Peenie Wallie

December 6, 2017
Meircoles (Wednesday)

In the morning, I say goodbye to my luxurious hotel, and roll out of town. Now, I think I should have just got on the highway right there at the hotel, but somehow, Waze routes me south, down through the Tocumen Airport, but in a way, I'm glad it did because, I immediately remembered where the Cargo Terminal was (when I drove by it). I was like...YES! YES! I remember! It really feels good to remember something because, as I get older, it seems to get harder and harder to remember things.

Eventually, Waze routes me through the city of Tocument, and back onto the Panamerican Highway. There's a lot of construction, but somehow, I make it through and, as I get on the highway, heading east, I pass through the slums that comprise eastern Panama City. Yesterday, I passed through a slum on the west side of the city, but it was nothing like this. This is 3rd world tin shacks on the side of the road. Like...people surviving by....well...I'm not sure really what they do to stay alive, but let's just say they live close to the earth.

Once I'm going at highway speed, I start to cool down. I sort of ride with my arms just so that the air blows into my motorcycle jacket through the arm-cuffs and inflates the whole jacket like a baloon. The old "2-60 air conditioning" trick.

Then, as I get east of the city, the road is really nice and smooth, and it dawns on me that finally, after 6,000 miles and 3 weeks on the road, I've finally come to a point where I've ridden my bike further than I ever have before, at least in this direction. Finally, I'm breaking new ground.

For some reason, this triggers some pretty strong adrenaline rush, and I start feeling like I'm on meth, so I pull over and stop for a minute to calm down.

But the countryside is beautiful. And there's not a lot of traffic on the two-lane black-topped road.

I come to a police checkpoint, and he asks to see my passport. Asks me where I'm going. I tell him I'm going to Yaviza, Darien.

On the way there, I cross over a bridge where, god as my witness, they're using dug-out canoes on a river, like Mutual of Omaha or National Geographic. Never seen anything like this before.

At first, the road is nice and smooth. But then, it got really bad there for a while. And then, it started to rain. I'm dodging lots of birds today. I went through a flock of...vultures...I think? And I ducked and didn't hit anything, but it scared the hell out of me and I had my gopro running this morning. So, hopefully, I got it on GoPro.

I don't like riding in the rain. It's mui peligrosa. So, I stop for lunch when I come to a tiny little town with one restaurant. The ciudad es
La Ocho de Canaza and the restaurant is the Bar Parrillada Lidia. The waitress says it's 2-3 more hours to the Darien. The road is better from here, she claims.

The dogs come in off the street (pero calle), and I toss them all of the remnants of my chicken.

The waitress comes around and shoes them off,

She says the meal is, "Cinco cinquenta". So, I give her $6.00, and she gives me $0.50 in change.

So, sinquenta must be "fifty".

$5.50.

Which seems like a lot in a third world country in Central America. It's way more than I'm used to paying, for chicken, rice, beans, and a grilled banana with a CocaCola.

====================

So, sure enough, the PanAmerican Highway gets better for like the last 50 miles. So, I'd say that, when you leave Panama City, the PanAmerican Highway is really nice for about 30 miles. Then it sucks for about 50 miles. Then it's really good for about 50 miles. Something like that, it seems.

So, finally, I roll into the town of Yaviza, Panama. I roll into town as always, completely disoriented, at first. But then, as I come into town, I see a river with hand-mand dugout canoes that they're loading up for voyages up and down the river. I've found my home. I immediately park the bike and race to the shores, shooting like mad as the insanity unfolds before me. These people are packing up 30 foot long wooden dugout canoes with supplies, people, plantains...you name it.

I make my way down to the banks of the river, shooting like a maniac. I'm shooting everything I see. They're packing the canoes with everything imaginable....men, women, children, supplies. plantains....I can hardly even believe my luck. It's like someone dialed the calendars back to pre-civil war. The only thing that betrays that we're post civil-war period is the gas-powered outboard motors.

I blow through something like a thousand frames over the next 20 minutes. Oddly, the National Guard (or the army...I'm not clear which) appears to be everywhere. They're wearing fatigues and camo. Toting AR-15's and M-16 machine guns. One of them asks me for my passport, which I promptly provide him with. Only much later do I grasp what is going on. This is a designated port. The port of Yaviza, Panama. And the military appears to be in control of the port, which really comes as no surprise.

I end up talking to a few of the soldiers. They're riding 200cc thumper Suzuki's....2 strokes, if I understood them correctly.

Of course, I immediately fall in love with the place. This place makes Tijuana look like Paris or New York City.

The soldiers are guarding the port of Yaviza, Panama, which (now that I step back and get a good look at the place), is surrounded by a 12 foot tall fence topped with razor wire. How I missed that it's a designated port under control of the military is anyone's guess. But, I think because I saw a road that went down to the port, I just rolled my Honda Africa Twin down there like I owned the place, not realizing that I was, in fact, entering the port of Yaviza, Panama. So that's why the guy asked for my passport and everyone was carrying machine guns. How is it I've never heard of this place? Why has no one ever told me about this place? OK...granted, it's not exactly Disney World, but where's the Trip Advisor on Third World Countries. All I need is a cervesa and a place to crash for the night and I'm Gonzo.

One of the guys points to a hotel, and I go to check in, but the owner is not there. Lots of stray children parade through the squalor of the streets.

People start yelling for her, and she emerges from some cinder-block prison next door.

After I check in, I ask the National Guardsmen where to eat dinner, and they point across the street.

For part of the day, I was cool as I rolled down the PanAmerican Highway. Now, however, the heat wave has returned and I'm roasting in this town. I checked into my hotel and turned the airconditioning on like 17 degrees Celsius.

But they have no drinks, so walk next door to the grocery store. It has some drinks in a refrigerator, but the door is open. Grab a few drinks. Return next door. Order pollo frio con arroza.

Her son brings me a plate of friend chicken, rice, and coleslaw, and says, "Al-goe-mas". I have no idea what that means, so I dismiss him. It's cruel for me to be here trying to talk to these people when I don't even know their language. No one with a brain would even try this.

Now, someone comes up to the fence around the restaurant, and starts speaking to me in English. I pretend not to understand him.

"No comprendo, amigo. Hablas Espanol." I state flatly. Like...I'm not down here to practice my English. Honestly. I'm not.

"You can speak to me in English," he says.

Like...nothing makes me madder than someone telling me what language to speak in. How about you go fuck yourself. And the horse you rode in on. I'll speak in whatever language I choose, thank you.

"It's not safe here at night," he says.

Like...this is the second thing I hate most. Is people telling me how I need to live my life. I've ridden alone through every country in North and Central America twice, and I made it just fine without the advice of idiots like you. So, how about you keep walking.

And I turn around and return to my meal.

Now, I start to think about my sign. Where is the sign that says "This is the end of the Pan-American Highway"? I think I've seen one on the internet. I'm pretty sure I have. But, I ask my buddy Paris and he walks me about 100 yards to the edge of town and shows me the sign. It's roughly the same, but not the same one I think I've seen before. It's all good. I'm so happy I found this place. So glad to know that it's here. I'll get a shot with the sign in the morning.

But even my buddy Paris says that, outside of town, it's not safe at night. He points off into the jungles. (My sense of direction is not good here. He was pointing North, if I'm not mistaken.)

I'm just like..."Comprendo. Gracias."

I walk back to the restaurant, where I've left my MacBook Air and 2 cameras unattended at my dinner table. I can't even finish my dinner. I never eat 2 meals a day. I don't know what I was thinking.

I go next door again for more drinks. I got 2 drinks each time. It was roughly $2.00 each time, I think. So we'll say 4 drinks for $4.00.

I try to pay for my meal ($4.00 USD) with a $20.00 bill. The young boy goes next door to try to get change from the store. This whole trip is surreal. Like a freaking Dr. Seuss book too absurd to make the cut. Left on the cutting room floor.

He returns with $16.00 change. I tip him a dollar.

At dusk (6:00 p.m.), a truck pulls up and all of the National Guard/soldiers climb into the back of the truck and roll away.

I try to imagine what this place will be like in the morning. I want to be here in the morning when the fishermen go out in their boats.

I look around the restaurant for a final time before I leave. It's a thatched roof dining room that opens onto the main street through town, that has more people walking than driving at any given moment. I wonder where they go in those boats, and if they'd take me up or down the river for a ride.

I don't know why I've never been here before. I think that, I need to blame my friends. They're all talking about Belize and Costa Rica and Italy. I need to find someone that says, "You mean you've never been to Yaviza? We've got to go, man. Get your cameras. Let's roll!"

Observations:

I'm so glad to be back on USD there aren't words. I'm breaking as many bills as possible before I get out of the country.

I rode all day today, about 4-5 hours, and about half the day, it would spit on me like it wanted to rain, which is somewhat scary. Like...if it starts raining cats and dogs, and you're between towns in the middle of nowhere on the PanAmerican Highway, it can be very dangerous, especially if you're on a section full of potholes. Fortunately, all it did was spit rain on me (very lightly) about 1/2 of the day. I never really got wet, per se. I just lean over the handlebars and put my chin on the gas tank to get down below the windshield.

But, the road is very dangerous, just because it's so wild. There is construction all over it, you're dodging these huge vultures, also dogs, goats, chickens, rocks. Basically 3rd world conditions, in spades.

I'm reasonably sure that I'll get up in the morning, get my photo taken at the sign outside of town, and just take off from this place. But part of me wants to get in one of those dugout canoes and go up for down river to see what's up. But, even if I don't get in a boat, I'm really glad that I sort of stumbled into this place. Like...it's really, really like going back in time a few hundred years. Makes Honduras look like a modern country.