My first mission was a failure - finding gringo John in Pavones. That one couldn´t be helped. My second mission, rock climbing in Boquete, was prevented by foul weather. My third mission, however, semi-secret and occult in nature, was a smashing success.

It´s midnight in Panama. A full moon shimmers amongst a city of tankers, all lit up like industrial urban birthday cakes on the quivering waters. Channel lights pulse red and blue in that dark place where the canal meets the Pacific. The mighty Bridge of the Americas looms in the distance.

Suddenly, the sound of water, a stream of it, tinkling into the canal. And there´s somebody whistling. It sounds like ¨Ave Maria,¨ but after about five notes everything goes wrong and it transforms into an improvised acid jazz lick. A sigh of releif. A zipper. And then, silence. A door slams and a truck disappears down the causeway.

It was another late night at Nella´s place. Micah, my old roomate from Samara, was in the city for Spanish lessons and joined us for a night on the town. He once taught me the Cesar Malone trick - snapping and pssshing, calm and assertive - which halted many a persuing canine in its tracks as I bicycled across Costa Rica. Also along was Rookie, a part-time thespian from New Jersey, and Miguel, number one VIP at Nella´s bar.

The stereo played Abba while some fat millionaire bored us with talk about his boats and former Nascar career. He kept staring at Nella, claiming to be in love with her. Which is common. Everyone who meets Nella is in love with her. She glows. Her presence is like a warm blanket. Or, to be more regionally relevant, a silk sheet. You want to curl up with her and fall asleep. Instead we danced, all of us. Curtis Mayfield, Diana Ross, Billy Joel.

Before I knew it I was nodding off in a tiny two prop plane to Cartagena, flying over the Caribbean Sea northeast of the Darien province. The Pan-american highway stops on either side of the Darien gap. The gap, 160 kilometers long and about 50 wide, is largely impassable due to a geography of sheer mountains, dense rainforest, and savage swamplands. The first sucessful crossing of the Darien was completed in 1960 by a team of four adventurers in a 4WD Land Rover and Jeep. The expedition averaged 201 meters per day and lasted over 136 days. Subsequent crossings have ranged in length from 49 to 741 days. The area is inhabited by the indigenous Kuna and Embera-Wounaan people, as well as three Colombian guerrila rebel groups. As such, the most common route around the gap is either by air or by sea.

Cartagena

From the air, Cartagena looked a lot like Panama city. Towering waterfront condominiums for the rich and tin-roofs for the rest. The history is similar as well. The city was founded in 1533 by some Spanish dude. The place was then sieged by English pirate ¨Sir¨ Francis Drake, who went on to destroy 1/4 the city while waiting for the ransom (equivalent today to 200 million USD) to appear. In lieu of all this, the Spanish built a wall around the entire city and an armed fortress to stave off any future take over. The walls and fortress stand to this day, a stone testament to the tenacity of the Spanish architects.

Cartagena Fortress

And thank god for that. It is a sheer stroke of Providence that the place wasn´t settled by the English. Could you imagine the ramifications? The Colombian women, second most beautiful in the world (next to Argentinians), would be storming around with bad teeth and ill-fitting jeans, making crude demands for fried food and tea at odd hours.

Ye gods!

Incidentally, shortly after I checked into a hostel I ran into Daniel, the cheery Brit with whom I´d shared a belly rub for the combined price of one dollar from a lady of the night near Calle Uraguay back in Panama. She had bared her teeth and dug in her nails, growling slightly beneath her breath. It was creepy, yet intriguing.

Daniel had warned me about Colombia weeks ago. Most people have heard the story about the wayward backpacker in Brazil who had his drink spiked by a woman at the bar. She took him home, put him in a tub full of ice, and extracted all of his major organs to sell on the black market. The Colombian version is even worse. Similar story, except you don´t even have to be intoxcated to fall for this one.

You meet a knock-out girl with butt implants at the park or in old town. You talk. She smiles. She laughs. She likes you. So you walk together, arm in arm down the street. Who knows where you´ll end up? Who cares? She stops you at a street side fruit vendor. Insists you try the apples. Like an idiot, you agree. But this is no ordinary apple. You begin to feel strange. She whisks you away into a dim alleyway, saying nothing, suddenly serious. A strange feeling wells up in your throat. Your skin breaks out. A rusty cast-iron door swings open and rough hands pull you into the dark. The poison does its work, and within minutes the transformation is complete.

You´ve turned into a frog.

A leaflette dances on a breeze in the alleyway.

¨Grand Opening!¨ it reads. ¨La Femme Charmante - Fine French Cuisine.¨

We went out with a handful of people from the hostel and some folks Daniel had met through couchsurfing.com. We had some drinks in the Walled City district and shared stories from the road. One dude had toured a cocaine factory in the jungle. Another had found a full head of hair washed up on the beach in Aruba. I had just peed in the Panama canal beneath a full moon at midnight while whistling an improvised ¨Ave Maria.¨

A constant stream of vendors hassled us throughout the evening. They are more aggressive here, like horseflys. After a while you want to take off a sandal and smack them. They will say anything to get you to buy. One recalled the quixotic evening when he´d smoked pot with Bill Clinton right here in Cartagena, just to up the ante. Most have a few packets of cigarettes or Cohiba knock-offs as a pretense, but their true wares are quickly revealed. The pitch follows an organic heirarchy: Cocaine, marijuana, sunglasses, and as a last ditch effort, marracas. Now, I know plenty of people who could make a fine evening of some cocaine, marijuana, a new pair of shades, and a set of Colombian marracas - but my trip is of a different ilk.

I am questing for the very soul of the Earth, the subtle motions behind it all, the common thread, the unspoken thing, the nougat filling, the essence. And it won´t be found in some one place, for the very fact that it is everywhere, all at once, connecting and nullifying everything.

Like the Force.

I´m just getting the taste of it.

The universe,
all of it,
is the prolonged pronunciation
of some unutterable word,
ever-changing.

To tap-in and hear,
there you find divinity.

written by  chaddeal on February 10, 2009 from Cartagena, Colombia
from the travel blog: The Great Pan-American Synchronistic Cycle Extravaganza Unlimited
Send a Compliment

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Hi Chad

It's Mike, still in San Diego. I saw that crack about what would have happened if Cartagena was taken over by the Birts, and let me tell you young man, I don't appreciate it!!!

Sounds like you are having a great trip, and I really enjoy your ewriting. Keep it up.

Regards

Mike El Britannico

written by  Mike Walter on February 11, 2009

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It made me smile to hear the old "and how!"

There is an unnerving amount of Abba-listening going on in Korea too. Strange. Will write you soon.

Alli

written by  Alli Ockinga on February 11, 2009

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Very good blog. Your trip is very epic.

written by  Zach on February 14, 2009

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