Whatever one must do to become a Latin-America-Mobile-Roadside-Attraction, we have accomplished. This is hugely in part due to the nature of bicycle touring and then exemplified by who we are and where in the world we ride. Any bicycle tourist, in the US, Europe, South America, anywhere, quickly adapts to the side of the road. It is of universal importance what the road looks like, feels like, the shoulder (if there is one), the flow of traffic and what type of traffic. Do these vehicles belong to families on weekend holiday or are they 18-wheel trucks headed across the country. What lines your road of travel is equally important. Are there trees with growth and homes with water hoses, which offer shade, protection and a rest. Or is there nothing but endless miles of barbed wire fencing separating you from the potential haven of soft grass in amongst cow poop. These few simple pleasures, ones so simple they would never affect you inside the safety of your car, are the ones any bicycle tourist depends on.
Here in Central America there are additives to this roadside struggle which I have yet to cross on the beautiful, smoothly paved and freshly painted straight yellow lines comprising the roads we own in the US. Here, we are lucky when we have a shoulder. We are even luckier when there is no huge drop off, where pavement ends and god only knows what begins. Much of the roadside is hard packed gravel and loose rocks. Maybe grass, and probably a large ditch, one of many sorts. Covering this gravel and lining these ditches you can find any piece of household trash you could ever ask for. Mostly food packaging, lots of soda bottles and dirty diapers. Plastic bags in every color man has ever thought to make, even the occasional bicycle frame. My first few days I was shocked at the abundance of trash everywhere, not just along the roads but in town streets and piled on the side of any given business. It does not phase me much anymore. In fact, the other day while eating breakfast, I realized my sleeping pad between me and the pavement was on top of a bunch of shattered glass, and I am pretty sure some guys pee. I doubt if this is the first, or the last time I enjoy a meal in this fashion. In an American Girl moment some days ago I expressed my anger towards the abundance of trash, and the lack of "appropriate" disposal. Eric reminded me that not all word citizens have trash pick-up day bi-weekly. Here, you chuck it or burn it. The only trash which ever directly concerns us are the thousands of broken glass bottles and hundreds of blown out tires and their little wire threads, searching for a fresh hot bicycle tire to poke through.
There is more to these roadsides than trash filled ditches and the unmistakable fragrance of dead animal flesh. Bicycles. Tons of bicycles. It is a universal tool in these parts. Most bike act as a bit different tool than ours, but commuter machines non the less. Eric and I think we have chosen wisely and appropriately outfitted our fancy bicycles. But I have learned we know nothing of maximizing our rides. People all around us ride two up. Sometimes their tires are half the size of ours and have years on them as well. Carts welded to the front, the back, and filled with groceries, tools, mops and chickens. We have seen it all, other than another BOB trailer. Any one who takes an interest in us goes straight for the trailer. "What is it?" "How much?" "Where can I buy it?" "How does it work?" They are impressed by our efficient little trailers. In my dreams there is a way to distribute BOBs and sell them for a quarter of their retail value. BOB trailers would take over Central America. Other than our trailers, our loyalty to our helmets and our pale skin, we are just a few more people on bikes. Those who pass us in their vehicles are more often than not most courteous. They slow down, pull over, even honk little tunes, wave and shout any English phrase they might know. In the US I have been run off the road, had a plastic soda bottle (half full), 2 beer cans, some spit and even a roll of toilet paper thrown at me. I have been bumped by two cars. Here I do not feel so unwanted, or like I have to compete for 3 feet of the road. We are actually encouraged by on lookers and passersby. The local men especially enjoy shouting words of appreciation at me, freely. Eric, who is usually just a bit behind me has taken to shouting back "Gracias". Surely his foreign, gigantic beard and long white legs frighten them, and I do not risk being abducted by 10 Costa Rican construction workers.
Me, you, Eric, the truck drivers and families on a weekend getaway, all can think what we like of this new position we have assumed. Lets be honest. Do you want to spend your existence or even a piece of it struggling along side a road? A road that is hot as hell, dirty, stinky and so loud I hear 18-wheel trucks in my sleep (literally). Eric has called it "demeaning", bike touring that is. He has a point even I will admit. There is no getaway for us, no shoulder, no fast car. We forever look strange and might as well be on display. Some days I think if I get one more funny look, I´ll scream at the poor soul who happens to look. Maybe you saw me peeing in a ditch 5 miles back before our common coffee break. What else am I supposed to do? Eric´s beard, my dress, gringos being gringos? I search for reason where there may be none.
This has been merely an attempt to tell you what it is like. There is nothing glamorous, strange or even that entertaining about it. You try to get further down the road. That´s it. One tired leg, then the other. We are covered with roadside dirt and days of sweat and we look homeless. We are worn, frustrated, sore, hot, and not always happy. And that is life alongside some road in Costa Rica.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Panamanian Woes
The plan goes like this... Fly two bicycles, two BOBs and two bodies, Eric and Minya, to Panama City. Then we put the bikes together, toss on the BOBS and ride north. Simple, right? That's what we though too. However God, Mother Nature and even man kind think other wise. And in a short 10 day period have made several clever attempts at shutting us down.
We arrived in Panama City, simply excited to be upright after 24 hours of airplane and port. You know how it goes. You and your new air plane friends crowd around all groggy eyed fixated on those golden gate like black flaps, awaiting them to release your precious cargo. Each time I wait for my baggage it is the same in my belly, like when I was 8 at 4:30 on Christmas morning. Being forced to wait and see what I got. This year no new shinny bicycle. Nope. Two trailers, perfectly packed by Eric with each piece of most important gear were spit out onto the conveyor belt. Which is great, when you have a bicycle to tow it all around. We did not.
To a Hostel in a city we go for a place to crash while visions of safely delivered bicycles dance in our heads. At some ugly hour of the morning Eric is up to see if Delta has followed through with their guarantee to deliver our bikes over night. The problem is he cannot get dressed because he has no shorts. Gone. Stolen while we slept like travelers who hadn't slept for 36 hours. Another guest within the Hostel helped themselves. Shorts we can replace, his Ziploc wallet within them, we cannot. So... by 6 in the early morning, we are out one wallet, and one bicycle. Only one has managed to make it to Panama. Within a few hours Eric has his stolen shorts and wallet resolved and in the end we have lost somewhere around 40$ and the most unfortunate welcome to the world of hostels and the sometimes odd and desperate characters they can act as a shelter to. Now if only recovering a lost bicycle where as straight forward as canceling a bank card. Delta cannot quite put an electronic finger on the bicycle who has gone on a tour of its own. But they will, they say.
My mind keeps drifting to images of a place Eric has promised to take me many times. It is a warehouse filled with things, everything and anything you could imagine. thousands of these objects whatever they maybe have been. Sold to the ingenious proprietor of this warehouse by all the various airlines. "Unclaimed" or "Lost" baggage made available to the public for cheap. I picture my new shiny bike in a corner with some other sporting foods, maybe a catchers mask that was supposed to go to Cincinnati and golf clubs that never made it to Myrtle Beach. Do you know what my bicycle says on it? 50$, and I wish the lucky soul who finds it good times. And as we wonder the dirty streets of Panama City I eye beat up, commuter modified 1980's leftover bicycles and I wonder if I purchase one as a replacement ride could it ever make the long haul back to the US. These are thoughts I never speak out loud to Eric. A few days later, my bike shows up.
Our time in Panama City was by no means a loss. We where most often accompanied by two most excellent new friends Lucy and Joe who helped us and where witness to our pathetic readjustment period which went something like, "What do you mean stores are closed on New Years Day. How are we going to buy neat crap?" If Panama city was only great companions and a chance for Eric discover leaf cutter ants and their endless photographic possibilities than I am happy.
And then, one day, we finally were able to leave Panama City. I cannot tell you what day, or how many kilometers we road, or even exactly where we slept. This is what I can tell you. Within an hour of leaving sunrise at the Panama Canal almost everything I despise about bicycle touring was forced down my throat, deep into my lungs and leaked out into my gut. The heavy trailer pulling me downhill as I push my very out-of-shape legs to get my sorry self to the top of a small hill, a mere threshold to the mountains in central Panama. The intense heat burning the flesh off my white back at the same time it bounces off the hot to the touch pavement and nestles in all around my legs belly and underarms. Every desperate inhalation was filled with exhaust from thousands of vehicles who's owners have never known the phrase "emissions control". And the 18-wheel trucks. Every cyclist can join in in this bit if distaste. They are fast, huge, loud and often show no respect to a mere bicycle. I picture myself a helpless dragonfly or bee in their wipers. These entirely pathetic thoughts are also ones I do not speak aloud to Eric. A) This was my stupid idea. B) It is entirely evident he is struggling with all of this and probably more. He has never even been on a long bike ride, much less a tour through Central America. He had no way to foresee all these inevitables which loomed in the deeps of my head. He is here for me and us and to help manifest my desire to do this for whatever odd reasons they may be. I try to suck all of this into my lungs. In with any positive affirmation like; I am not crazy, people have done this before, and it will get better. Out with the black exhaust.
Day two I have this genius idea. Lets do an early morning 30 kilometers or so, then spend the rest of the day siesta-ing on an upcoming beach. We are both committed to taking it easy early on and letting our out of shape bodies adjust with as little pain as possible. This is why you bicycle tour in Central America I remind myself nestling into a little hand spun Cabana, after a swim in the warm ocean of this deserted beach. This is as good as heaven for ME. But silly me has thought only of herself and somehow overlooked the fact that Eric hates sun, sand and even salt water. Oops. I lived with the boy on the tropical isle of Maui, where we frolicked in the rain forest, but the beach only on the occasional night that Eric would dare. Should have thought of Maui before we bought the plane tickets. And after all my years as a dark skinned girl who grew up on an island, I have never seen the likes of it. The poor boy is in the shade all day, under our little coconut frond and superman sheet cabana, and within 3 to 4 hours he is fried. This little white boy from Tennessee has a sunburn a fresh boiled red snapper (the Maine state hot dog) would be proud of. Day 2 of, I don´t know, 120 to come, and we must hide from the sun.
We are given shelter by a woman named Sabina, who takes us into her home for a rest. At her suggestion we head to a little town in the mountains, per "bus" which is actually a van. El Valle provided us with a nice rest, a cooler temperature and a chance to play touristas. Little did I know this town would open up a whole new world of liberation, through a bowl of the best chicken soup I have ever had. Up until this point, I feared it. All around us, each time we try to eat the local fare we are surrounded by meat.Piles of it and locals who grasp the bones in their greasy fingers and suck and gnaw the soft flesh from them, happy as could be. In each little restaurant there is a tiny filth stained sink in the corner, with a dirty cracked blue bar of soap if you are lucky. Finally I understand why. If you are going to eat your breakfast (yes America. Breakfast), lunch and dinner with your fingers mouth and teeth craftily peeling meat from bones, then you need this sink. I like the phrase "let go", but after spending at least 10 of my years as a vegetarian and 7 more as a strict vegan, this is hard for me. But this day in Ell Valle I watch person after person buy this chicken soup, fish a fist size hunk of flesh and bones from the thick broth and just go to town. I can take it no more. When in Rome. Head first I plunge into this bowl and it is freaking amazing. From that day to this, I have taken to this meat on bone Panamanian fare and it really does provide a sense of liberation that I dare not visit my psyche to explain.
Another memorable highlight from this sweet little spot named El Valle was a small zoo we visited. We had never laid eyes on a sloth before and not only did we spend an hour mesmerized by one, but a tiny baby sloth stuck to the mother like one of those silver climbing ear men from the mid 90's. It climbed around like she was it's own canopy. You wanna talk about cute. Not until you have seen a baby sloth. OK. Alright, it was in a zoo, but had it not been in a zoo we never would have witnessed an entire family feed can of coca-cola to a raccoon. The whole can. Surely this was like watching a latter crack addict fiend take their first taste. When we visited this caged, manic beast he was squirming up and down the cage licking every bit of it's thick wire and frantically reaching to us for more. Back home, one (or the entire family) would surely be kicked out of the zoo, or maybe worse. Here it was an amusement and each passerby stopped and laughed at his crazed state. Needless to say, we too was amused.
We get back on our bikes for our longest and perhaps most disheartening stretch of riding yet. We prepare to rest our tired bodies on a perfect patch of grass provided to us by an excellent man named Innis who welcomed us to his beautiful farm. Before doing so Eric palpates my spine, and finds a piece of it that has worked it way away from the rest, and blue bruising across my lower back. Days before we left Tennessee for Panama I did something funky to my lower back. I lifted something wrong, and didn't think much more of it. Pain from this stupid lift has persisted, and worsened, and is now looming in my back scaring both me and Eric that this could be a threat to our trip. Alright, so the pain has been around for days, but it was never this sharp, and I had pretty much kept it to myself, out of fear of making it real. These was no hiding from it now. My spine looks odd and my back is discolored. I can ride, I can walk but getting up, down and bending over I remember my great grandma Ga-Ga who was 96 and a ballerina on ice compared to me. Mad, sad, scared and somewhat embarrassed that moving a box wrong has led me to this state. All of these things are me. And Eric is incredible. Because now he bends for two. Lifts and pulls bikes for tow. Gets dressed for two. He is my savior and I am a lame looser who should be in a nursing home.After following advise given to me from my chiropractor back home, and allowing Eric to preform any large movements for me, my back is preforming a bit better. Most importantly my chiropractor does not think I risk permanent or serious damage. So... we bike on.
We don't really make it that far. Actually we make it to where we are , right now. Shacked up in a small 14$ hotel room. You do not want to know why. If you are a long distance cyclist you will feel the pain. If not, you may want to stop reading now. When you ride a bike, you have one point of contact. This is supposed to be the two "sits" bones in your bum. If these are tired, or worn out, you can lean a bit on your anatomy, but this gets dangerous. I have somehow managed to ware both out. Yes, that's correct folks both my bum and what defines me as a woman hates this trip, and are rebelling it to an extreme and most unnecessary degree. On each side of my bum I have provided a home to the worse "saddle sores" I have ever seen or known. And as I felt these coming on early, I leaned a bit too heavy on my girl parts, which is now just plain exhausted. We stopped riding because every single pebble, rock or descent sized crack (there are thousands here in Panama) feel like god himself is punishing me for reason unknown. Once Eric laid his sorry eyes on the situation on my bum, he too was insistent we stop riding and let this clear up a bit. He would like a photo to accompany this story. I am not sure how I feel about this, but it is out of the question anyhow, due to yet another unfortunate event.
"Minya! GET UP!" That's how I wake up. Eric had gotten up to pee and lands in an inch of water. All over the floor. This would not be a huge event for us (14$ hotel room in Panama and all) had Eric's camera and hard drive storing our photos not been subject to this standing water. As far as we can tell right now they are both ruined. We still have my camera but all photos to date where stored on the hard drive and some new ones on Eric's camera.
At this point I feel a need to recap one Panamanian experience for you. We lost and recovered a damaged bike. We were robbed by some pathetic soul. Eric was kissed by the sun, brunt all over his chest, belly and arms. My back tells me I am 80, is bruised and looks funny. The sores on my bum are almost inhumane and my female anatomy is wishing for a new owner. Eric's camera and most favorite possession and only "toy" is ruined. The road conditions are hot, stinky, dirty as I have ever seen, rough and entirely unpredictable. Years of trash and road kill so wrong you would swear a flock of sheep were all giving birth in the middle of the road when struck tragically one after the other by 6 18-wheel trucks. And as I write this recap for you now I am sure I am insane, wish I had never dragged my miserable boyfriend here and am wearing spandex shorts holding four Ziplocs filled with ice on my back and my shorts are damp and gooey from the fresh aloe I apply to my bum every hour or so. Are you still jealous?
It's not all bad... Costa Rica is only 2 or 3 days away. Eric has found the best chicken on the planet which comes from a place called Rotisserie Zhong's. It is phenomenal and Eric has eaten there 4 times in 2 days and informed me we are going back for dinner. We are regulars now, they give us a bit of a discount and samples. Eric would like to contact Lonely Planet and insist they include a section for Mr. Zhong. My back is getting better, and my bum, well, it's just skin and will heal. My Spanish is a joke, but improving, and Eric has mastered all forms of "hello" and "latter". Scattered throughout all the madness there are people who entertain us and our spirits. They remind me of why we travel and justify my crazy notions of why we are here. A kid with no pedals or gears gives his little junker bike all he has to catch up to us. And a one legged bicycle commuter passes by on his way to the store at the end of his work day. And we may climb a hill slow, but not as slow as the man on a bicycle we pass only because between his legs, balanced on his top tube is a 40lb propane tank. These people remind me why we would ever ride a bike to begin with, and that our life, Eric's and my own is really quite excellent.
We arrived in Panama City, simply excited to be upright after 24 hours of airplane and port. You know how it goes. You and your new air plane friends crowd around all groggy eyed fixated on those golden gate like black flaps, awaiting them to release your precious cargo. Each time I wait for my baggage it is the same in my belly, like when I was 8 at 4:30 on Christmas morning. Being forced to wait and see what I got. This year no new shinny bicycle. Nope. Two trailers, perfectly packed by Eric with each piece of most important gear were spit out onto the conveyor belt. Which is great, when you have a bicycle to tow it all around. We did not.
To a Hostel in a city we go for a place to crash while visions of safely delivered bicycles dance in our heads. At some ugly hour of the morning Eric is up to see if Delta has followed through with their guarantee to deliver our bikes over night. The problem is he cannot get dressed because he has no shorts. Gone. Stolen while we slept like travelers who hadn't slept for 36 hours. Another guest within the Hostel helped themselves. Shorts we can replace, his Ziploc wallet within them, we cannot. So... by 6 in the early morning, we are out one wallet, and one bicycle. Only one has managed to make it to Panama. Within a few hours Eric has his stolen shorts and wallet resolved and in the end we have lost somewhere around 40$ and the most unfortunate welcome to the world of hostels and the sometimes odd and desperate characters they can act as a shelter to. Now if only recovering a lost bicycle where as straight forward as canceling a bank card. Delta cannot quite put an electronic finger on the bicycle who has gone on a tour of its own. But they will, they say.
My mind keeps drifting to images of a place Eric has promised to take me many times. It is a warehouse filled with things, everything and anything you could imagine. thousands of these objects whatever they maybe have been. Sold to the ingenious proprietor of this warehouse by all the various airlines. "Unclaimed" or "Lost" baggage made available to the public for cheap. I picture my new shiny bike in a corner with some other sporting foods, maybe a catchers mask that was supposed to go to Cincinnati and golf clubs that never made it to Myrtle Beach. Do you know what my bicycle says on it? 50$, and I wish the lucky soul who finds it good times. And as we wonder the dirty streets of Panama City I eye beat up, commuter modified 1980's leftover bicycles and I wonder if I purchase one as a replacement ride could it ever make the long haul back to the US. These are thoughts I never speak out loud to Eric. A few days later, my bike shows up.
Our time in Panama City was by no means a loss. We where most often accompanied by two most excellent new friends Lucy and Joe who helped us and where witness to our pathetic readjustment period which went something like, "What do you mean stores are closed on New Years Day. How are we going to buy neat crap?" If Panama city was only great companions and a chance for Eric discover leaf cutter ants and their endless photographic possibilities than I am happy.
And then, one day, we finally were able to leave Panama City. I cannot tell you what day, or how many kilometers we road, or even exactly where we slept. This is what I can tell you. Within an hour of leaving sunrise at the Panama Canal almost everything I despise about bicycle touring was forced down my throat, deep into my lungs and leaked out into my gut. The heavy trailer pulling me downhill as I push my very out-of-shape legs to get my sorry self to the top of a small hill, a mere threshold to the mountains in central Panama. The intense heat burning the flesh off my white back at the same time it bounces off the hot to the touch pavement and nestles in all around my legs belly and underarms. Every desperate inhalation was filled with exhaust from thousands of vehicles who's owners have never known the phrase "emissions control". And the 18-wheel trucks. Every cyclist can join in in this bit if distaste. They are fast, huge, loud and often show no respect to a mere bicycle. I picture myself a helpless dragonfly or bee in their wipers. These entirely pathetic thoughts are also ones I do not speak aloud to Eric. A) This was my stupid idea. B) It is entirely evident he is struggling with all of this and probably more. He has never even been on a long bike ride, much less a tour through Central America. He had no way to foresee all these inevitables which loomed in the deeps of my head. He is here for me and us and to help manifest my desire to do this for whatever odd reasons they may be. I try to suck all of this into my lungs. In with any positive affirmation like; I am not crazy, people have done this before, and it will get better. Out with the black exhaust.
Day two I have this genius idea. Lets do an early morning 30 kilometers or so, then spend the rest of the day siesta-ing on an upcoming beach. We are both committed to taking it easy early on and letting our out of shape bodies adjust with as little pain as possible. This is why you bicycle tour in Central America I remind myself nestling into a little hand spun Cabana, after a swim in the warm ocean of this deserted beach. This is as good as heaven for ME. But silly me has thought only of herself and somehow overlooked the fact that Eric hates sun, sand and even salt water. Oops. I lived with the boy on the tropical isle of Maui, where we frolicked in the rain forest, but the beach only on the occasional night that Eric would dare. Should have thought of Maui before we bought the plane tickets. And after all my years as a dark skinned girl who grew up on an island, I have never seen the likes of it. The poor boy is in the shade all day, under our little coconut frond and superman sheet cabana, and within 3 to 4 hours he is fried. This little white boy from Tennessee has a sunburn a fresh boiled red snapper (the Maine state hot dog) would be proud of. Day 2 of, I don´t know, 120 to come, and we must hide from the sun.
We are given shelter by a woman named Sabina, who takes us into her home for a rest. At her suggestion we head to a little town in the mountains, per "bus" which is actually a van. El Valle provided us with a nice rest, a cooler temperature and a chance to play touristas. Little did I know this town would open up a whole new world of liberation, through a bowl of the best chicken soup I have ever had. Up until this point, I feared it. All around us, each time we try to eat the local fare we are surrounded by meat.Piles of it and locals who grasp the bones in their greasy fingers and suck and gnaw the soft flesh from them, happy as could be. In each little restaurant there is a tiny filth stained sink in the corner, with a dirty cracked blue bar of soap if you are lucky. Finally I understand why. If you are going to eat your breakfast (yes America. Breakfast), lunch and dinner with your fingers mouth and teeth craftily peeling meat from bones, then you need this sink. I like the phrase "let go", but after spending at least 10 of my years as a vegetarian and 7 more as a strict vegan, this is hard for me. But this day in Ell Valle I watch person after person buy this chicken soup, fish a fist size hunk of flesh and bones from the thick broth and just go to town. I can take it no more. When in Rome. Head first I plunge into this bowl and it is freaking amazing. From that day to this, I have taken to this meat on bone Panamanian fare and it really does provide a sense of liberation that I dare not visit my psyche to explain.
Another memorable highlight from this sweet little spot named El Valle was a small zoo we visited. We had never laid eyes on a sloth before and not only did we spend an hour mesmerized by one, but a tiny baby sloth stuck to the mother like one of those silver climbing ear men from the mid 90's. It climbed around like she was it's own canopy. You wanna talk about cute. Not until you have seen a baby sloth. OK. Alright, it was in a zoo, but had it not been in a zoo we never would have witnessed an entire family feed can of coca-cola to a raccoon. The whole can. Surely this was like watching a latter crack addict fiend take their first taste. When we visited this caged, manic beast he was squirming up and down the cage licking every bit of it's thick wire and frantically reaching to us for more. Back home, one (or the entire family) would surely be kicked out of the zoo, or maybe worse. Here it was an amusement and each passerby stopped and laughed at his crazed state. Needless to say, we too was amused.
We get back on our bikes for our longest and perhaps most disheartening stretch of riding yet. We prepare to rest our tired bodies on a perfect patch of grass provided to us by an excellent man named Innis who welcomed us to his beautiful farm. Before doing so Eric palpates my spine, and finds a piece of it that has worked it way away from the rest, and blue bruising across my lower back. Days before we left Tennessee for Panama I did something funky to my lower back. I lifted something wrong, and didn't think much more of it. Pain from this stupid lift has persisted, and worsened, and is now looming in my back scaring both me and Eric that this could be a threat to our trip. Alright, so the pain has been around for days, but it was never this sharp, and I had pretty much kept it to myself, out of fear of making it real. These was no hiding from it now. My spine looks odd and my back is discolored. I can ride, I can walk but getting up, down and bending over I remember my great grandma Ga-Ga who was 96 and a ballerina on ice compared to me. Mad, sad, scared and somewhat embarrassed that moving a box wrong has led me to this state. All of these things are me. And Eric is incredible. Because now he bends for two. Lifts and pulls bikes for tow. Gets dressed for two. He is my savior and I am a lame looser who should be in a nursing home.After following advise given to me from my chiropractor back home, and allowing Eric to preform any large movements for me, my back is preforming a bit better. Most importantly my chiropractor does not think I risk permanent or serious damage. So... we bike on.
We don't really make it that far. Actually we make it to where we are , right now. Shacked up in a small 14$ hotel room. You do not want to know why. If you are a long distance cyclist you will feel the pain. If not, you may want to stop reading now. When you ride a bike, you have one point of contact. This is supposed to be the two "sits" bones in your bum. If these are tired, or worn out, you can lean a bit on your anatomy, but this gets dangerous. I have somehow managed to ware both out. Yes, that's correct folks both my bum and what defines me as a woman hates this trip, and are rebelling it to an extreme and most unnecessary degree. On each side of my bum I have provided a home to the worse "saddle sores" I have ever seen or known. And as I felt these coming on early, I leaned a bit too heavy on my girl parts, which is now just plain exhausted. We stopped riding because every single pebble, rock or descent sized crack (there are thousands here in Panama) feel like god himself is punishing me for reason unknown. Once Eric laid his sorry eyes on the situation on my bum, he too was insistent we stop riding and let this clear up a bit. He would like a photo to accompany this story. I am not sure how I feel about this, but it is out of the question anyhow, due to yet another unfortunate event.
"Minya! GET UP!" That's how I wake up. Eric had gotten up to pee and lands in an inch of water. All over the floor. This would not be a huge event for us (14$ hotel room in Panama and all) had Eric's camera and hard drive storing our photos not been subject to this standing water. As far as we can tell right now they are both ruined. We still have my camera but all photos to date where stored on the hard drive and some new ones on Eric's camera.
At this point I feel a need to recap one Panamanian experience for you. We lost and recovered a damaged bike. We were robbed by some pathetic soul. Eric was kissed by the sun, brunt all over his chest, belly and arms. My back tells me I am 80, is bruised and looks funny. The sores on my bum are almost inhumane and my female anatomy is wishing for a new owner. Eric's camera and most favorite possession and only "toy" is ruined. The road conditions are hot, stinky, dirty as I have ever seen, rough and entirely unpredictable. Years of trash and road kill so wrong you would swear a flock of sheep were all giving birth in the middle of the road when struck tragically one after the other by 6 18-wheel trucks. And as I write this recap for you now I am sure I am insane, wish I had never dragged my miserable boyfriend here and am wearing spandex shorts holding four Ziplocs filled with ice on my back and my shorts are damp and gooey from the fresh aloe I apply to my bum every hour or so. Are you still jealous?
It's not all bad... Costa Rica is only 2 or 3 days away. Eric has found the best chicken on the planet which comes from a place called Rotisserie Zhong's. It is phenomenal and Eric has eaten there 4 times in 2 days and informed me we are going back for dinner. We are regulars now, they give us a bit of a discount and samples. Eric would like to contact Lonely Planet and insist they include a section for Mr. Zhong. My back is getting better, and my bum, well, it's just skin and will heal. My Spanish is a joke, but improving, and Eric has mastered all forms of "hello" and "latter". Scattered throughout all the madness there are people who entertain us and our spirits. They remind me of why we travel and justify my crazy notions of why we are here. A kid with no pedals or gears gives his little junker bike all he has to catch up to us. And a one legged bicycle commuter passes by on his way to the store at the end of his work day. And we may climb a hill slow, but not as slow as the man on a bicycle we pass only because between his legs, balanced on his top tube is a 40lb propane tank. These people remind me why we would ever ride a bike to begin with, and that our life, Eric's and my own is really quite excellent.
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