I never did finish my Spanish lesso….

Hasta la Pasta Baby, Welcome to Central America. Panama City. The place that put the nod in ‘US FORCES GIVE THE NOD”. The CIA’s one time Central American nerve centre, or in other words, nervous central of Central America.

Poverty, high-rises, banking, wanking and hey…don’t ask me too much about  the place>>>>one night in Panama City is hardly what I would call experience.

But one night in Luna Castle, the best one of the few rack-packer centres in Panama City , in the old fortified city, 2 ks out of  the highrise heart, is a story unto itself. And its right next door to el Presidente’s Palace, as I found out as I stepped out 100m from my bunk, into and ongoing AK47…..ah, the old fave’>> the AK47…John Howard sure took the fun outta filling pigs with lead after Port Arthur. I’m no expert, but I gather some Captain called Morgan had a nasty way with the old fort area, with some good old fashioned rape, pillage, some plunger, a dash back for some more rape again….oh, and there were just a few more iconic antiques he had to re-ram-raid the place for, just in case, for one last time. Those pirates sure knew how to party.

Anyway, the old city were I stayed, was once the place where your hired hotel’s by the hour. But with El Presidente’s AK47’s everywhere, the place is decidedly more relaxed, in an AK47 kinda way. Even the hippest restauranteurs have retuned there.

In terms of the old Portuguese parts of Cochin, or the Galle Forte in Sri Lanka>>> the old Spanish colonial parts of Panama City are up there with the best.

As a 5 year student of Architecture, as some piece of paper tells me, ( as if not I would have forgotten what I’ve already forgotten) , I was gobsmacked by the old city’s beauty,  its faded shutters, streetscape verandas, and the real deal in Porter’s lime wash…and all that con-twisted-door stuff.

Hard core backpackers arriving in old 1973, 350 Chevy utes, and old  BMW K100’s filled the Luna Castle….a backpacker rest in a creaky old mansion, run but some 70′ dreaming-type 24 year olds, escaping the USA.

On the subject of escaping the US, its sure was nice to say goodbye to LA airport Homeland Security, Getless Car rental, and 18 lane highways under the direction of nervous GPS’s.

So there were two jobs to do in Panama City, one to get a bus ticket north to Costa Rica ( $US25  for al all nighter north) and secondly, to check out the anchorages and marina’s ready for the SS Ave Maria to use, on my return at 7 knots, next month.

At first, the anchorage directly in front of El Presidente’s palace seemed my style, until the changing tide turned it into a mud flat.

So out along the 4 k Amandor Causeway, and there, at the marina, was a fleet of cruising yachts, neatly moored 150m of the $100/night marina, in true scamming yachty style.

Spanish. What a beautiful language. I never did finish my Spanish lessons, at the start of my last partly failed attempt at circumnavigation. But I do have 4 years of Latin, Italian relo-in-laws, and school boy French, so hey, at least that is a start.

Ci.

Dos Cerveza.

…there we go, the essential of Spanish. I’m an expert.

12 bunks per room can be problematic, but then mixed dorms, with fascinating female wildlife, make up for the lack of sleep.  Besides, I’m not the private type anyway, and if I’m to be taking an annual holiday (which I define a YEAR on holiday), I figure I need to toughen up, and bunk in with the real people.

I can make a two months of what most idiots my age blow in a weeks’ holiday, maintaining their anal levels of comfort and security. There is no life in hotel room with 25 channels of shit on the TV.

Still with yet more of Sam’s 24 hour, non-stop doof on the IPod, I kept the alertness high, as I made my way at a fast walk through miles and hours of back street’s and urban grit.

There is another Panama City in Florida. They joke that the main difference between the US’s Panama City and the Latino Panama City is the language>>> they speak more English in the Central America one.

So anyway, pretty much as exhausted as I could get myself, I loaded up my 45kg of packs, and headed to the Panama Bus terminal for a 11pm departure, on an all nighter to Costa Rica. With 2 tabs of Sri Lankan, over the counter valium, and a row of bus seats to myself, it was not long before it all went very dark. A few more chapters of a Peaceful Warrior by Dan Millman were inspiration  pre-bedtime reading…and the next thing, it was the Panamian border at dawn. More groggy than a cane toad after a road train hit, the 2 hours of gringo cuing was hardly a fond farewell to Panama, and a  happy hello to Costa Rica, but hey, greasy road stops, morning drizzle, and strange new food were a lot more interesting start to my day than Koshi on the tube.

They stamped something in my passport, after some loose change theft, and I have no idea how long I get in Costa  Rica, but then who cares.

With the synchronicity of the first Indian space flight, as I was lugging my pack down Banana Bay Marina and Bar wharf, in Golflito,  Costa Rica,  and there was Pablo, upping anchor, and heading to the dock, me unseen. Timing to a tee.

And there she was, the grand old 50 foot 1967 Alden ketch, Ave Maria, the rusted Bentley of the ocean.

To be continued.

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