Quitosis

Hola from Quito, Ecuador!  Ok, nice country, but they´ve got some serious internet service issues around here.  Haven´t actually connected to WiFi since arriving (about two weeks ago!), and not for lack of trying. Plus, everywhere that I find internet, its a real piece.

Anyway, so here I am, and since arriving in Ecuador I must say that its been the best of the best and the worst of the worst (ok, really only on one issue which you might have already learned about from my Twitter feed).  Had a few 100km+ bike rides while racing towards Quito after crossing the Ecuadorian border, and although I had intended to be pedaling through the Ecuadorian desert for Christmas, when I got there it just didn´t seem all that appetizing to me to break out the camping equipment – so I decided to torture myself on the twenty kilometer uphill, steep ascent to Quito – mierda!

Miraculously, I arrived in Quito on Christmas Eve!  Then, the following morning I deserted my bicycle in the city and hopped on a bus to Baños to meet up with Sarah, my English buddy from Colombia, to ring in the holidays.  Had an absolutely spectacular time in Baños for the next two and a half days (yes, very drunk… whose idea was it to sell bottles of rum and wine for $2 anyway??).

Finally headed back to Quito to meet up with Elkin who was flying in from Medellin, and also to send off Sarah (who was off to Rio de Janeiro for the new year) and my new friend Adrea.  Had some nice sight seeing around Quito before getting my pants slashed and my wallet stolen on a crowded bus, however that really dampened my spirits (even though they only got my five bucks haha).

After fighting thousands of dollars of fraudulent charges on all of my cards and getting them canceled, I finally returned to my old self and today we headed up the TeleferiQuo (a ski lift up the mountainside alongside Quito) to climb Ruku Pichincha.  Have to say, it was one of the hardest climbs I´ve ever done – gasping for air and scrambling up a crumbling rock face – and, sadly, I forgot my camera!

Anyway, thats as far as I´ve gotten so far, just gearing up for the big New Years bash here in Quito tomorrow night.  I would update more, but I could barely stand to write this much, as each time I press the delete button it takes two minutes for the computer to figure it out and ten minutes for each page to load or sentence to appear.  The quest for decent internet continues, and will keep you posted!  Also, without WiFi, photos can´t make it online either, so hopefully will get that figure out soon.

Ok, much love to all and a phenomenal New Year!  Don´t let strange people rub you up in crowded buses and trains!

xoxo

Battling Feverish Nightmares en Route to Panama City

I hardly exaggerate when I say that I could barely move upon waking up after my seventy-five mile ride through the mountains of central Panama.  It was quite a wretched feeling, and although I longingly clung to my bed, hoping that perhaps a few more hours of sleep might magically cure me, it was already quite late and there was no time to be lost.  Thus, with the arrival in Penonome and Fatima’s welcome twinkling in my future, I was soon all set and back out in the blazing Panamanian heat-wave once again.

Deliciously, I quickly found that this time the terrain before me was indeed “flat as a pancake” and although I had started off nice and easy, wanting to give my stiff joints time to unlock, that soon all changed.  Without the demoralizing impediment of looming mountain ranges scarring the horizon, I whipped along happily and was anxious to reach my destination, where I had told myself I would have at least one or two days of rest and recovery before carrying on to Panama City.  As my limbs kicked back into full swing I even found myself soaring easily forward, almost oblivious of the rising temperature of the countryside.

However, although the former part of the day passed by swiftly and uneventfully, the latter was quite another story.  I had been riding for about three hours when as if for no reason the oscillating whooshing sound of a flat tire shattered my good vibes.  Oh bugger, fixing a flat was never a fun or exciting experience.  Nonetheless, I pulled to the side of the road, rolled my bicycle off the shoulder and a few yards into the reedy grass, then propped the old girl against an overgrown fence.  Yet it was just one of those days, and regardless of how meticulously I checked my tube and tire or how firmly I applied them, just one patch appeared to be far from enough – although the root of the problem was a far worse surprise.

As I stepped behind the bicycle and reached down to release the tire, I saw that there was an orange strip along the surface of it.  Hmm, what’s this?  Well, not only was there orange, but there was another material in between the orange.  Oh sweet heavens, this tire was all worn out!  Not only was it worn out, but the rubber had been completely scraped away and the insides were completely exposed, leaving me to ride along on simply a layer of fabric!

Well this just certainly wouldn’t do, but the problem was that I had not another replacement tire and the only possible fix was to patch the tube up, put the old dead-beat tire back on, and pray that it would hold up until I reached the big city.  Sadistically, this was only the half of my problems, and five patches and a world of exasperation later I had hit a wall.  The problem was that the tube had, rather sadly, ruptured right along its raised seam, and therefore the patches refused to stick to the non-flat surface, air hissing out each time that it was pumped in.  My heart sank, I had no more tubes and had no idea what to do – and something told me that it wouldn’t be easy to hitch a ride in this part of the world.

Yet, astonishingly, just as I had almost given up hope, I went to place the sixth (and my final) patch on the tire, and miraculously it held.  Oh happy days, we were back in business!  I refitted the tube into the ravaged tire and then mounted it onto the bike, ready to set sail.  However, much to my chagrin I was not given the satisfaction of being able to just coast right back into the pace that I had started.

Almost instantly, I could feel that the ride was nowhere near as smoth as before, and additionally, with each rotation of the tire came a rhythmic bumping.  I stopped to inspect my work and see if there was any solution to the unfortunate surprise, but alas, there was not.  When I had put all of the patches onto the same point on the tube, it had left a significantly raised ridge and had also warped the shape of the tube so that it no longer bowed into a perfect arc.  It looked like me and my new problem were stuck together.

My progress was severely inhibited, and as I rode along now at about two thirds of the speed at which I had been going earlier that day, I soon discovered that more misfortune was headed my way.  The now exposed tire insulation proved to be a greater problem than I had hoped.  Less than an hour after my first stop to patch, I was met with another flat, and then after fixing it and continuing, another.  Oh sweet mother of mercy, where does it end!

Well, after wasting an exorbitant amount of my day on the infuriating task of tube repair and battling the rough riding conditions, my moral had been seriously degraded.  I carried on more slowly and patiently, hoping that if my tire did not hit any sharp objects in the road at a high velocity, then they would not become embedded in the tire and exacerbate the issue.  Fortunately, this held to be a plausible hypothesis, however, a new and ruthless factor had begun to develop throughout the course of my frustration.

The sun seemed to roast my skin as I rode along the completely unsheltered highway, forcing me to stop every several miles to seek shade and fight the heat exhaustion that was beginning to set in.  So many times did I find myself ducking into the little covered concrete bus stops along the roadside that I wondered if I would indeed ever make it to Penonome.  Several times, I put my hand to my back to feel my skin and it felt as though putting my hand onto a hot stove.  This surely couldn’t be healthy – I hoped that I did not have long left to go.

A few hours later, I finally found myself pedaling into the rolling green outer limits of the city.  My ass was sore from sitting on the seat all day, my body was burning from the relentless late afternoon sun, and my patience had almost completely worn away any good humor.  Add to that that I was very hungry.  A few minutes later I had reached an intersection which appeared to be somewhat situated in the center of town and decided that it was time to call upon Fatima.

When my cell phone finally put me through to her, she told me that she was on her way back from the beach with another friend from CouchSurfing and would be there shortly.  Not long after, when she stepped from the bus and walked toward me, I could have cried and hugged her in exasperated joy, but I wasn’t really in any hygienic state to be sharing bodily contact with anyone.  Nonetheless, that didn’t prevent me from joining them as we stepped next door from the bus terminal to chow down on some Chinese cuisine.

Over our meal, I got to know Fatima and her daughter better, and both turned out to be sweet and energetic characters, one playing of the other frequently, like Laurel and Hardy, but without the physical similarities.  I almost met Evan, an American from the Northeast who had majored in Spanish and was now out to get some practice while traveling through latin America.  Although he turned out to be a very friendly and sociable character as well, I was still somewhat appalled by the gargantuan load of luggage that he was lugging around the Americas – highly reminiscent of the Princess Leya character from Spaceballs (although perhaps his suitcases didn’t consist of giant hair-driers).

I was thoroughly enjoying the company of my new friends, but it didn’t take long after eating for my energy to start fading fast, and once we were back at Fatima’s sweet little countryside-like house, I very quickly dismissed myself from conversation and did a nosedive into the top bunk of her daughter’s bed.  When I awoke the next day, they had both already hopped out of bed and were in the living room watching morning novelas intently.  Then once they had pried themselves away from the television and we were all bathed and ready to go, we headed out to explore the town.

Shockingly, only a short few hours later, after having lunched, visited a museum, and met Fatima’s friend for a drink, I almost fell down unconscious at the table of the open air restaurant.  My energy was completely sapped, I could barely think, was incapable of making any conversation, and had to prop myself up on the table and keep repeating that I thought I was fine.  However, I could only try to put on this front for so long and then, although feeling horribly rude, I informed our small group that I absolutely must go.  Equipped with the house keys, I bid everyone farewell and fell into a cab, and prayed that relief would come soon.

When the cab finally arrived at the door, I could barely walk from the car to the front door, and once I had gotten in I barely made it to the bed before collapsing.  Yet relief was not to be had, and although I thought that upon lying down I would surely find instant satisfaction in sleep, I instead lay in bed turning agonizingly, my brain and body feeling completely wretched.  Strangely, after what felt like an eternity of this (and was probably almost two hours), I realized that the one recurring theme that kept running through my mind was the persistent desire for something sweet.  How strange, here I was barely able to move and all I could think about was desert.

But once I finally drove myself crazy by lying there lifelessly in misery, I was able to muster up just enough energy to head to the kitchen and satisfy my craving.  Although the kitchen turned out to be a culinary wasteland, having almost none of anything edible, I did manage to discover a small bag of sugar in an empty cupboard, and seeing no other choice but to indulge myself, I had at it.  A few spoonfuls later I had succumbed to gravity once again and was back in the bed, however within only a short time I could feel the veil of agony lifting away from my body and my energy returning.  Well, it looked like I had just had my first hypoglycemic attack.

After this little scare, and the rough physical state that I found myself in the next day, I decided that I might need a little time before returning to my rigorous cycling schedule.  However, I had also found the stifling heat of Fatima’s un-air-conditioned home in Penonome to be a bit much for me at the time, and so found myself in a great hurry to depart.  The day after my attack, I found myself back on my bicycle, but this time only to the nearby bus terminal.  In light of not only the physical aspect, but also the sorry state of my tire’s physical health, the only prudent thing to do was hop in a bus and head to Panama City.

Consolingly, the city was very near, and less than two hours later we were driving high over the Bridge of the Americas which spanned the mouth of the Panama Canal and entering the chaotic metropolis.  Although my plans had been to arrive in the city, take a few days to absorb the sites, and then hop on a slow-boat headed for Cartagena, Colombia, little did I know at the time that this mire of a city was soon to become my home for the next three weeks.  And if it had been relief from the blistering tropical sunshine that I had been looking for, then I had most certainly come to the wrong place.  It appeared that Central America was more than happy to wreak its final wretched curse upon me, and that it wasn’t ready to part with me quite just yet.

Departure from Popayan & Twitterizing

So tomorrow I leave Popayan to head towards the city of Pasto, near the Ecuadorian border.  I don’t have many days left before my Colombian visa expires, so hopefully I can high-tail it out there and still have enough time to see the gothic cathedral of Las Lajas near the border town of Ipiales before I have to flee the country.

Also, you may have noticed the new little “ipedaler news” header on the navigation sidebar.  That’s my Twitter feed, which I think that I could have quite a lot of fun with .  For those of you who aren’t familiar with Twitter, its basically allows me to give you real time status updates of my journey from my cell phone or computer – although there is one catch.  It appears that my US SIM card has, sadly, died, and with my Colombian pre-paid plan I can’t send the text message updates to Twitter.  However I am working on getting a new SIM card and should hopefully have it in the next week or two.  Then I can send roadside updates of me grumbling and moaning while riding uphill in the rain through the Andes, send instant updates from amazing archeological sites and remote indigenous villages (yeah, most of ‘em get cell reception these days… wild eh?), and so much more lol.  So anyway, I’ll keep you posted as to how that all shapes up, and until then I’ll do quick updates from online more frequently.

Am currently working on the next installation of the journey through Panama and should have it up later this evening or tomorrow morning, and that will put me pretty darn close to the end of North America and the beginning of the tall-ship journey through the Caribbean to Colombia.  Ok, back to work!

Oh yeah, and tons of new photos in the gallery to check out!

Dispelling the Myth of Panama’s “Pancake” in the Mountains to Santiago

As the pale rays of early dawn cascaded in through the screen of my tent, I found myself listening to the gurgling river nearby while laying languorously within and watching sunlit particles drift dreamily through the still air above the tall-grass outside.  Sometimes on mornings like this one, the physical desire had not quite provoked me to rise and prepare for the day’s journey, but the wisdom of many other such mornings reminded me that there would be no going back to sleep now and that within less than an hour the stifling heat would swell to an overwhelming level and envelope my small encampment in a blaze of humid jungle calefaction.  I was also set to meet my new friend Fatima in the town of Penonome the following day and was therefore determined to reach the halfway point today, a large town called Santiago in the Southern bend of the narrow country, and knew that I had many miles ahead of me if I was still to follow through on this goal.  What I didn’t know at the time was that Panama was not in fact “flat as a pancake,” as one gentleman had tried to inform me whilst in Costa Rica, but that I was on the brink of embarking on one of the most egregiously planned legs of my journey, traveling almost seventy-five miles through relentless tropical mountains of the sweltering Panamanian interior – and all in just one day.

Nonetheless, I had no idea what was in store for me as I began packing my bags and preparing to say bon voyage to my steamy riverside campground.  Despite the nagging soreness throughout my legs, I whistled a little tune, pushed my bike out towards the main road, waved goodbye to the friendly staff of the restaurant as I passed, and began making my way  Eastward.  Fortunately that first stretch of road was well sheltered beneath the leafy canopy of the leafy foliage high above, and I found myself quite pleased to be making my steady progress through such lush surroundings.  I had been at it long before, no more than an hour, when I encountered a military checkpoint, and although they normally found no reason to hassle me, I knew that it was really all just a question of luck.  A few moments later, there I was unpacking half of the contents of my bag alongside the Panamericana.  Yet the check proved uneventful, and I could see that the inspection officer was in fact just lonely and bored and more than happy to interrogate me with a series of questions unrelated to national security, but more so to break up the monotony of the torrid morning heat.

After finally shaking free from the clutches of my entertainment custody, I pedaled onward, however the landscape took a very sudden turn.  As the dense jungle fronds began to gave way to vibrant lime green fields and pasturelands, I realized that my pace had slowed significantly and that I was now on a steady ascent out of the jungle and into a set of rolling hills.  As was the case with that one first day after crossing the Costa Rican border into Panama, I felt an insipid weakness tugging at me and my leaden legs seemed to refuse to propel me higher at any rate faster than a crawl.  As I had not had breakfast that morning, and had only had a light meal in the late afternoon of the day before, I rationalized that it must be fuel related and told myself that I would stop for breakfast at the next roadside comedor (usually a small, shack-like restaurant) that I passed.  About fifteen minutes later, at the turn-off for a tiny indigenous village called Tole, I spotted the only building which I had seen in miles – and thankfully, it just happened to serve food.

As luck would have it though, things weren’t going in my favor, and as I sat at the counter, completely drenched and dripping from sweat, mentally pleading for a tall, cold beverage, the insolent young lady who was working that day took great pleasure in instead ignoring my requests and thus tormenting me.  Literally fifteen minutes passed by in this manner, and finally, when I could take no more and was fuming now both on the inside as well as the outside, I decided that no matter how wretched I felt I was still a gentleman of principles and refused to patronize such an establishment.  So I took my tired ass back on the road and prayed that I would indeed find something else soon, preferably before I collapsed from heatstroke and undernourishment beneath the tormenting sun which grew ever higher into the sky.

My prayers were jubilantly answered when I spotted a truck stop not more than twenty minutes up the road and pulled in with the expectations of a big healthy plate of grub.  Ok, so honestly, the food was real crap, but at least after putting something into my system and replenishing my stock of water, I was ready to make progress again, and hopefully this time to pick up the pace.  About an hour later you could say I was in full swing again, however the only irony was that I was plugging away on steep uphills and consistently averaging less than ten miles per hour.  Yet to make matters somewhat tolerable, each uphill segment would only last anywhere from fifteen minutes to forty minutes and was always met with a soaring downhill reprieve.  Then again, I should also mention that this continued onwards for the next four hours or so, and I remember at one point looking out across the horizon from the crest of one such mountaintop and thinking to myself that there was indeed no end in sight.

So you’d think that I’d be used to this type of situation, this kind of intimidating feeling by now, right?  Well, tell that to my poor, aching legs, because they still don’t seem to understand.  Its also somewhat funny the way that the human mind works in that, before the crest of every hill, as I sit there plodding away and pushing with all my might, I’m always dreaming that there’s the town just over yonder, that I’ll reach the peak and look down upon my day’s destination just waiting for me with open shower and a loving meal – often even when I know I’m not yet halfway there.  But that doesn’t mean that I enjoy it any less!  No matter how difficult the journey, living symbiotically beside the pain and torture and anguish is hope and desperation… oh and the miraculous places to where I travel and people with whom I meet.  Perhaps even more precious to my memory as well are the unforgettable events that come to pass with almost every day on the road.

Well, after several hours of trudging up hills and flying back down, I felt that I was reaching my limit (both in terms of nourishment and stamina) and decided to stop for a quick bite to eat, to let my muscles relax, and to see if I couldn’t wrangle some information on the remaining distance out of the shop-keep.  I sat in the only chair in the little open sided tienda, watching the hundreds of flies swarm lazily around a heap of old bananas and talking to the candid woman who owned the store about the social and political crises of the nation and life in the countryside.  Aside from chatting about the fact that Panama was still a U.S. colony (yeah, welcome to the club Panama), she also told me about the recent skyrocket in food prices, the severe unemployment levels (who publishes those national statistics, anyway…?), disparagingly high poverty levels, and the governments lack of support or interest in rural Panama (meanwhile investing in multimillion dollar ocean-front parks and roadways along the wealthy coastal strip of Panama City).  It was quite a sobering discussion, and, helped me to remember that were it not for cycling, I would never be given these windows into the non-urban and non-touristic perspectives that form the true opinions of exploited and manipulated nations the world over, and which most others never know exist and often never care to see.

After half an hour of insight into the politics of which most television news never sheds its light, I thanked the woman and left in a somber yet pensive mood.  This, however, was not only due to the conversation that we had had, but also to the knowledge that I had just gained of the massive mesa climb which was to greet me less than a kilometer up the road.  I felt that my endurance was completely depleted, but I also had no other choice but to put myself through the brutal torture of heading onward, as I had made a commitment to Fatima to arrive the next day and my midpoint of Santiago was only another fifteen miles away.  After my break my knees felt like rusty hinges and thighs seared in pain, but I pointed my bicycle towards the base of the mesa, which was now growing nearer in the distance, and just reminded myself that there would be a cold shower and a warm bed waiting for me when I arrived.

Finally, I had covered the half mile to the beginning of the ascent.  I took a deep breath, prayed (whimpered pitifully) for the strength to carry on, and next thing I knew was on my way up.  It was a dreadfully slow, almost motionless climb, but as I heard the hazy yellow horizon shatter with the sound of thunder I turned to look behind me and saw the inky clouds closing in on me.  This was the last straw, I had been through enough today and I refused to let this storm beat me.  As the blinding flashes of lightning blasted through the sky and bleached out all color for an ephemeral moment, it was as though the starting gunshot of a race had been fired and my heart leapt into throbbing action.  The burst of adrenaline pulsed through my body, breathing my limps to life, and my energy instantly returned.  I put all of my weight down into the resistant uphill inhibited pedals and quickly doubled my speed.  Within fifteen minutes I realized that I was nearing the plateau of the mesa and I inhaled sharply in exhilaration.

But the race was not over.  I swung my head around with a fire in my eyes, looking to the storm like a winged Dracula blotting out the sky and chasing after my chariot in the fading twilight, and I knew that it was time for action.  From some unknown reserve I had pulled the fullest force of my body to the forefront and my beast leapt forward along the road, the sighing brush and feigning grass whizzing by at my sides.  I could feel the roaring thunder licking at the back of my neck as I flew along the flat mesa-top, squinting my eyes against the strobing lightning flashes.  I was going to beat this – and I was going to make it to Santiago faster than I could have ever gone before.

The first sporadic drops of rainfall pattered menacingly upon the bare skin of my arms and face, but only thrust me forward with yet more vigor.  Onward and onward, seconds turned into minutes, and minutes into a fleeting eternity.  I know not for how long this carried on, but after what must have been almost an hour of this frenzied drive through the low scrubby mesa lands, I ventured to look behind me yet again and realized that the storm had disappeared far behind me in the somber late afternoon sky.  A wry grin crept across my lips as I turned my vision back towards the road ahead, a feeling of triumph and satisfaction coursing through my veins.  Then, as if to reward me, the signs of civilization began to appear – there I was, Santiago.

I pedaled forward along the sides of the now somewhat busier streets, not sure of exactly where I would be spending the night, but nevertheless prudent as to searching for the most economic option, regardless of the creeping exhaustion that had begun to sink back into my limbs.  Although it did take me a few turns and several street-side consultations, I soon found the nondescript pensión along the main street leading into town.  It was a low, one story structure, looking like an old office building, and amazingly even more nondescript within.  However, it had exactly what I needed: running water and a mattress, and so I settled my things down on the floor and sat down for a moment.  Twenty minutes later the force of gravity had molded my body firmly into the mattress and although I could barely think or move, I did know that I could not let myself go to sleep just quite yet.  I was still covered in a sticky slime of sweat from the fantastic voyage of the day and I also couldn’t let myself slippity slide into slumber without eating something to replenish my now completely depleted body (did I mention that the only real meal of the day was the late truck-stop breakfast?).

I mustered up the remainder of my long waned strength, stumbled to my feet, and made my way to the showers before heading out on the town.  When I had repaired the aesthetic damage and rinsed away the olfactory reminders of the day’s ride, I decided to step out and see what I could see.  Aside from the instant realization that the town was the filthiest which I had ever encountered, trash almost completely carpeting every side street (which I later found out was because there had been the largest festival in Panama there two days prior), I also managed to duck into an internet kiosk to check my e’s as well as find one of the only nearby budget restaurants… which sadly, was a Pio Pio, specializing in old fashioned, deep fried chicken.  Oh well, it was low quality, but it was sustenance, and fortunately they also had a grill.  Now washed, fed, and reconnected with the outside world, I slowly made my way back towards the pensión for the final key to fulfilling my immediate satisfaction – sleep.

As I hobbled slowly, very slowly, back, I thought of how nice it would be to arrive in Penonome the following day, into the welcoming arms (ok, perhaps a bit dramatic, since I’d never met her before) of Fatima, and end my week and a half long hiatus from all familiar social interaction.  I had spent my time in Boquete so lost in my thoughts and reflection that it wasn’t until I was back on my bicycle again that I realized that a one sided existence such as that was one which I could only bear for so long before searching for social stimulus and the opportunity to laugh with others.  However, my body felt severely depleted, and even after my meal I still wondered whether my night of sleep would be enough to replenish me, but also longed that perhaps tomorrow fate would go easy on me and that what little energy I had left within me would be enough to carry me through.

A Return from the Mysterious Remains of Pre-Colombian Civilization

After five days of delving deep into the no man’s land of the Southern reaches of Colombia to discover the mysterious ancient archaeological sites, I have now returned to the white city of Popayan.  I must say that although they were some of the most arduous and grueling vehicular voyages of my entire journey, the four by four adventure high into the wind-swept Andean mountains, over ravaged dirt tracks, down into dazzling green valleys, along rivers through lush ethereal canyons, under thick forest canopies, and very narrowly fording gushing rivers erupting across landslided and destroyed mud trails perched atop high cliff-sides, turned out to be absolutely unforgettable.  Add to that racing through narrow flower lined forest trails on horseback, marveling at rolling mountaintop vistas, visiting statues carved by an ancient civilization dating back to before the birth of Christ, and climbing down spiral staircases into the dark, foreboding underground tombs of the tribal leaders of a cryptic pre-Colombian society, and the past several days indeed proved to be some of the most rewarding of my foray through the Americas thus far.

Nevertheless, I’m back, I’m alive (unfortunately I can’t say the same for the other transport full of people who were killed when their four by four fell from one of the cliffs while making the same journey only a day after us, bless their souls) and I have committed myself to finishing the Panamanian serious of my journal entries before departing from Popayan.  That said, I have a new entry that I have just finished below, and will work my fingers to the bone until I have typed my way to the Caribbean!  I hope that you enjoy the new story and stay tuned for the next installation tomorrow.

A Sultry Search for Shelter from the Panamanian Monsoon

 

My week of serene bohemian silence had nearly come to a close as I unpinned my drying laundry from the clothesline and took one last look at the scarlet outlined mountains of the Chiriqui Highands.  It was dusk and I could feel the arrival of the winds of change rustling through the leaves and petals of the otherwise silent garden.  The following morning I would begin my journey Eastward across Panama, and as I stared pensively into the enveloping vastness of the cobalt sky, I sensed my destiny growing ever nearer to the final page of North America and felt the exotic allure of the Southern end of the New World driving me forward.

Although I had known next to nothing of Boquete before arriving the previous week, I quickly realized that perhaps I didn’t need to.  It was a quaint and simple town nestled within a tiny valley of the Chiriqui highlands, and as I pulled my bicycle to a halt outside of the small guesthouse of Pensión Marilon in the light afternoon drizzle, I seemed to feel the trickling of time fading away behind me.  Over the following week, the Pensión quickly began to feel like home, and it didn’t take long before I felt myself falling into the languid pace of the locals.  As I sat amidst the cool mountain mists with the green valley walls rising before me and the taste of aromatic Boquete coffee lingering on my tongue, I found myself immersed in the lucidity of my thoughts and the intrigue of my writing.

However, its astonishing how quickly the days rolled by in this timeless state of existence, and after several rejuvenating days of jogging through the fresh coffee groves of the green mountainsides around Boquete, poring over long neglected novels from the depths of my panniers, and reflecting on the journey gone by, it was once again time to ride.  I found myself pushing my overburdened bicycle out through the double doors of Pension Marilon in the crisp air of early dawn and then made my way to the main road out of town.  As I approached the outskirts of town the short but steep ascent out of the valley began and I pushed on with rekindled  vigor, knowing that beyond this point would be a lovely downhill slalom almost all the way to the city of David.  Indeed, that first hour and a half rolling down the gently sloping road to the lowlands proved to be a delicious start to the day’s journey, and aside from almost running over a tarantula as he made his way across the thoroughfare, passed by pleasantly uneventfully.

As I neared the edge of David and rejoined the Panamericana heading towards the interior, it was a humid but blue skied, sunshiny day.  For a time the road passed through some outer suburbs of David, but shortly thereafter emerged into pleasant meadows followed by steamy jungle.  The path before me undulated gently, small hills rising above the surrounding greenery before plunging back into the dense foliage and fording myriad creeks that meandered through the trees.  As mid-afternoon approached my mind turned towards seeking lodging for the evening, and I wondered just where exactly it was that I was now pedaling.  Ironically, as I was passing through a sparse village dotted along the side of the deserted two-lane highway, a flat tire forced me to pull over at a desolate petrol station and I decided to take advantage of the opportunity to consult my map.  However, after a greasy, sweaty session of tire-patching, the long, rolling rumble of thunder erupted from the sky nearby, and upon looking up from my work I saw that the horizon had indeed filled with ominously low low hanging blackened clouds.  Only a moment later the first fat drops of rain began to splatter down on me and the pavement around me and I knew that it was time to seek shelter.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t a whole lot out there, aside from the a nearby freshly tilled field and a few low buildings towards the edge of the pavement.  I headed for the overhang around what appeared to be the petrol station’s bathrooms and huddled under, leaning backwards against the wall to avoid the ricocheting raindrops that hammered down on the grass and concrete nearby.  The downpour rapidly escalated into a tropical monsoon and I realized that this would not be over any time soon.  And so, after half an hour of uncomfortably ducking under the small awning, I decided to make a run for another small covered patio about twenty yards away, which I had noticed was a small restaurant, and a significantly more comfortable option for weathering the storm.  Even with such a short distance to cover, as I sprinted from my shelter to the patio, I was almost instantly soaked by the pummeling rains.  Nevertheless, I had reached cover and decided that this was as good a time as any to satisfy my hunger.

Nevertheless, upon slowly working away at my soup and plate of white rice with beans and a chicken drumstick, the rain continued to throw down, however with somewhat less violence.  I had looked at my map and seen that I was not far las Lajas, a coastal town near which Frank, the eccentric owner of Pensión Marilon in Boquete, had suggested that I might find boarding with two friends of his who had recently opened up a restaurant along the highway there.  As the late afternoon was already beginning to loom gloomily through the grayness of the sky, I knew that I had best be on my way again if I was to have any hope of reaching the restaurant before nightfall.  So out into the rain-showers I went, quickly feeling the droplets saturating my cycling jersey and seeing the moisture glistening on my wrists before me.  I rode onward with a passion, thinking only of reaching shelter all the more quickly, and ignoring the stinging in my eyes.  Yet, just to spite me, fate decided to send me yet another blow to the tire, and less than an hour after leaving the station I yet again found myself pulling over along a long, narrow stretch of road in a thicket of high, dense reeds.  Fortunately, by this point the rains had petered off and I was able to change my tire without that inconvenience, yet the massive eighteen wheel trucks that roared by within inches of me seemed to take its place to rattle my nerves.

But at that exact moment, something that had almost never happened during my trip came to pass, and the heavens sent me an angel.  As I cowered at the edge of the roadway struggling with the changing of the tire’s tube (as the previous one had apparently seen five too many patches), an SUV that had passed only a few seconds prior slowed almost to a stop and then made a U-turn, pulling up a few meters down the way.  An American gentleman stepped from the vehicle and made his way towards me and within an instant, Bob had become my new best friend.  After helping me with the tire change, recounting his exciting recent trip to the Darien Gap to visit remote indigenous tribes, and restocking my supplies with granola bars, and two cans of beer (yep, someone up there was keeping an eye on me), I thanked Bob profusely for everything, we exchanged contact information, and were soon saying our goodbyes.

After the flat tire and the bestowal of my new gifts, I was impatient to reach shelter for the evening, shuck my sticky, saturated clothing, rest, and enjoy the new treats which were stuffed into the side of my panniers.  I rode onwards.  I soon reached the turn-off for las Lajas and began to inquire about the restaurant at a small convenience store, but the locals seemed to be unsure of what I was talking about and suggested that it was probably only twenty minutes or so down the highway (by car, sadly).  Ugh, well, there was nothing to be done but to continue onwards, and as is typical on days such as these, during which I find myself constantly hoping that the end of my day’s ride is around the corner, but then dragging myself further and further, I found my energy soon fading and my pace slowing to a crawl.  Oh woe is me, where was this fabled roadside reprieve!

But alas, an hour later and after a few stops at wrong restaurants during my search, I finally saw the neon sign of the promised land.  I pedaled up the embankment in the lengthening shadows of the sultry early evening humidity, sidled off of my mount and sauntered into the covered veranda that was the restaurant.  After a somewhat hesitant welcome, one of the owners recognized Frank’s name (after entreating him for shelter) and then informed me that they did indeed have rooms available… for rent.  Oh well, that was alright, at this point I felt like I deserved it.  But as he led me to the house where the small “bungalow” style rooms were located and told me the price my jaw almost dropped.  For these tiny and not-so-impressive accommodations along the highway, the prices began at forty dollars a night and up.  Well, it looked like this certainly wasn’t the place for me – but at this point I was pigeon-holed.  It was late, I was exhausted, and there was no option of going on.  However, the price was also not an option, and so I began to explore what else remained.

Sadly, in my miserable and bedraggled physical state, I finally reached the conclusion that I had pedaled all this way just to pitch a tent.  So I asked for such permission, was met with an affirmative response, and headed out into the grounds of the spacious property.  It was in fact somewhat of a “resort,” with fields and paths and a chocolaty brown river, however the one thing that the owners seemed to have missed is that the majority of the world’s affluent population doesn’t go seeking humid, sticky, mosquito infested jungles along the highway for a pleasant getaway from the city.  Nevertheless, there I was and it was time to make the best of it.  So I hurriedly pushed my bicycle and equipment along the grassy paths back towards the river and away from the roadside, finding a small pagoda (for what, I’m not sure) that had been erected upon a shallow hill, and decided that it should serve as a perfect shelter from the remorseless torrents of the Central American rainy season.

Once I had pitched my tent and wandered over to the bathroom alongside the restaurant for a quick shower, despite the day’s trials and felt a gentle relief spread through by body and relax me.  So I had been through the ringer over the past few hours, but hey, what else what else was new?  After retiring back to my little synthetic home by the riverside and sipping blissfully at my now warm beers, I thoughts began to sink into a slumber and I was soon unzipping my front door and climbing into my by shelter.  Alright, so I still didn’t feel like I was quite at the cusp of the New World just quite yet, but at least I was one day closer, I was freshly washed, and I had the sweet serenade of an infinitum of the jungle’s symphony to lull me to sleep and to carry my dreams ever nearer to my approaching trans-Caribbean voyage.

Back on the Road

Just a quick update to let everyone know that the journey has officially begun, once again, and I am on the move towards the Ecuadorian border (well, kinda).  I arrived in the colonial white city of Popayan this morning, spent the day exploring the city, climbing a winding trail up to a high hilltop called Cerro de los Tres Cruces, and doing a little stir frying, and early tomorrow morning I’ll be off to do some of my last sight seeing in Colombia.  I’ll probably be out of touch for the next four to five days while exploring the statues and ruins of San Augustin and Tierradentro, but hope to get the rest of my journeys in Panama knocked out upon my return.  Hope that you have been enjoying all of the new photos that I uploaded to the gallery and will try to get some more up later this week as well.  Until then!

Seeking Refuge from Costa Rica’s Steamy Jungles in Panama’s Misty Highlands

A small rainbow colored dart whizzed out from the dense vegetation of the southern Costa Rican jungle and right past my nose as I pedaled nonchalantly through the humid air.  It had caught me completely off guard and my mind reeled for a split second as my eyes raced after its retreat back up into the trees, trying to identify the flying object.  Well, Toucan Sam certainly was a lot smaller than I had expected him to be, and quite a bold little fellow as well.  But the moment had caught me and as I pulled over to peek back up through the foliage at the marvelous little avian, I felt the wondrous satisfaction of a return to nature, the firm reinforcement of my conviction in my journey, and the excitement to be back on the road again and approaching the border of the final overland border crossing before reaching the end of North America.

Sadly, after experiencing one of the most blissful moments of transcendence into the beauty of nature during the sunset of the evening before, I must admit that things went dreadfully downhill with what came to pass later that same night.  I strolled back from the beach at twilight, passing through the darkened unpaved streets of the peaceful country town of Uvita.  Upon arriving at my tent, which I had pitched before heading to the seashore earlier that day, I felt quite at peace, and after reading for some time, I finally decided it was time for lights out and a nice restful night of sleep.  However, this night was soon to become one of the most notoriously memorable camping experiences of my journey.  

Ferocious barking erupted some fifty meters away from my tent in the shadowy darkness of night.  I momentarily froze in panic and then surreptitiously raised my head to listen for whether the noise was coming towards me or whether something else nearby was provoking it.  But as the seconds drew into minutes and then long stretches of time began to wear away, the barking became less aggravated and evolved into a monotonously droning pattern.  This continued on for I know not how many hours, but as I lay there restlessly, I only prayed that it would end soon.  However, this was only the tip of the iceberg.

Some time after the barking had trailed off into the night and I was beginning to doze into a frustrated slumber, the first drops of rain began to patter down onto the sandy soil around my tent.  Within moments it had grown into a deafening roar and the ceiling of my feeble tent shuddered ceaselessly under the onslaught.  As you can imagine, at this point the option of sleep was beginning to become but a dream, however I had already nestled myself into that groggy near-slumber at which I had no desire to read or explore options for blotting out the noise – I just wanted to lie there in agony and pray that it would all be over soon.  But it wasn’t.

Several hours later, as the rains began to subside, I knew that the dawn was not far off.  I hoped that I could at least get at least some brief stretch of shut-eye before the dawn appeared and the blazing heat of day arose, but once again my plan was foiled (and I would have gotten away with it too if it wasn’t for you pesky livestock!).  The roosters of the apocalypse began crooning mercilessly, tearing through my desire for peace and harmony within my tent.  And that was it, that was my night.

Once the first rays of dawn began to streak across my tent and the sweat started to drip down my face, I knew that it was over, it was fruitless to attempt further sleep.  The temperature would only continue to rise and soon I would be lying there along in my mini-sauna with all of my sticky synthetic materials glued to my body.  So, in a wretched state, I unzipped the tent door, dragged myself out into the light of day, and began to pack up my things and hit the road, hoping that once I got moving the day’s ride would relax my mind and invigorate my body.  But, as is the way with camping, there was just one unfortunate detail – everything was soaked.

Thanks to the torrential flooding of the night before, my tent was dripping with rainwater, and there was no way that I could repack it without filling my bags and other equipment with moisture.  The only option was to hang it up in the morning heat and hope that the sun would dry it quickly.  Since there weren’t any convenient places in the sunlight, I found myself instead throwing the huge sheets of synthetic material over tree branches and such and getting the rest of my equipment squared away.  However, after half an hour of waiting I could take no more of the steamy humidity and idleness (in my beleaguered state) and snatched down the limp tent down and began stuffing it back into its breathable sack.  I lashed it on top of my equipment in the hopes that it would dry in the day’s wind and heat and set off.

After arriving back at the paved main road I continued riding on Southward towards Panama and the journey before me began much as it had ended the previous day, but deeper into the jungle.  At first I skirted the coastline, lumbering up sizable hills looking over the crashing ocean waves and then slaloming back down into the overgrowth.  At one point I pulled off the main road for a break along a striking beach called Pinuela, covered with the smoothest of grey pebbles, and stood out beyond the tree-line staring off into the pale, hazy sky as I caught my breath.  But once I climbed back upon my bike and began riding again the road pulled away from coastline and drew slightly higher and further inland.  I passed through tropical groves, dense jungle, overgrown fields.  I could feel myself pushing farther and farther away from developed Costa Rica and ever nearer to the outskirts.

At the point when the small toucan had zipped down before my eyes, I had already been riding for several hours, through steamy jungle heat, and had just recently beforehand found myself in yet another tropical downpour.  I had ridden intently, hoping to reach a small town not more than an hour or two from the Panama border to spend the night, when at mid-afternoon the skies had opened up and let loose.  For the first ten minutes I resigned myself to keep riding through the rains, as I was already soaked in my own sweat and the thick humidity and the terrain was only mildly hilly at this point.  But after feeling like pedaling underwater for just so long, I finally decided to pull-over and wait it out (which, as you may or may not know, in that part of the world is a game of Russian Roulette – you may wait fifteen minutes, and you may be there until dusk).  I sat under the little tin roof of a road-side bus stop in the middle of the isolated jungle, snacking on my leftover cheese from the evening before, and hoping that the sun would come out (and, not tomorrow) and show me ample reprieve so as to allow me passage to my destination.

Fortunately, I was feeling lucky that day, and less than a half an hour later I was back underway, spotting my toucan friend as a sign of good fortune, and carrying on in full force.  Shortly thereafter, there I was rolling into the dusty village of Rio Claro in Southern Costa Rica.  Wasting no time in finding the cheapest lodging in town, I haggled the price yet further down and then headed inside to finally peel off my sticky, drenched cycling clothes.  Showered and rejuvenated, I found myself ready for some grub and decided to explore the odd and rather bustling little pueblo.  After a light meal of casado (Costa Rica’s name for the typical Latin American dish: rice, beans, salad, and some variety of meat), I wandered until finding a bakery, to stock up on some carbs for the following day, and an internet cafe, to catch up on the correspondences that I had missed over the previous few days.  I also ran into a friendly French couple that I had met back when arriving in Uvita and we sat down to chat for some time before saying goodbye and me returning to my welcoming bed for some much needed sleep (after the torture that I had endured the night prior).

When I awoke in the morning I felt the teeming excitement of the Panamanian border within reach of my fingertips and wasted no time in loading up and heading out.  I was anxious to begin a new chapter and to mark the beginning of the final nation of Central America.  That short span of time before reaching the border rolled away rather uneventfully.  It was a gorgeous blue skied day with huge white, puffy clouds dotting the horizon.  The jungle had given way to thickly overgrown green fields and beautiful tropical hardwood forest and I hummed a little tune as I daydreamed about what the world would be like on the other side of the border.

Upon arriving at the border, however, I was in for a little delay.  At first I wandered around the confusing border crossing searching for just where exactly I was to get my exit stamp from Costa Rica, but after finding some friendly assistance, I soon found myself in line.  Sadly, after waiting for about an hour and a half, watching yet another raging storm soak the shoddy little border town, and wondering just how much longer it would take, I inadvertently discovered that I was in the wrong line and that this was for stamps exiting Panama!  Argh!  Well, I finally made it to the right line, and guess what?  It was lunchtime.  So I found myself waiting for another forty-five minutes until the border control officials returned just to stamp my passport.  So the long and shart of it was that about three hours after arriving at the border crossing, I was finally out of Costa Rican and riding on into the low hills of Panama.

Curiously, and inconveniently, when I began riding again after my long break, my legs felt laden with iron and my energy completely drained.  I had turned dismally overcast and a light drizzle permeated my mood.  My speed had dropped to about eight miles per house and I was literally crawling along.  Although I never did discover an explanation for this change in my physical state, I did begin to panic that I would not reach the town of David that day, and knew that there was nowhere else to find lodging beforehand (and after the night of camping a few nights earlier, I had no desire for a repeat experience).  Then, as if by magic, after another hour and a half of this intimidatingly snail-like pace and uncertainty, as the color had begun to drain from the sky, my energy sprang back into me.  By now I was frustrated and ready to be at my destination and hence raced forward with a fervor.  The stark contrast to my state of being only moments earlier was astonishing, as I now seemed to fly forward completely unrestrained.

For the next two hours a hauled forward at breakneck speed, up long shallow hills, through flat, scrubby fields, and past endless kiosks of borojo salesmen.  Then finally, I had arrived.  The town of David wasn’t quite as I had imagined it, being that it was the second largest city in Panama.  It was a very low, rural city, with no building appearing to be over two stories, all clustered into small country-town blocks, and with a particularly indistinctive quality about it.  I didn’t care much to explore at this point, as my rush of adrenaline had finally begun to taper away, and I made for where the Purple House hostel had appeared to be on the map that I had consulted earlier that day.  After getting lost only once, I asked for directions and was soon back on track and arriving at the peculiar little purple house, which looked like it had once been an old office building.

I’m not sure exactly whether it was the insipid heat and humidity, the frequent and relentless downpours, the wretched night of camping, or some other element, but despite the beauty and variability of the last few days’ ride, I felt completely trampled and worn out.  I somehow mustered up the energy to stumble out into the streets and search for my dinner, followed by (a pint) of ice cream to sooth me, and then retired back to the somewhat cramped accommodations of the hostel dormitory.  Not having found much allure to the town of David, and somewhat put off my its oppressively sultry heat, I decided that the following morning I would make my way to the very nearby Boquete Highlands, where the air was said to be crisp and cool and the aroma of coffee practically hung in the air.  Of course, I was in no state to be riding the following day and finally soothed my anxiety by making the decision to catch the forty five minute shuttle up to Boquete for a day or two.  However, at that particular moment, I could never have known I would instantly fall in love with the quaint little highland town, consequently finding myself disappearing into it’s tranquil mountain mists and detaching myself from my journey’s rapid passage of time for a week of nourishment and reflection.

Medellin Weekend Edition

Ok, so its not quite the weekend but thats the title that popped into my mind, so there you have it.  For those of you who haven’t been in contact with me lately and missed the note that I posted on the site a while back (or didn’t yet know that the site had been moved to this new server), I am not, in fact, still in Costa Rica, lol.  I’m (still) here in Medellin, Colombia, where I’ve been camping out for some time, taking a break from my trip (yep, you’d be surprised how exhausting hundreds of hours on a bicycle can be), and using it as a satellite base from which to visit many of the gorgeous and culturally rich faces of Colombia.

However, early this coming week I will finally be Southward bound and on my way to Ecuador.  By day’s end on Monday I should have set sail from Medellin, and soon thereafter hope to arrive in the colonial white-washed city of Popayan in Southern Colombia.  The plan from there is to try to make it out to three sites of interest before my Colombian visa expires and I’m forced to flee the country.  The first is Tierradentro, the archaeological funeral site of a pre-colombian civilization in which the human remains, carvings and a few statues of that civilization are still preserved.  The next is San Augustin, which is somewhat similar, bus is especially famous for having a great number of statues reflecting the mythological and religious beliefs of that culture.  And the last is the the cathedral at Las Lajas, a seemingly gorgeous structure which to me is somewhat reminiscent of the castle from Bram Stoker’s Dracula (I suppose thats why it intrigues me most .  The cathedral was built in a gothical revival architecture and has an impressive high arched bridge which spans a deep canyon over the Guaitara River, near the Colombian border with Ecuador.

So there you have it, that’s the plan for my remaining time here in Colombia before crossing into Ecuador.  I’m working hard to get as caught up as possible on my old journal entries from Central America (which is why my posts from Costa Rica are just now popping up), but if I don’t get them finished before leaving Medellin I’ll try to take advantage of the last few days of my visa and get it all wrapped up while in Popayan.  Thanks again for keeping up with my travels and if you have a moment, leave me a comment with any feedback or to let me know what you think about the new site – or even just to say hi!

A Sweet Farewell to the Luscious Pacific Shores of Costa Rica

Anomaly.  That would probably be the most befitting word for San Jose, a city plopped down right in the middle of one of the most gorgeous countries in the world, and yet completely lacking in any real beauty or allure of its own.  Somehow I had managed to dwindle away over a week and a half in that rainy and depressing place.  I’m not really sure if that was originally my intention, but upon arriving in the city, after having traveled for two weeks to deliciously exotic parts of Costa Rica and shared my time with the best of friends, I began to fall into its dismal slump, and before I knew it I was sinking deeper into the mire.  Not to say that its truly such an aweful place, its just that constant rain, overcast skies, and suburban sprawl tend to bring out the worst in me.  Although my welcoming host, Wilson, quickly became one of my favorite new friends in Central America, with his winning charm, knowing intellect, and easy going manner, there weren’t too many other bright stars in my memory of San Jose.  However, I did also manage to make a fun new friend named Diego while I was there, and after spending some days getting to know each other and heading out to enjoy the nightlife, it definitely helped me to feel even more at home during my stay.

 

But after so many days in the San Jose I knew that it was once again time to start moving again.  I consulted Wilson as to the route ahead and we were both able to finally agree that taking the road that went over Death Mountain (Cerro de los Muertos) probably wouldn’t be the most pleasant of rides, so I opted for the flatter, more inviting coastal jungle road.  The following day I was on a bus back towards the Manuel Antonio and the Pacific (would you believe it?) to begin my journey South, as Wilson had mentioned that it was quite illegal to ride on the highways of San Jose and there were apparently no other clear ways to escape the city.  Arriving to a rainy afternoon on the coast, I decided to spend an overnight in Quepos and set off first thing in the morning.  For some reason I had also arrived in Quepos completely exhausted and within a couple of hours of my arrival, I was already in bed and snoozing away.

 

At dawn next day I was up and at ‘em, bags packed and ready to go.  After the free breakfast at the hostel at which I had slept I began to ride towards the edge of town and not fifteen minutes beyond the outskirts I was met with quite a shocking surprise.  The pavement ended.  What I was soon to discover was that from here on out almost the rest of my riding that day was to be over a rocky, muddy, rutted dirt road, which, perhaps on an unloaded bike wouldn’t have been such an affliction, but as it were my panniers (with all of my possessions inside of them) didn’t much enjoy the ride, as more than once they took the liberty of jumping off into the mud.  Apart from this unpleasant detail, however, it was a particularly lovely ride that day, first through miles of perfectly rowed coconut groves and then through peaceful meadows and shady jungles.  At one point I even found myself unable to continue onwards due to a bridge that had been completely dismantled during a construction project.  Although I waited near two hours for the bridge to be reinstated, things didn’t look promising and finally I decided to wander along the riverbank for some few hundreds of meters to a shallow point and take things into my own hands.  Then with the aid of a pungent smelling, one-eyed, afro-caribbean gentleman who had been waiting to cross the river on his bicycle as well, I managed to roll up my trousers (well, just an expression, as I was actually wearing shorts) and we forded the river together: he guiding the bike across from the other side while I pushed it through.

 

A few hours after the river crossing I was emerging from the a leafy wood back out onto paved road and arriving in an isolated but touristic surfing town called Dominical.  Although I had been considering camping under the palms that lined the beach on the edge of town, after stopping for lunch and scoping out the scene, it looked a bit to gnarly and summer-break valley girl for me, not to mention rife with beachcombers just looking for an easy target, so I decided to carry on.  According to my handy guide book, there was apparently a sleepy, old-fashioned Pacific coast farming village called Uvita about an hour’s ride South of Dominical, which sounded like exactly the ticket for a relaxed evening of low budget coastal camping.  The rest of the ride to Uvita also proved to be quite scenic, as the road weaved and undulated through the low coastal mountainside, exposing gorgeous vistas of vivid green foliage, shimmering emerald waters, and neon blue sky for miles along the coastal horizon.

 

It was getting late in the afternoon as I approached Uvita, and from the looks of what greeted me, civilization had begun to encroach on Uvita since the last time my guide was updated.  After pulling over at the new American style strip mall to make sure that this was indeed provincial Uvita, they assured me that it was, but were also able to point me in the direction of the rural part of down a short way further down.  As I turned off the main road to enter the village, the road once again turned to dirt and rock, however this time somewhat more brutal than the ride from that morning, and so I rolled slowly along, through pastures and small Costa Rican cottages.  There was really only one road in town, so it didn’t prove too difficult to find the campground that I was looking for and after being greeted by the landlord of the small property, he showed me to where I could pitch my tent, below a suspended creeping thicket and beside a high wooden fence.

 

The gentleman and his gracious family appeared to be quite trustworthy and ubiquitous within the property, and therefore I felt little anxiety as I left my well protected bicycle and campsite to discover the nearby beach.  I stopped down the road for a loaf of bread, a block of cheese and a bottle of water, then made my way to the coastal park entrance to dine on my simple picnic.  Fortunately, by this point I had figured out the Costa Rican park entrance game, and at the gate I informed the attendant that I was a resident of Costa RIca and working in San Jose, successfully avoiding what would otherwise have surely been some ridiculous entrance fee.  After a short stroll down the coast (as the afternoon shadows were already beginning to grow long), I found a picnic table on top of which I situated myself to escape the stinging ants down below and was finally able to begin preparing dinner.

 

As I sat there, the most marvelously serene scene unfolded before my eyes.  As the sun dipped down behind a hilly peninsula that jutted out into the Pacific Ocean, the coastal mists painted the layers of hills in endlessly fading tones of blue as they disappeared off into the horizon.  Each puffy and streaked cloud in the sky was gently silhouetted in shades of azure and silver, and the glittering tide lapped lazily back and forth along the long, shallow beach.  As I listened to the gentle rhythm of the ocean and heard the distant laughing and shouting of children floating on the cooling breeze, I felt glad that I had finally escaped the abysmal drudgery of San Jose and I felt a contented tranquility within myself.  And as I sat there and smiled softly beneath the delicious twilight, I thought to myself that I hoped I would remember this moment forever, and I only wished that I could share the happiness that it brought me with those who were far away from me, and perhaps feeling the way that I had while in San Jose, but whom were always in my heart.