Santa Teresa Mornings

Lying on my bed in the dark, I'm listening to the whir of the ceiling fans overhead. Slowly motivating myself to get out of bed I do my best to quietly grab my surfboard and apply sunscreen. Sneaking out of the room, I narrowly miss stepping on the owner's Labrador in the hallway. He doesn't move much more than a sloth. The cool pavement comforts him from the relentless heat. I don't blame him. For me, sleeping with a sheet is even too hot. 

It's currently 5:30am and stepping outside onto the patio, I savor what will be the coolest air of the day. Also unlike the rest of the day, it's the quietest. By 8am, the only street in Santa Teresa is filled with ATVs and Enduros narrowly missing pedestrians as they weave around potholes.

Empty streets

Sliding the heavy iron gate open, I stroll down the street at dusk and step off onto the dirt path heading down to the beach. Behind me a howler monkey barks in the distance like someone gasping for air. Spotting a hermit crab on the ground, I realize the ground is full of them. It sounds like Fall leaves blowing in the wind as the hermit crabs scuttle through the leaf litter.

Local graffitti

As dusk fades away, the silhouetted palm trees on the beach begin to develop their green hues. The ocean smooth as glass reflects shades of pinks and light blues from the sunrise. Pelicans skim the ocean surface in search of fish. 

Perfect waist high waves

Jumping into the water cools me off briefly, but at eighty four degrees Fahrenheit, it isn't very refreshing. But I lie to myself and pretend that it is refreshing because it's the coldest I'm going to be for the next twenty four hours. 

Photos From Boquete

The missing photos from the last post of Boquete.

Boquete from above

In the valley

Land of the Buganvillas

Orange zest Crepés

Lilicoy (Passion fruit) banana compote filling

Boquete and Onward

Surrounded by mountains, Boquete is a drastic change from the lowland tropical rain forests of Bocas Del Toro. Instead of intense heat and humidity, cool air from the surrounding clouds flows down into the valley. Pine tree forests cover the mountains while black and turquoise butterflies flutter in the wind like falling leaves. Areas that that used to be forested now contain coffee plantations that boast the most expensive coffee in the world. 

It could almost be mistaken for a small Californian town except for the Panamanian women who wear beautiful, brightly covered dresses trimmed with geometric designs.

This is where we've spent the last few days enjoying the scenery and planning our next location. Originally we were going to continue South. Instead we've decided to head into Costa Rica. 

After two long days of bus rides and lots of transfers (about sixteen hours), we finally made it to our temporary destination of Santa Teresa.

**Sorry there are no photos this time around. There were a bunch that I was going to upload. Due to some technical difficulties, I can't get the photos off my camera during this time.**

Boats, Buses, and Boquete

Looking at the boat in the water, it didn't seem like there was any more room in the boat. As our luggage was tossed into the space near the outboard motor, I'm told to go sit in the front of the boat next to the captain. Climbing into the boat, I look at the twenty-five people sitting straight faced in their red life jackets. Looking down on my seat I see a toddler's life jacket is designated to me. The man next to me sees my predicament and hands me the last adult one. As I place it around my neck, I realize that there are no straps on it. At this point it solely acts as a scarf. 

A few minutes later the captain hops in the boat. He's a short man dressed in Nikes, baggy shorts and shirt, Ray Ban sunglasses and a flat brimmed baseball hat. Starting the engine, we leave the dock and the captain immediately sits in his chair like he's driving a low rider. Leaning back in his seat his right arm sits nonchalantly on the throttle as his left hand is uncomfortably stretched across the top of the steering wheel. Hanging from his rearview mirror is a stuffed animal that swings back and forth with the boats motion. 

Soon the boat is rocketing through the mangroves and bouncing across the wind chop. Sitting in the front seat I feel like a skipping stone as we blast by indigenous people paddling their dugout canoes. The captain still relaxed opens up the throttle a little more. I look at the tach and see we're approaching 5,200 RPMs - we are flying at this point. Pulling out his phone, the captain begins texting while keeping an eye on the water.

Twenty five minutes later we are standing on the dock shuffling into the taxi truck that we've found. The taxi driver's friend throws our bags into the back along with our surfboards on top. 

The taxi driver's friend is yelling at us, "faster! Faster! We are going to get a ticket sitting here!"

Hopping into the taxi, I barely have time to shut the door before we start driving. Looking at the door panel, I realize there isn't a door panel, it's bare metal. Looking up at the dash of the car, a stereo has been poorly mounted next to the steering wheel. As we are barreling through the streets and crossing the center line to miss pedestrians, I can't help but notice that the stereo is acquiring more attention than the road. 

Chet turns to me and says with a concerned face, "our driver can't be more than fifteen."

I silently agree, because I'm not sure what to think while he's racing the taxi through Almirante. Turning around to look out the back window, our surfboards are on the verge of flipping out of the car. They aren't tied in, nothing's weighing them down. The boards are at the mercy of the taxi driver at this point. Chet and I just give each other a look.

Finally making it to the bus depot, we are a little overwhelmed and stressed. We buy our bus tickets to the city of David and thirty minutes later we are climbing onto the next adventure of the day. 

Staring out the window, I'm looking at our surfboards that are strapped on like airplane wings. Taking out my iphone, I put my headphones in and put on Melissa by the Allman Brothers. All my stress is gone as the  world goes by in a blur as I stare out the window. 

Flying down mountain roads

Blurred vision

Loaded down. We passed every vehicle in our path. Nobody passed us.

As our bus climbs up and down hills, I begin to smell what I believe is our brakes. I try to subdue the thought of our brakes dying from my head.

Two hours into the ride we begin climbing up a vertical mountain side. The engine wines in what I believe is second gear. The mountain and road disappears into the clouds. I feel like I'm on a roller coaster. The bus is shaking from all of the pot holes and the bus is at a crawling pace as if it's building up suspense for the ride down.

As we slip into the clouds, the dense jungle disappears and gives way to shrubs. Someone in front slides open a window and the cold, crisp air blows in. I give a sigh of relief to see we are out of the humidity. 

Soon I spot sunshine in the distance. As we round one last corner the clouds hit a barrier of blue sky. The landscape drastically changes as if divided by an invisible wall. I immediately feel like I'm in California. Rolling hills, pine trees, and grasslands cover the mountain side. It's a good change of scenery from the jungle.

Rolling hills, pine trees, and grasslands

Making our way into the David bus terminal, we plan our next bus change. Grabbing our stuff, we shuffle onto an old American school bus. Climbing in, we squeeze into the tiny seats and are soon putting up a hillside into the town of Boquete.

Stepping out of the bus, I'm relieved to finally be standing. The town of Boquete is nestled in a valley surrounded by mountains draped with clouds. The cool mist blows in my face as we walk down the street in search of a hostel. It's the first time I've had to wear a jacket in months and I smile at the thought of it. 

Boquete roof colors

Island Surfing and Running Into Friends

Stepping off the dock into the boat, I shuffle over to balance the boat with my weight. Quickly grabbing the surfboards from Chet, I tuck them into the bow of the boat as he hops in. 

The quiver

With the hum of the outboard motor in the background, we sit in silence as we anticipate the surf. Leaving the calmness of the bay, we begin to hit the open ocean swells as we head to the island Carenero - an island with a perfect point break.

Our boat driver pulling up just out of reach of the breaking waves sets the outboard on idle. 

"You want me to wait for you?"

"No, we will flag another boat down. We don't know how long we are going to surf for."

Grabbing my board I toss it overboard and dive in. The water almost uncomfortably warm, feels nice after the rainy and windy ride over. 

As Chet and I paddle out to the furthest part of the point, we watch the waves bend around the island with machine like consistency. The wave itself is phenomenal. Sitting in the lineup looking out to sea, we stare out at the island of Bastimentos as we watch the open water swells transform into breaking waves. As the breaking wave bends across the island, the underlying reef seems to groom the wave; the longer the wave breaks, the more perfect the wave gets. However, what really struck me about the wave is that it breaks within a stones throw of the island. While riding the wave, it seems like the jungle is merely oncoming traffic with the thin strip of beach as the center divider. 

After four hours of surfing, Chet was exhausted, and my stomach was rubbed raw from the board. We decided it was time to flag a boat down. Sitting like ducks in the water, we waited for a water taxi to come. 

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. 

Watching waves role through we couldn't resist catching a few more. Paddling into one, I take off and I'm flying down the wave. Like a dog chasing a squirrel, at that moment nothing matters more than the wave, and nothing could break my focus and determination. Midway through the wave, I distantly hear "Wyatt!!" and it's not until the end of the wave that I register that my name had actually been called. Paddling back out, to my surprise I see my friend Emily in the water. 

Emily, a graduate of Environmental Science from UCSB as well, is a friend that I've been surfing with since my freshmen year at UCSB. Living in neighboring dorms, we'd surf together, had the same friend group, and struggled through the same classes all four years. She has more energy than the energizer bunny itself.

When seen outside her large framed sunglasses covered most of her face which were held on by croakies. She's usually riding her green Trek rusted from the years of salt dripping on it in Santa Barbara. Highly animated in both hand gestures and personality, the last time I saw her was when she was sitting a row behind me at the UCSB graduation ceremony. Like everyone else she was wearing the black gown, blue and gold sash, graduation cap, and her big sunglasses with croakies. She only had to put some flair to the outfit. She boasted a black mustache to symbolize the Gauchos, and adorned a foot high version of UCSB's Storke Tower that could be seen as she crossed the stage. 

Finally waving down a boat like hitchhikers, it was time to part paths again from my friend. On the voyage back to Bastimentos, it was crazy for me to think that on a remote set of islands off the Caribbean coast of Panama, I'd randomly run into a friend from school. It made me look forward to more experiences like that. 

Muddy Treks

Our feet lathered in mud, we weren't sure what we should do. The inspirational signs saying "you are almost there," and "ten more minutes" no longer seemed relevant. The sign that said fifteen more minutes we passed forty minutes earlier. 

Turning to Chet and Karen I called out, "should we keep going, or should we turn around?"

With a moment of silence, they call back "let's keep going, we have to almost be there."

Our footpath

We were walking to Wizard's Beach on Bastimentos. A small island off the Caribbean coast of Panama, it has one main sidewalk and about fifty houses on the water. Tucked away amongst the jungle are a few more houses upon the hillside. Cars are non existent so the only way to get around are foot paths or water taxis.

Due to the heavy rains prior to when we arrived, all of the trails turned into  slick, muddy ski slopes. Each successful step came with a sigh of relief that I wasn't face down in the mud. Soon it was so muddy that we had to take off our sandals because they were of no use. Looking around, people seemed to do the same. Soon to be fossilized footprints were everywhere, and abandoned, muddy sandals were left behind to be forgotten by their owners. 

Mud baths

Pausing to wipe the rain and sweat off of my forehead, I look around. The thickest jungle surrounded us. It seemed like one step off of the trail into the jungle would swallow me whole. Looking up into the forest canopy above us, bromeliads, orchids, and ferns hung down as if reaching for the ground. Old knotted trees with the same ancient and majestic look of an oak tree spread out to find the sun. Between the drips of water off of the leaves, exotic birds cried out in the distance.

Continuing on we run into some surfers walking back. Our legs covered in mud, they give us a funny look and say in a quizzical voice, "what are you doing?"

"Going to the beach."

Stepping out of the jungle onto the beach, we walk onto the white sand. The water while not clear at the time is as warm as a bath. Relieved to finally get the mud off our bodies, we look at each other knowing that we have to hike back. 

One of us says, "I'm never doing that hike again." Silently we all agree as we start the hike back out. 

A week and a half later, I now hike out there every other day. Used to the routine, it no longer bothers me. Sometimes I pass other hikers on the trail and I can't help but laugh to myself. They have the same lost and confused look that we had the first time we hiked it. 

Passing a couple on the trail, the girl looks at me with a deadly look and says, "is this beach worth it? Cause if not I'm going to kill him..."

I laugh and say, "yeah its worth it."

A few photos of Wizard's Beach the other day.

Wizard's Beach

The hang out spot

Crystal clear and nobody insight 

Enjoying the sun

Ode to a Machete

As of now I'm currently on a key of islands off the coast of Panama. It's the most jungly, intense tropics I've ever been in. I'll write more about it later. Getting out to these islands is a story in itself...

Most precarious luggage and board stack I've ever seen. Like I said... A story in itself. 

Two months ago:

"You should really think about getting a machete and a file to sharpen it while you're in Central America. It will really come in handy and you can take advantage of the abundance of coconut trees," said Gio.

Yesterday:

Pulling up to the dock in Bocas del Toro is like a scene out of Pirates of the Caribbean. A colonial style town built right over the water with a grimy feel to it. I half expected Captain Jack Sparrow to come walking down the dock and row out to the tall ship moored off the coast. 

Stepping out of the Ponga onto the dock, Chet said, "where do we start?"

"I don't know, let's try the hostels first."

 Chet and I were looking for surfboards. We looked at every hostel in town to see if any guests were selling boards before flying home. Getting tired and sweating profusely in the heat of the day, we eventually stumbled upon some boards that were a good deal. 

Dehydrated, I look up and see a sign that says Ferrerteria - a hardware store. Remembering the recommendation to buy a machete, we walk in out of the blazing heat and humidity. The sweat covering our skin instantly evaporates due to the air conditioning. 

Quickly finding a cheap, small machete, I walk out of the store machete and file in hand for six dollars. Getting home and looking at it, I found that you definitely get what you pay for. Not that it's a bad machete but they basically handed me a piece of steel in the shape of a machete with a handle on it... Getting out my file, I get to work and grind away. A few minutes later the two reclusive people in the room next to us walk by. As usual they smile but don't say hi. I go back to filing. 

An hour or so later they come back and I'm still sharpening my machete. I imagine myself to be Indiana Jones. They probably see me as the crazy guy that's been sharpening the machete in front of their door for the last hour.

I see them holding two coconuts in their hands and as an ice breaker, I tell them they are welcome to use my machete. I mean it's about time they say something, we have been sharing a bathroom and kitchen with them for the last few days...

Seeing that I'm offering my machete, they smile and begin to open up. They thank me and said they will use it in the morning. After a bit more talking I found out the guy is from France and the girlfriend lives in Panama. For them it was enough talking and they head to their room like they usually do.

Glad that the awkwardness was broken in between our groups, I wielded my machete and prep all of the food for dinner. Maybe it was overkill but I enjoyed it. 

This morning:

Waking up early, I walk down to see Chet making coffee. We are quiet because Karen is still sleeping. I look at the coconuts the couple brought back. They were perfect for coconut water.

I have learned that you let the coconut ripen to certain stages for different uses. For coconut water you want a greenish yellow look with a glossy sheen. For the meat, you want more yellow and less green.

Soon afterwards the couple comes out of their room. The girl pointing to the coconuts says something in French. I presume, "do you want coconut water." With the man saying yes, the girl grabs a coconut and asks me in Spanish for the machete. I hand it to her and study her closely. After her knowledge on picking coconuts, I conclude that she is good at opening coconuts. I hope to learn a new technique for opening them. 

She walks over to the edge of the deck and I follow. To my surprise she sets the coconut on the wooden deck and begins to hack on it with half hearted swings. Missing the coconut most of the time she chips away at the deck more than the coconut.  

I move closer and she gives me a look saying "I shouldn't do this here should I?" I send her a mental thought saying "no" and she moves off the deck. Walking down the cement footpath she points to the ground and says "here." She puts it in the dirt and shifts the coconut around a bit. Not liking it in the dirt she moves it to the cement and gets it settled.

To my demise she begins swinging at the coconut on the pavement. Missing half the time, my ears start ringing from the sound of the machete glancing off the cement. 

Woosh!! Thwack!! Contact with the coconut!

Woosh!! Ting!! Machete hits the cement...

After a minute of no progress on the coconut, she looks at the blade unsatisfied with the progress as if asking herself why it's so dull. Not sure I should be scared she's going to lose her hand or that I should be angry for her dulling my machete, I walk back onto the deck. I soon hear the ringing of my machete hitting the pavement. 

Blocking the sound out of my mind, she comes back five minutes later smiling with the open coconut in her hand. Pouring the water into two glasses, they sip their coconut happily as I look at my now dull machete. 

Come to find out she's from Panama City and probably has never used a machete before. 

All I'm left with is a dull machete and no new technique on cracking coconuts. 

Some locals cruising about. The Red Poison Dart Frog. 

Chet's cacao pod

The jungle

Chet and Karen