl in the Bay Islands stating that they were completely full and would best be avoided for the remainder of the week. We'll find out how true that is tomorrow.

The Non-Flowery Route

March 16-17, 2008 – Day 842-843

I avoided the roaming street gangs and got out of San Salvador as soon as I could figure out the local bus system. My destination was the Ruta de las Flores (Route of the flowers), which the employees at my hotel all enthusiastically recommended. Too bad they didn't tell me in advance that none of the flowers on the route were in bloom at the time.

It took several bus transfers to get to Juayua, the most exciting town in the region. A large food market was happening, with dozens of street vendors selling local Salvadoran fares. There was a lot of domestic tourism as the locals escaped the capital for the weekend, but not one foreign tourist was in sight. I did meet a couple of locals over a few beers, but they were regular working guys. No chance of hanging out during the day.

The other area attraction was Apaneca, the highest town in El Salvador at 1450 meters. The main thing to see there was (of course) the church, which was five hundred years old before an earthquake destroyed it in 2001. A replacement was being built, and by the looks of it, it might be complete in another five hundred years. The town drunks did a fair amount of preaching to me after taking a fountain bath, but everyone else was too busy going about their daily business to talk to me.

Even after one day of being in the area I started feeling lonely. I've always admired little towns in the highlands, but I never figured out how people could live there with so little to do. For some unknown reason, almost nobody visits El Salvador, and I started resenting the “divine intervention” that put me there. It would have been much better to take a few friends with me.

Divine Intervention

March 15, 2008 – Day 841

The day started off easy enough with the early bus out of Managua. We had an easy border crossing into Honduras after a few hours. I found out that you don't even need to get your passport stamped for land crossings between Nicaragua, Honduras, El Salvador, and Guatemala, so my passport won't quite fill up so fast.

I was supposed to get off at a city near the border in Honduras and find another bus to take me north to Tegucigalpa, and I let the bus assistant know of my plans when he was loading my backpack in the storage compartment. The terrain outside appeared to be dry and barren with no human settlements in sight. Some Tom Hanks movie about the US secretly giving the Afghanis money during the cold war was playing, and before I knew it a couple hours had passed. All of a sudden we stopped, and I asked the assistant if we were in my city yet. He had an “oh shit” look of surprise on his face when he saw that I was still on the bus, and he broke the bad news to me that he had forgotten about me and we were, in fact, already crossing into El Salvador.

I thought briefly about getting off the bus and trying to make my way back through Honduras, but at that point I'd have to traverse the entire country to get to the Pacific coast. I decided to continue to San Salvador instead. I was planning to go there eventually anyway, so I figured as long as I was in the country, I might as well stay a few days.

A few people had warned me not to go to El Salvador because of the extreme gang violence that was happening there. I met very few people who had actually been there, though, and that piqued my curiosity about the place. I started reading about the tiny, practically unknown country and discovered that like Nicaragua, there was a terrible civil war there that cost 75,000 lives, and of course the US government played a large role in prolonging it. Still, it ended in 1992, so the youngest generation wouldn't have any memories of it. Hopefully the country would be peaceful enough for the older generations to forgive and forget.

I found a place to sleep near the bus station in the capital of San Salvador, and when I looked around all I saw were a Wendy's, a Pizza Hut, and a street full of cars and devoid of people, much like I'd expect to see back home. Maybe the gangs were fighting on the other side of town. I told the desk worker at my hotel about how the bus didn't drop me off in Honduras, and she said it was divine intervention that I came to her country instead. Indeed, Holy Week had affected me deeply, whether I wanted it to or not.

Another Party to Ruin My Plans

March 14, 2008 – Day 840

I took a short bus ride to Managua this afternoon and headed straight for the Tica Bus terminal to buy my ticket to Honduras. I knew that traveling during Semana Santa (the week leading up to Easter) would be difficult because it was a vacation week for most people. Still, I was shocked to learn that the bus was already sold out for the next six days! I looked at the only other company with buses to Tegucigalpa (the capital of Honduras), but they were sold out several days in advance as well. So since I came to Central America six weeks ago, my travel plans have been disrupted first by carnaval in Panama City, then the local festival in Liberia, Costa Rica, and now Easter. It's times like this that you wonder when these people actually do work.

I finally found an international bus going to El Salvador via Honduras, and I bought a ticket to get dropped off at a city near the border with Nicaragua. I'll have to catch a couple extra buses from Honduras and probably waste a day in the process, but it's certainly a better option than having to hang out in Managua for the next several days.

The Little City That Could

March 11-13, 2008 – Days 837-839

My next stop was the small city of Granada, which, like Ometepe Island, was on Lago Nicaragua, the largest lake in Central America. Granada was an important trade center from its founding, so much so that the French, English, and the liberals from Leon constantly fought for control throughout its turbulent history. That all came to a dramatic end when American William Walker, who had briefly controlled the city, was forced to abandon it and had it burned to the ground in 1856.

The city was mildly interesting with an old church with a lookout tower where one had a great view of another church, a few nice parks, and a crafts market in nearby Masaya. Again, the people were friendly, but it was a very poor place where horses were still being used as often as cars. I didn't feel like staying long, but I found out too late that the bus to Honduras left from Managua (the capital) early in the morning, and I didn't feel like spending any time there, so I had to stay in Granada another day.

The Forgotten Island

March 8-10, 2008 – Days 834-836

Ometepe Island was just a hop, skip, and a jump from San Juan del Sur, and was, in fact, visible from the main highway when I first entered Nicaragua. However, the large island that was made from two volcanoes wasn't a very touristy place for some reason. Unlike San Juan del Sur, it was totally devoid of nightlife. It was so dark I needed a flashlight to walk around, even when we weren't experiencing one of the frequent blackouts. And there were warnings of water shortages, despite being located on the biggest lake in Central America. It was my kind of place.

One day I rode buses around the island. Life moved very slowly and traditionally with farmland taking up most of the flat area surrounding the volcanoes. There were lots of hiking trails to check out the wildlife and bits of remaining original swampland. Just the thought of a volcanic tropical island located on a huge lake sounded exciting, and the culture and wildlife made it even more worthwhile. I couldn't understand why more tourists didn't visit it.

My Ometepe challenge was to climb the Concepcion Volcano. Several people warned me to take a guide because of the high chance of getting lost for days. I didn't see how you could get lost on a volcano because you just walk back down if you can't find the trail, but I caved and hired one. Indeed, the trail was easy to follow, but it was still nice to have a guide to point out the animals and plants of the forest covering the volcano.

Along the way, we saw lots of wildlife, especially howler monkeys. Sometimes they would surround us in the trees, staring at us with their beady eyes, screaming at the top of their lungs and swinging around the branches to intimidate us without any sign of fear. Mixed in with the monkeys were birds the color of the Nicaraguan flag making several varieties of beautiful calls. A huge tree had been chopped down illegally with an axe so as not to attract the attention of the authorities. Some of it had been hauled away to build a house, but most of it was left to rot. I could tell conservation was a priority, until it meant that a human couldn't have a dwelling for himself.

I was told I couldn't climb all the way to the top because the volcano was in the middle of spewing out noxious fumes. Indeed, when we got to 1000 meters, I began to smell the sulfur. However, we ran into a large group of disabled Europeans who had ridden to that level on horses and had been camping there and filming a documentary for the last five days. They were continuing higher on a rope, but that's where I had to stop. I didn't mind too much, though, because the cloud cover got too thick to see anything at that point and the view from where we were was spectacular.

My other big news is that my shirt collection is officially rockin'. Not too long ago, I only had two shirts, and life isn't very interesting when you're wearing half the clothes you own on any given day. But then I scored a shirt from some hippies in Colombia, I won a dressy shirt in a poker game in San Juan del Sur, and I completed my collection on Ometepe by buying a Hawaiian classic from a guy in the street who had gotten it off the Goodwill ship, fresh from the United States. Now my shirt collection is five strong and life couldn't get much better.

The Sunset Sail That Wasn't

March 4-7, 2008 – Days 830-833

I ran into English Richard from the Corcovado National Park once again in Liberia. Just when I thought he had gone back to England long ago, there he was next to me getting ready to head into Nicaragua for the last part of his trip. I've learned many times during my trip that if you don't think you'll ever see someone again, you'll definitely run into each other, but if you actually plan to meet somewhere, it won't happen.

Richard, me, some Canadians, and a crazy Finnish alcoholic with ADHD headed to Nicaragua together. As soon as we crossed the border, I could tell the difference from Costa Rica. Burly men were hauling wood and food around in horse drawn carts, bicycle taxis were more common than the ones with engines, and many people were trying to eek out a living by selling a few onions or a pack of gum on the streets. This was obviously a much poorer country than the one we had left. We all got some local money and headed to San Juan del Sur in an overstuffed taxi with no radio, seat belts, or turn signals, and a trunk that was overflowing with all our worldly possessions and was being held halfway open by a few strands of rope.

San Juan del Sur was a small beach town on the Pacific Coast. It was packed with tourists, but they were of a different breed than those of Costa Rica. High-rise five-star hotels were replaced with small hostels with twenty beds to a room, McDonald's was replaced with the local sodas selling equally unhealthy food, and the loud, fat Americans the color of bathtubs were replaced with laid-back, tanned Aussies, there to catch some waves. The few actual Nicaraguans in town seemed to tolerate the gringo explosion quite well, especially considering their country's turbulent history.

The US government has severely damaged many countries I have visited, but none quite as badly as Nicaragua. Back in the early twentieth century, the US manipulated politics in Nicaragua to the point that if a non-favorable president was elected, the US marines came in and kicked his ass right out of power. This was all done so no other country could build a canal across Nicaragua, even though the US already had its eyes set on Panama for the building of the canal. The Somoza family later took over the country with the support of the US government and installed puppet leaders using fraudulent elections when they themselves were not in power. Anastasio Somoza Garcia was a brutal ruler who killed anyone who got in his way and eventually his family and friends owned most of the property in Nicaragua, while the rest of the people remained desperately poor. But we continued to support him because he let us use his land to launch a revolution in Guatemala and to invade Cuba. Franklin Roosevelt said of Somoza, “He may be a son of a bitch, but at least he's our son of a bitch.” And of course let's not forget the Reagan years, when fear of communism led us to sell weapons to Iran illegally at inflated prices and siphon the extra money to thousands of Nicaraguan Contras in order to overthrow the democratically-elected government. And this is just scratching the surface of what we've done to Nicaragua. I was really surprised at how friendly the local people were and how quick they were to forgive.

Even though the fighting in Nicaragua has ended, I could see another disturbing invasion brewing around town. Every American I talked to seemed to be either a real estate agent or someone looking to buy land here. All of the nice houses along the coast were already owned by Americans, and even the older places were being bought out because the locals didn't realize how much money the land would be worth in a few years. It's the same thing that has already happened in Costa Rica, except it's only in its beginning stages. I'm surprised the government is allowing this subtle invasion of their country to happen, but they're probably also getting a piece of the action, if you know what I mean.

The beaches around San Juan del Sur were bordering on paradise with fine tan sand and crystal-clear water. A few of the more turbulent beaches were packed with surfers, but many others were devoid of human life. One day I went with a few people from my hostel on a French-owned sailboat for a “sunset sail.” When we got out of the harbor, our comandante driver cut the engines, put up the sail, and we drifted to a beach that was inaccessible by land. Dolphins followed us through the water, we did some snorkeling, and played lots of Frisbee. The problem was that the crew all got themselves in a big hurry to leave and were pushing us along to a smelly boat taxi and on the shore to a truck to take us back to the hostel well before sunset. A couple of us stayed behind and watched the disk of the sun give us its final farewell of the day on the horizon, while everyone else was too busy hurrying back to the hostel. Even in a place as laid-back as San Juan del Sur, some people just can't live in the moment.

Party Time Is No Fun

March 2-3, 2008 – Day 828-829

My room was next to the road and when the fireworks went off at 5:00 AM, I thought someone was trying to kill me. Later in the day, I must have looked like they nearly succeeded because I had barely gotten any sleep by the time I rolled out of bed at 6:00 to catch the early bus out of the country.

When I walked to the bus station, I got delivered the bad news: At least 200 others had also decided to leave the country and were in line before me. The bus came and the pandemonium ensued as the young men started pushing away the little old pregnant ladies with no regard for their wellbeing. If the driver hadn't broken up the fight for seats, someone very well may have been trampled to death. The driver maintained order, but he still wasn't above taking advantage of the passengers by suddenly tacking on a $2 “service charge” for each checked bag, which of course went directly into his pocket. The bus ended up getting packed to the point that the last few passengers had to stand in the stairwell and nobody even had enough room to fart. Looking back, it was probably a good thing I didn't make it aboard.

Most countries have a simple system for getting on buses. You buy a ticket from the ticket booth, where you receive your seat number. When the bus shows up, you board it and sit in your assigned seat. That's it, it's really that simple. But so far in my travels, I have now encountered only two countries where the system doesn't work that way, and a fight to the death occurs when you want to get on a bus: Costa Rica, and The United States of America.

I walked back to my hotel and figured out my options. Buses to the border left Liberia roughly every two hours, but the hotel desk employee assured me that the chaos boarding the buses would only get worse as the day progressed. When I asked why there were so many people, he replied, “fiesta.” I asked him how long the fiesta would last, and he told me, “All of February.” I pointed out that it was, in fact, March, but he just shrugged his shoulders and told me, “I guess it lasts through the beginning of March, too.” So my only chance of getting on one of the public buses to the border was to act like a five-year-old who had eaten one too many pixie sticks.

I figured I had two other options: Try to cross into Nicaragua at the other border crossing, or take the international bus, which I had just found out existed. The first option would involve catching three buses at just the right times, and maybe a fifty-fifty chance of making it near the other crossing by the end of the day. The other option of taking the international bus wasn't any better because it was booked solid for two days. I decided to minimize the risk and bought a ticket for the international bus, but that meant having to hang out in Liberia's February fiesta for two March days. Then again, when in Liberia...

Orchids and Collisions

March 1, 2008 – Day 827

This morning I met a retired guy named Rick from Maine, and he introduced me to the orchid museum next to my hostel. I never really paid attention to flowers before, but the guided tour was actually interesting. There was the orchid that only lived one day, the colorful butterfly orchid, and a bunch of others that used various sneaky tricks to get insects to pollinate them. The Canadian kids in my group weren't so interested, and resorted to burning stuff with their magnifying glasses to pass the time.

My bus finally left in the afternoon and dropped me off at the intersection with the main highway. While I was waiting for another bus to pick me up, a motorcycle with two people on it pulled up to the busy intersection and began turning left amidst lots of traffic. Just as the driver was easing into his lane, a car started turning left from the other direction, but didn't see the motorcycle and smashed into it. The driver flipped through the air and landed on the car's hood. It looked pretty bad, but he was able to walk to the side of the road under his own power.

The emergency response was impressive. Within one minute, twenty people surrounded the passengers to see if they were okay. Within five minutes, a police car showed up. Within ten minutes, the ambulance was there. And after fifteen minutes, the passengers were on their way to the hospital and the road was completely cleared of debris. The driver, who was wearing a helmet, broke his nose, and the passenger, who was not, didn't look injured. It was scary to watch, but at least there were no major injuries.

A few minutes later, my bus to Liberia showed up, and the scene of the was left behind in my memories. Liberia was a small city about 80 KM from the border with Nicaragua. A big party with loud fireworks was going all night, but I went to bed early so I could get on the first bus out of the country tomorrow.

Bobbing and Weaving the Price Gougers

February 28-29, 2008 – Day 825-826

I took yet another bus to the town of Arenal, which sat on the Arenal Lagoon with a view of, you guessed it, the Arenal Volcano. It was a pretty area, but there wasn't a lot to do because the roads were set up for motor traffic only, and the consequently the lagoon wasn't very accessible by foot. Still I had to stop there for a night because there weren't any more buses that could take me through this region to the place I wanted to go.

The next day I took two more buses to get to Santa Elena. It looked close to Arenal on the map, but I still wasn't able to get there until late afternoon. That didn't much matter, though, because it was probably the biggest tourist trap I had seen in Central America so far. Basic necessities like restaurants and the Internet were three times more expensive than anywhere else I had been in Costa Rica, and even the grocery store did its best to gouge the tourists.

I was sure this place wasn't for me I met an English who said she had just gotten back from walking through the forest. She went without a guide, so I figured the experience would be cheap, or possibly even free. But when she showed me her entrance ticket for $15, I decided to leave the first chance I got. I could somewhat understand it when people paid $75 for a full-day guided tour, but $15 just to walk through a forest on your own for a few hours? Absolutely ridiculous. I calmed my nerves, called it an early night, and planned to leave tomorrow before my mildly good impression of the country turned really bad.

Where Your Mouthwash Comes From

February 26-27, 2008 – Day 823-824

A few days ago, I met a named Mary on one of my bus rides. She was studying computer science at a university on the Caribbean coast, and through a scheduling miracle of sorts, managed to take off for a few weekdays to visit her family. She invited me to visit her family in San Rafael de Guatuso, and soon I was introduced to her mom, brother, adopted brother, and a bunch of extended family members. They were a jovial bunch, and we had a good time exchanging the stories of our cultures that first night.

The next day, we took a four-wheel-drive truck up a long, unpaved hill to the Rio Celeste. On the way, we stopped at the Arbol de la Paz, which was probably the biggest tree I had ever seen. The river got its name from its mouthwash color, which was a result of the natural mixing of various minerals from the mountains. During our long hike, we stopped at hot springs, a lookout point, a swimming hole, and of course, a waterfall. It was a beautiful place and still largely a secret kept only by the locals.

My visit with Mary and her family changed my opinion of the Costa Rican people. I had thought they were a bit jaded from all of the tourism, which resulted in them being treated like servants by thousands of Americans per year, but Mary's family was very nice and just happy to meet a foreigner, despite having already met thousands before. The people of Guatuso were every bit as hospitable as those whom I had met elsewhere on my travels.

A Volcanic Culture

February 25, 2008 – Day 822

I got out of the big city today and took a bus to La Fortuna. It was a nice little town with a quaint church and a flowery plaza, but the highlight was clearly the nearby 1633 meter Arenal Volcano. Every businesses in town had a volcanic theme to it, including at least three hotels called “Hotel Volcano.” I would have liked to have climbed Arenal, but it was illegal because some tourist got killed by lava and ruined it for everyone, so I had to settle for viewing it from afar.

The Psychological Analysis of San José

February 21-24, 2008 – Day 818-821

It was a long bus ride to San Jose. Despite the small size and good roads of Central American countries, it still takes a full day to go halfway across the country because of frequent bathroom breaks, multiple flat tires, and engine breakdowns in the middle of a busy urban highway. It was still dark when I left the jungle this morning and almost dark again by the time I got to the capital.

I had told myself that I wouldn't visit any of the capitals in Central America due to a lack of interesting stuff to do, but when I was in Boquete and a fellow hostel-goer named Steve invited me to visit him, I couldn't pass it up. Steve was a psychologist from Chicago married to Miriam, a Tica (a Costa Rican woman) from San Jose. They were living in San Francisco for over a decade, but a few years ago they retired and moved back to her hometown.

I think the psychologist in Steve constantly had him playing mind tricks on me. He assured me that he was brilliant, and when I informed him that every brilliant person I had ever met didn't feel the need to inform others of their brilliancy, he told me that he was, in fact, so brilliant that he had no need to be humble. We spent a lot of time in coffee shops talking about travel, and Miriam spent most of her time rolling her eyes at Steve's highly intelligent remarks.

We also got to meet some of the most upstanding members of Costa Rica's ex-patriot community. Steve's friends (actually, he referred to them as 'acquaintances') were mostly single American men in their sixties with a surprising lack of American women at their sides. Steve told me that virtually all of the Americans living in Costa Rica were societal outcasts, whether running from the authorities or their ex-wives, or simply being unable to handle the pressures of a “normal” life back home. Steve, however, assured me that unlike the rest of them, his closet was free of skeletons.

Besides the Americans living in San Jose, who were easily distinguishable because they hung out in the same haunts every afternoon, there were a lot of normal tourists meandering the city as part of their week-long vacations. I wondered why they chose Costa Rica when there were so many other places in Latin America with equal, if not better, sights and amenities, and lower prices. Steve explained that when people researched Costa Rica as a possible vacation destination, they only read about the good stuff. The country abolished its military back in 1949 after a civil war left the government in shambles. There are rain forests, volcanoes, and beaches withing easy reach of the capital. There is a large middle class and generally a high standard of living, including a free social health care system. At first glance, Costa Rica looks like a gem surround by other Latin American countries that are marred with problems.

However, the level of violent crime in San Jose was as high as anywhere I had seen. Reading the local newspaper, I discovered that a few days ago, two immigrant engineers working outside got robbed at gunpoint of thousands of dollars worth of equipment by several men. The police caught the assailants but they were inexplicably released after a night in prison. That sparked a wave of vigilante justice, in which scores of frustrated citizens pummeled a man who was known as a thief, yet who had nothing to do with the robbery, nearly to death. The message was clear: The police won't protect us, so we'll take the law into our own hands. Steve also told me several stories of people and businesses, including a jewelry store just last week, being robbed in broad daylight in the supposedly safe downtown area with hundreds of people around. Of course, the robbers never got caught in those stories. He also warned me of the increasing problem with street gangs with nothing to lose in Honduras and El Salvador. I missed the days of traveling through South America when all I had to worry about was high altitude, hungry jaguars, and drug cartels.

Back to Town

February 19-20, 2008 – Day 816-817
Corcovado National Park Trek Day 3

This morning we walked with Martin and Helen, a German and British couple who recently had been spending most of their time living and working tourism and nature conservation in various parts of Central America. The walk out of the park had a few more knee-deep river crossings, but otherwise was uneventful. We eventually ended up on a road and took the opportunity to get a ride the rest of the way back to Puerto Jimenez. The weather was cooler but with constant rain, and I needed a whole day just to clean and dry out all of my stuff.

For me, Corcovado National Park was unspoiled and full of wildlife, but it still was lacking something intangible. I think if I had chosen to travel through Central America at the beginning of my trip instead of the end, I would have viewed it differently. After all, how could a tapir in Corcovado get my heart pounding after coming face to face with a puma in Noel Kempff Mercado in Bolivia and a jaguar near Blanche Marie Falls in Suriname? How could the antenna-laden view atop the 3475 meter Baru Volcano in Panama be awe-inspiring when I had already reached the 6000 meter summits of the Cordillera Real in Bolivia? How could seeing some coral and a single stingray while diving at Bocas del Toro, Panama dazzle my eyes when I had already swum with dozens of sea lions and fifty eagle rays in the Galapagos? And how could Panama City's ten-minute parade of an excuse for Carnaval quench my thirst when I had witnessed the massive acts of hedonism in Brazil and Argentina in previous years? One of the downsides of travel is that it becomes increasingly difficult to be impressed the more places you go.

Through the Jungle

February 18, 2008 – Day 815
Corcovado National Park Trek Day 2

Richard and I left camp as soon as it was light enough to see. We were heading northbound, away from the ocean, and as the sound of the waves faded away, the rain forest came alive. Howler monkeys were making their horrible dinosaur-like roars all around us and a few white-faced and spider monkeys jumped around the trees near us to let us know they were there. Then the sighting of the day happened when a tapir crossed the path about ten meters in front of us. Being a shy creature, it only looked at us for a second before running into the forest and remaining hidden. This all happened withing the first thirty minutes of walking.

In the middle of the day, a group of fourteen gap year kids, mainly from Britain, passed us in the other direction. They talked to Richard in strange dialects of their hometowns ending in names like “-hampton” “-shire,” and “-ford,” and were about to sit down for a cup of tea, but I reminded Richard that we were, in fact, walking through the jungle and not the English country side, and we moved on. Soon thereafter, we passed a young, fully-clothed guy walking with his parents who were wearing nothing but sandals and skimpy European bathing suits. The mosquitoes and sand flies must have had a field day with them, biting them in legendary places of bug lore.

The jungle was thicker and seemed more authentic by midday, and we stopped for lots of breaks near some of the dozens of river crossings on the path to listen to the multitude of sounds of the wildlife. The howler monkeys especially never seemed to leave our sides, and there were also lots of macaws , smaller parrots, and woodpeckers to keep us company. After hearing the horror stories yesterday of how difficult today's walk was going to be, I was surprised to arrive at the Los Patos ranger station after only six hours, including abundant breaks. Then I remembered that the people who had warned us had been in their offices in Boston only a few days earlier.

Today's camp was much more tranquil as we were joined by only four others and had a large grassy area in which to put our tents. Yesterday's ranger was in a state of perpetual anger from having to deal with too many campers, but today's ranger was going crazy with boredom as he ran around the camp with his arms flailing out at his sides while obnoxiously singing Spanish love songs. The rest of us exchanged a few stories of our other travels and enjoyed an early bedtime in the peaceful night.

How Much for the Little Girl?

February 17, 2008 – Day 814
Corcovado National Park Trek Day 1

Richard and I were ready before dawn and were joined by a few others for our ride into the park in the back of a truck. Along the way we passed a bunch of oceanside mansions owned by rich Americans. A construction worker got off at one of the works-in-progress, explaining that rich people were his favorite to work for. A few hours later, we were in Carate and were officially in the park.

The trek started with a short walk along the beach. It seemed as though we were walking at the beginning of our own movie, with the waves gently crashing to the shore and the thick rain forest awaiting our arrival at our side.

Soon there was a sign for La Leona, the first ranger station of the park. We left the beach to find a location that was far more luxurious than we had expected, with private cabins surrounding the main building and a group of patrons having a large breakfast, polishing their huge camera lenses for birdwatching, and relaxing on their beach side hammocks. We sat near them and began cooking porridge on my stove, but soon an employee told us to leave. I protested, stating that I had obtained permission to enter the park, but the employee explained that this was the La Leona resort, not the La Leona ranger station. So they gave their place the same name as the ranger station and were not at all sympathetic when I pointed out how confusing that was. I think we were just too grungy for the other patrons, who were staring at us like that scene in The Blues Brothers where they try to recruit their maitre d' friend. Apparently being boated into this luxury hotel for a few days was actually some peoples' idea of going into the jungle.

We found the much-more-rustic La Leona ranger station a few minutes down the beach and checked in with the real rangers. They sent us on our way as the path went slightly into the jungle, but still within earshot of the ocean. We got poured on in the middle of the day, but it was actually a relief from the heat. The path was moderately interesting, and we saw lots of crabs and a raccoon-like coati, but it was still too close to the ocean to achieve that “out there” feeling. Just before reaching our camp, we had to wade through a knee-deep river, thus ruining my hopes of keeping my shoes dry.

La Sirena ranger station was filled with commotion. It had a landing strip, so most people's “jungle experiences” consisted of flying in, looking at birds from the rangers station for two days, and flying back home. We were forced to camp under a shelter packed in tightly with a dozen other people because of the threat of creepy crawlies outside. Most people were doing the same trek in the opposite direction and warned us of the long, arduous journey in store for us tomorrow. It was nice to have a little camaraderie with the other campers, but most of them had no idea what a real adventure was.

An Easy Crossing

February 15-16, 2008 – Day 812-813

Boquette was cool and drizzly as usual when I left, but the heat knocked me back like an ocean wave as I neared David. Soon I was in Paso Canoas, where I had my easiest border crossing since going between Chile and Argentina two years ago. Within half an hour, I was in Costa Rica and on my way to the small port town of Golfito.

From Golfito I took a short boat trip to Puerto Jimenez on the Osa Peninsula, still very close to the border with Panama. My reason for going there was the Corcovado National Park, which the Lonely Planet and several travelers I had met recommended as an off-the-beaten-track jungle adventure. Just as in Panama, I found Puerto Jimenez full of tourists, but the locals were nonchalant and even accepting when they were expected to speak English in their own country. The best part of the town was that scarlet macaws were living in harmony with the people, and their loud squawks could be heard wherever I walked.

As I was walking around the town, I met a Brit from Birmingham named Richard who was in the country doing research on climate change and was up for a jungle trek. Getting information on the park was easy and seemed more organized than other countries, but unfortunately that meant the best camping place was almost always full so we could only stay there one night. After a day of planning and buying supplies, we were ready for our Central American jungle experience.

The Top of Panama

February 10-14, 2008 – Day 807-811

After leaving the Bocas archipelago, I took a bus across the country, from the Caribbean to the Pacific, to David, the second-largest city in Panama. From there I got to ride in my first school bus to the small highland town of Boquete. Three people sat in each seat, but it wasn't nearly as jammed as I had been expecting based on what other people had told me, and I found it quite the nostalgic experience as I recalled riding to school in my youth.

At 1000 meters above sea level, Boquete had a far more pleasant climate than the coast. The only problem was that it rained the entire first day I was there, and supposedly this was dry season. The really bizarre thing was that even though it was raining, the sun was constantly out. I didn't realize it was possible to have so much sun and rain simultaneously.

The main attraction of the area was the extinct Baru Volcano, which at 3475 meters above sea level was the highest point in the country. I decided to hike up to the top one day, then come down the next. The 2000 meters uphill climb was uneventful though exhausting, but I had plenty of energy due to the perfectly cool temperature. I met a few of the guys working on the antennae on top, and noted how clearly their soap opera came in on their portable television set. They situated me with a room to sleep in so I didn't need to bring my tent. The pitch black and solitary night made me somewhat regretful of my chosen reading material of Interview with the Vampire.

I got up early and made the short walk to the very top where there was – of course – a cross. The previous afternoon had been cloudy, but the sky was fairly clear for the sunrise. I had the beautiful view all to myself for a few minutes before five others joined me on top. One of them was a Canadian guy who had recently befriended a yacht owner looking for crew, and they were preparing to sail around the world for the next two years.

On a clear day, you could see both oceans at once, but there were too many clouds to see the Caribbean this morning. The Pacific, however, was easily visible, and looking over the edge showed even more detail than my guidebook's map of the region. It was a long trip, but that view made it worthwhile.

I made the long walk back to Boquete to find the whole town up in arms. Pancho (the owner of my hostel)'s mother had inherited the house next door many years ago, but never got the chance to move in because a prostitute was already there and claimed squatter's rights. Pancho tried for years to kick her out, but the prostitute always had excuses, such as having her children in the house, who had themselves become prostitutes. But I got to witness history in the making as the police finally showed up to kick her out, despite the fact that she claimed she was too sick to leave.

This whole story was related to me by a man of about sixty from Tennessee who smoked pot “morning, noon, and night” and who had been coming to Boquete for the last three years to escape the US winter. He gained most of his gossip from sitting on the porch all day, but unfortunately he left carrying his rugby ball and dressed in his uniform to “get some exercise” before he could fill me in on all of the juicy details. I don't know which was stranger, the squatter or the old man whose hobbies were those of a teenager.

Taking the Bull by the Mouth

February 7-9, 2008 – Day 804-806

I arrived near the Costa Rican border to the archipelago of Bocas del Toro before dawn. I took a quick boat taxi from the mainland to Colon Island, where I based myself for the weekend. I was amazed when I looked into the sky and saw the Southern Cross, which I hadn't seen in months and didn't realize could even be seen this far north. The island culture was laid back and the beaches were nice, but the place was filled with the most annoying type of tourist: The loud ones, the ones who think they invented travel by the simple fact that they've managed to set foot on foreign soil.

After a day of getting situated, I went scuba diving with a couple of Dutch girls named Sybrenne and Tara. They were a psychologist and a psychiatrist respectively, so I tried not to tell them anything incriminating. After watching the jumping dolphins in a tranquil bay, we submerged ourselves and saw lots of colorful coral, a few schools of fish, several lobsters, a few eels, and one stingray. Between dives, we went to a small island with one restaurant where the first item on the menu was lobster for $15. It saddened me that the creatures I was just admiring in their natural habitat were being served for lunch, but luckily I brought my own PB&J, one of those delicacies not available in places with fewer tourists. Another great thing about the archipelago was that the water was so warm, it was like being in a bathtub. Unlike Colombia, I could stay in the ocean for hours without getting cold.

Shopping Malls and Urban Sprawl

February 6, 2008 – Day 803

I bought a ticket for a night bus out of the city this morning. Next to the bus station was a massive shopping mall with name brand stores everywhere. Lots of American ex patriots, tourists, and rich Panamanians were busy buying pairs of jeans for hundreds of dollars. But right outside the mall were some nasty looking slums. I began to wonder if Panama's large tourism industry had actually done any good for the regular people who lived there. My thoughts were reflected by a taxi driver, who claimed that three percent of the money generated by the canal could be used to pay for the utilities of every Panamanian. He wondered out loud where all that money was going.

When I returned to the bus terminal for my ride out of town, I was amazed to see dozens of American school buses waiting to take passengers away. They were painted very colorfully, not unlike the chivas of Colombia, and were equipped with obscenely large horns and bumper stickers claiming Jesus as their insurance policy. Unfortunately, my bus was of the normal, boring variety, so I would have to wait a bit longer to experience the Central American “chicken buses” about which I had heard so much.

The highway was better than anything I had seen in South America outside of Chile and Argentina. Not only did it have pavement, but it had four lanes actually painted on the ground, and there were an amazing lack of potholes, llamas, and semis going five miles per hour with which to contend. But the biggest surprise after being in Colombia and Venezuela for so long were the lack of police checkpoints. Not one officer brandishing an assault rifle inspected our bus all night. I could get used to this.

A Man, A Plan, A Canal

February 5, 2008 – Day 802

Today was the big day where I got to see where the Americas were geographically divided, at the Panama Canal.

Before looking at the Miraflores Locks, I checked out the museum that talked about the history of the canal. The French were the first to attempt to build a canal across Panama, but failed when thousands of workers died of tropical diseases, the topography of the land proved too difficult to work with, and the money eventually ran out. Panama was still part of Colombia back then, and the country wasn't keen to let the Americans start up where the French left off. The US did what any democracy-loving country in that position would do and backed the Panamanian revolution and recognized the new country right away, thus securing the rights to build the canal.

As you'd expect from any project of its size, the canal attracted the superlative hunters who were quick to point out that it took ten years, $400 million, and a labor force of 75,000 to complete the project. I must have learned at least ten times that the lowest fee ever for crossing the canal was thirty-six cents by Richard Halliburton, who swam across it from August 14 to August 23, 1928. The highest fee ever paid changes often, but it is currently well over $300,000.

I finished looking at the museum just as a boat was approaching the locks. A guy walking around with colorful clothes and a Panama hat was giving the play-by-play to the crowd. The ship, which was transferring several private yachts, slowly made its way into the locks, guided by rail cars on either side. Once it was in place, the doors were shut and the process of draining the water began. Seven minutes later, the boat had dropped thirteen meters and was ready to take head into the Pacific Ocean. Very impressive.

A few minutes later, an even bigger ship entered the lock in the lane closer to us. This ship came from Venezuela and was carrying 4500 semi trailers to the US. Once again, the ship went through the locks in the same amount of time it takes to fill a bathtub.

A lot of people thought the Panamanians would surely screw things up when the US transferred the canal to them on December 31, 1999, but in fact, the canal now runs smoother than ever. In a few years, increase in global trade will cause it to reach capacity, so the Panamanians are building a new set of locks that will allow ships with twice as much cargo to cross the canal. The observation deck of the canal didn't come with a lot of bells and whistles, but for me it was an awesome experience to watch one of the greatest engineering feats in history in action.

Traveling with the Family Circus

February 4, 2008 – Day 801
Crossing the Gap, Day 5

I spent the morning with the Italians waiting to see if the mysterious plane would show up. The two boys were brothers who had been working around Central America and Colombia for the last two years as street performers. Among their luggage was a unicycle and a lot of material for making jewelery. Their dad was visiting them, so they were traveling around a bit more than usual. The other two were an English woman and her Italian boyfriend, but the poor lady didn't speak any Spanish or Italian and only her boyfriend spoke English, so she was left out of most of their conversations. One of the boys was deathly afraid of flying, and as we were eating breakfast we joked about drugging him like B.A. Barackus.

It was a suspenseful morning, but the airplane indeed landed at about the same time as yesterday. The dad continuously stroked his son's shoulder to reassure him that we wouldn't crash. It was an incredible flight as we started over the Caribbean, then worked our way across the Darien Gap, and finally flew over the Pacific. Most of the land we saw was jungle, but occasionally there was a single house that was certainly there under nefarious circumstances. At the end of the flight, we circled around Panama City, and I was amazed to see all the huge ships, luxurious yachts, and massive skyscrapers of the city. It was a big change from Puerto Obaldia.

Despite our best efforts to convince them that we were not on an international flight, we had to go through customs at the airport. One of the officers let a little air out of the unicycle's tire to make sure nothing was hidden in it, but then his attention was diverted when the drug dog discovered something in one of the Italian boys' backpacks. They were asking me if I had any weed last night, so I was worried they were smuggling it, but then I realized that that made no sense because they wouldn't have asked me for weed if they already had it. The customs official wasn't taking any chances and proceeded to search through every inch of the indicated backpack. He found some bottles of ink, which the Italian figured is what set the dog off (I'm not sure why that would be), but he was more interested in the plastic syringes at the bottom of the pack. The Italian explained that they were only for injecting ink and challenged the officer to puncture his skin with them. The officer wasn't amused, but in the end, he found nothing illegal. A group of gringos with barely any luggage entered behind us, and the rest of my group was allowed to leave without being searched because it was getting too crowded.

When I finished getting settled at a hostel, I was surprised to learn it was Carnaval time. I hadn't planned for it yet because it's usually a few weeks later. I went to the parade with some people from the hostel, but it was nothing special compared with the last two years when I was in Brazil and Argentina. In fact, I was kind of put off when a lot of the people from the parade walked around with soda cans with the tops cut off and asked any white person they could find for money. I found that totally against the spirit of Carnaval. One girl in the crowd even had the nerve to walk right up to me and demand that I buy her a beer because I was rich and she was poor. She was about twice my size, so I doubted she was too poor to eat.

I didn't blame the local people for wanting money from the tourists because tourism and western culture in general had obviously overrun the city. Everywhere I looked, there were hordes of tourists, shopping malls, and American chain restaurants. Certainly this must have jaded even the most resilient Panamanians to some degree. It was good to see economic progress, but not at the expense of local traditions like Carnaval.

The Waiting Game

February 3, 2008 – Day 800
Crossing the Gap, Day 4

The day started off smoothly when the immigration office was actually open and I was able to get my passport stamped. The officer needed to make a copy of my passport, so he made a kid go to the back room to turn on the generator, and the gas-powered copy machine functioned properly. The only step left was getting on the plane to Panama City.

I asked everyone with a set of ears about the flight, but still nobody knew anything. The main lady in charge of arranging seats finally told me that it was full and nobody had mysteriously not shown up like she claimed they “always” did yesterday. The problem was she wouldn't even write me down on the list for tomorrow's flight because she was too busy trying to figure out the logistics for today's flight. I had to keep on waiting patiently.

At about 11:30, a car alarm went off. Car alarms are so common in South America that I had grown completely oblivious to them, but this was a special case because there weren't any cars in Puerto Obaldia. It turned out that it was the warning that the plane was about to land, so everyone had to stay clear of the runway. Most of the town gathered to watch the most interesting part of the day when the plane hit the runway with about six inches to spare and dropped off its passengers from Panama City. The new passengers got on board and when the plane was just about to take off, one of the kids playing baseball (the only people not watching the plane) made a bad throw and the ball rolled right onto the runway. Someone ran after it, but the plane was already revving up its propellers for the takeoff. The ball slowly rolled across the pavement and came to a rest just on the other side, barely outside the plane's trajectory. The flight left without incident and I had the rest of the day to relax.

One of the military men told me there wasn't a flight for tomorrow, so I became nervous that I would have to wait three more days in Puerto Obaldia. The plane ticket lady finally wrote down my name, but told me she had no idea if the plane would indeed be back tomorrow. The Italian group I had met a few days ago on the boat showed up and were put on the list as well. I spent the rest of the day sleeping through the intense heat and hanging out on the deserted beach. The military had the town well under control and were very nice to me, but they insisted that I couldn't leave their watch because they had no control of the jungle beyond the hills. Puerto Obaldia is a beautiful place, but there's nothing to do here so I hope I can get out tomorrow.

Crossing to Panama

February 2, 2008 – Day 799
Crossing the Gap, Day 3

I got up early and promptly began waiting for a boat. Nobody seemed to know when one would leave, but they assured me the a boat would indeed be going north to Sapzurro at some point. Eventually I got the ride I was looking for and was in the last settlement in Colombia.

Sapzurro was even smaller than Capurgana, with a few deserted beaches and some small fishing boats to keep its few residents occupied. From there I walked up a hill marking the border between Colombia and Panama, and made it to a small monument and a hut with police officers from both countries. They looked at my passport but didn't search my backpack because they knew I had nowhere to run to. I took one last look at South America and headed down the hill and into Panama.

Yet another tiny village called La Miel was on the other side. The people told me there weren't many boats leaving from there, and maybe I'd have to wait until tomorrow to get out. I got lucky, however, when some police showed up for a shift change and took me away in their boat. We went a few minutes north to Puerto Olbaldia, the last town before a long coastline of uninhabited jungle. Customs did a light search of my backpack, but didn't seem too concerned with me. It would have been quite a maneuver to smuggle Colombian contraband into the country on a police boat.

I found out for certain that there would be no long-distance boats out of town for at least several days, and even then, nothing was certain. That left flying as my only option. There was a flight scheduled for tomorrow, but everyone involved in ticket sales was off drinking somewhere. Immigration was also nowhere to be seen, so the drama of getting my passport stamped was left up in the air as well.

After an entire afternoon of escaping the heat and asking everyone who would listen about tomorrow's flight, I was finally informed tonight that it was already full. However, somebody “always” canceled at the last minute, so maybe I'd still get to leave. I hung out with Ricardo, a Colombian ex patriot living in Panama, for a few beers. The Dutch-imported lager was going for only sixty cents a can, so the village ran out before dark. From that point onward, we were stuck drinking boring rum. Puerto Olbaldia's nightlife consisted of three light bulbs, repetitive music loud enough to wake the people in Colombia, and about a dozen people who found that the best place to listen to said music was three inches in front of the speakers. It was a beautiful place, but life moved way too slowly for me to enjoy sitting around much longer.