Incidents of Travel in Latin America

by Lars Holger Holm

  But this day was not a flight day. The runway seemed more akin to a scene taken straight out of the fantasy television documentary The Earth after Humans. This last vestige of human technology behind us, the track led past a botanical garden that could have used some more... well, gardening. Here and there some buildings could be glimpsed through dense greenery. Horses and donkeys alternated with dogs as our fellow travellers. We arrived at a river bed and continued along its course, having to cross its (luckily) feeble current on several occasions. At one point we came upon two men digging a ditch. Our assumption that they were redirecting the course of the river proved wrong. They were digging for gold, which does exist in some quantities in the river beds, in their deltas and along beaches subject to the undermining effect of the sea provoking landslides, thereby revealing grains of the precious metal in the freshly exposed black sand. The tropical forest was nonetheless hot and humid and it was relieving to finally arrive at the makeshift wooden structures serving as entrance, lodge and ticket booth to the site.

  We came to Heaven with a minimum of expectation. Although experiencing it first hand was not a major deception, let me put it this way all the same: El Cielo is a pleasant piece of aquatic scenery, but it’s not the Niagara. It is no more than a small depression in a hardly water-filled jungle river, dropping some 15 feet over a rocky distance of about 50 feet, at its far end producing a trickle into a natural pond — just big enough to drown a cat in — that with a lot of good will, and at times of intense precipitation, could be defined as a cascade. But he who seeks shall find. At the top of the waterfall another basin filled with water has formed, big enough to allow a few breaststrokes in either direction. After a good walk up the river bed the water is mercifully cool, the light subdued by thick foliage, and the sounds and sights of the surrounding forest enchanting. Spending a small hour wailing in this natural tub was all we really needed to be rejuvenated, even reborn — the songs of birds and monkeys still echoing in memory. After that, drying up, getting dressed and descending towards the village was easy and we arrived there, picking flowers off the airport fence, just as the sun, setting behind the hills, announced nightfall in an hour.

  At the latitudinal level of Capurganá, the predominating northeasterly trade wind at this time of the year sends squalls and waves straight from the Caribbean Sea. From this location — close to the Cabo Tiburón, Colombia’s last rocky outpost before Panama, the coast of which runs in an east-western direction for miles to come — the sea is wide open all across to the distant leeward islands, to Jamaica, Cuba, Santo Domingo and Puerto Rico. Because of all the reefs dotting the coast, making the entrance to its bays hazardous, the sea is choppy and infested with treacherous currents. This also makes swimming risky. A small stretch of the beach in Capurganá does allow for it though, and this is where we went one day when it pleased the clouds to spread its curtain wide enough to let through the glorious sun.

  8Allegedly a young American woman visiting Capurganá actually was run over and killed on the spot by a landing plane. Assuming she could jog freely on the runway — just like back home along the beach of Santa Monica, with a headset distributing her favourite music — she had turned literally blind and deaf to the lethal danger approaching from behind.

  A trip to Panamá

  Some days, of what was still supposed to be regional summer, were dominated by rains and massively grey skies. We consequently seized the occasion to do outings whenever the weather appeared at its most promising. Beyond the ridge delimiting Capurganá to the northwest lays a bay with a small settlement by the name of Sapzurro. One early afternoon we set out for it, carrying enough water to survive a couple of hours in the heavy humidity, only to soon find ourselves embarking on a steep hill. Halfway into the ordeal we ran across Nelson and his co-workers, responsible for the preservation of the eco-system and even, believe it or not, for the cultivation of fruit and vegetables. There were, according to Nelson, just in the limited dominion he was administrating some 8,000 avocado trees, carrying an average of 100 avocados each. That would make a yearly yield of 800,000 avocados, but none of the villagers seemed to be interested in harvesting them, so chances were that the fruit would just hang there until falling from its branch and returning to dust. Nelson, nonetheless, was happy with his job and assured us it was a good and worthwhile thing. We agreed and paid the suggested amount of pesos for the maintenance of the site and its arduous path.

  Rested and ready to take on the final challenge of mounting the summit we bravely continued and 20 minutes later found ourselves panting on top of the ridge from which the bay of Sapzurro and that of Capurganá could be overlooked simultaneously. But we weren’t all alone. From practically every branch, some of which obstructed the path, a multitude of three-inch black and sinister looking spiders — of the kind you wouldn’t like to go to bed with — were suspended in their webs. I took the precaution to avail myself of a stick and to beat the branches in front of us as we were advancing to make sure there were no spiders ready to slip down the most invitingly moist cleavage of my Lady. To be honest: I wouldn’t have felt too happy having one of them crawling down my chest either!

  As though that wasn’t enough a choir of howler monkeys began to call from some trees in the valley, instantly freezing our blood to ice during the most intense heat of the day. Luckily there were also fabulously coloured flowers, fruit and butterflies to divert our interest and as we were now rapidly descending, having left Capurganá out of sight, the tranquil horseshoe bay of Sapzurro, flanked by a wilderness that hasn’t changed much over the last 10,000 years, lay before our eyes. Coming there is like entering a naturally circumscribed arena, contained within and yet distinctly apart from the rest of the world. We walked the perimetre of the bay, admiring the forms and contours of the surrounding selva. Coming back from a refreshing swim in the innermost corner of the bay we ran across Cecilia while looking for accommodation for the night — it had been our plan all along not to return to Capurganá that same afternoon.

  Cecilia is a native of Medellín, but has spent most of her ceaselessly active adult life in Sapzurro where she sells homemade ice cream to the stray tourist when not busy in her garden, or somebody else’s, cooking, cleaning, or running a thousand errands motivated by her concern for everybody. She also has a small cabana to rent out on her intimate property, the houses of which are painted in Caribbean red and white and surrounded by a neat garden. Cecilia was very sweet and caring and brought us coffee, and fresh fish for dinner, as well as breakfast in the morning. She liked to communicate and was eager to share her opinions with us. Shortly before nightfall she once again passed by the terrace of our cabana to pick up the empty coffee thermos. I mentioned how impressive the selva seemed to me, and she looked up with a tranquil smile on her face, seeing it just as I did in that moment, enveloped in the last, rapidly fading hues of the day, and she pensively completed the sentence forming in my mind: ‘…with its mysteries and unfathomable secrets.’

  Next morning we had but one thing on our minds, and that was to take Asíle on her first trip ever abroad. It might sound like a complicated manoeuver. In reality it was a piece of cake. Panama is at as convenient a distance as distances ever come in this country, meaning there will always be a hill to overcome. This one proved to be moderate and the two sheds on top of it, surrounded by their sand bags for gunfire protection, housed the local Colombian and Panamanian immigration and customs offices. The Colombian military official did go through our bag and then sent us on to his colleague on the other side of the border, seven metres away. The stocky Panamanian in charge of visits to his country just took a good look at us, me in particular I felt, and then waved us on. We were now, as though transported by a magic wand, in Panamá.

  At first the only noticeable difference between the two sides was that Sapzurro is as beautiful as La Miel is ugly. But that turned out to be a superficial observation. The more artistic truth is that
La Miel is as mercilessly exposed to the fury of the sea as Sapzurro is protected from it. And some houses only appear to be abandoned because they lack a roof. In reality they’re full of inhabitants who don’t seem to consider this too much of an inconvenience. The northeastern trade wind blows half a gale, having crossed the better part of the Caribbean Sea before landfall. Here, precisely here, we were out of the Gulf of Urabá and on our own. Surely there are some villages or even small towns further up the Panamanian coast, but from this vantage point the farthest thing the naked eye can see is unlimited expanses of green jungle and a coffee-coloured ocean. Nonetheless, this is where Adam and God meet in the sky, this is where two of the Latin American states most implicated in the drugs and arms trade of their respective continents meet and shake hands. This is where North America becomes South America, and vice versa, although the most apparent dividing line, for commercial and geographic convenience, is the one drawn by the Panamá Canal.

  We were soon to see concrete evidence of how close at hand this whole business was. On the pier in the village’s slightly more sheltered Playa Blanca, where smaller ships and their cargo can actually be received, four 300 HP Yamaha outboard motors, unopened, in their original packaging straight from Japan, cleared through customs in Miami, had ended their journey as possible evidence of criminal activity. The policeman who showed us around said there was an ongoing investigation and that the primary reason the Colombian person showing up in this free trade zone had been denied the right to collect the goods, was that the number of the ID he presented did not correspond with its associate name. This means the Panamanians must have asked their Colombian colleagues for assistance in establishing identity. And with good reason. The cargo was decidedly suspicious. The police lancias too have a battery of four engines mounted to their aft. But they are only 200 HP each. Four 300 HP engines, totalling 400 HP more than that of any police speedboat, would make a lancia running illegal products (provided the sea allows for it) capable of out-speeding a police boat in hot pursuit.

  Strangely, and if I understood the explanation correctly, the man presenting a false Colombian ID had not been detained by authorities on either side. If this is true, I can only speculate about the reasons and your guess is as good as mine. It should be kept in mind, however, that Colombia still has something of a feudal social structure, in which not only a Pablo Escobar was able to thrive, but where a lot of other gran señores are still ruling their dominions as though they were also the ones responsible for the making and maintaining of public order. In other words, it would be practically impossible for an outsider — not to speak of a foreigner — to find out what kind of deals are struck on a daily basis between these rural lords and the national authorities. The four outboard motors might or might not be part of some sort of scheme. Two things remain for sure: those engines had been paid for prior to their arrival at the pier in Panamá, and the person sent to pick them up had not wanted his true identity to be known.

  There were some open beach cafes in Playa Blanca primarily serving loud music. In prolongation of the pier there was also a huge new hangar-like building that hadn’t as yet opened its gates to the public. Its future inauguration, however, promised to be very interesting, judging by a large sign on its front featuring, like a mirage in the desert, the two magic words of free enterprise: Duty Free. The immediate reason for this unexpected intrusion of civilised commodity in the midst of wilderness surely is that Colombian inhabitants of this road less coast benefits from a state-sanctioned free trade agreement with Panamá. In return the Colombian state feels free to disregard these communities in every other respect and provides nothing to further such services as schooling, communications and healthcare in the region.

  We were told this outlet on Panamanian soil would soon be offering everything from electric appliances to hardware goods, household and food items, as well as alcohol at tax free prices. But there is a hitch. The customer will only be allowed to bring an item bought at the Panamanian duty free facility to a few other municipalities in the Colombian Darién. To bring such tax-exempted goods to for example the port of Turbo across the Gulf is illegal. This is one of the reasons why all vessels docking in Turbo — a Hispanic edition of Monrovia, New Guinea, and a new candidate among my earlier top ten contenders for the honorary title ‘The world’s ugliest town’ — has to report its cargo to heavily armed coastal guards, the facial expressions of whom betray little to no tolerance with violators of the law. In fact, these stone-faced guys don’t even make an attempt to point their machine guns away from you while interrogating the captain as to his apparent or hidden intentions.

  But if one lives in Capurganá or its surroundings, this store is definitely going to be an El Dorado, not the least as far as alcohol is concerned. I managed to buy a litre of Grant’s whisky for 35,000 pesos (US $20) in a small liquor store in la Miel. The same bottle (con estampilla) cost 60,000 in Capurganá, almost twice as expensive. To be honest, there seemed to be a little discrepancy in the price marking of the liquors in la Miel. The bottle I eagerly weighed in my hand had in fact two price tags glued to it: one indicating 35, the other 45,000 pesos. I didn’t want the salesman to get confused over this, so I discreetly scratched off the superfluous tag with my fingernail, subsequently exiting the candy store as happy as a child.

  A staircase in concrete meanders down from the border control (on the Colombian side there are only makeshift wooden steps to facilitate ascent-descent), to eastern Panama’s first urban agglomeration. It’s not very beautiful but definitely offers easier access than its equivalent on the opposite side. At the end of this stair a straight road takes one past roofless homes to a simple solitary cross stuck in the ground right in front of the foaming rocks of the roaring ocean. It rather looks like an illustration to one of Cortez’ diaries: ‘... and there, wrecked by the sea but miraculously still alive, we planted the Santa Cruz, for us to show gratitude to our Lord Jesus, who perished on the cross to redeem us from all sins, and to celebrate the splendours of King and Country and, last but not least, to remind the wretched Indians that we would continue to disembowel their pregnant women as long as they tried to commit suicide in order to avoid having to work.’ In harmony with such solemn sermon Asíle threw herself onto the cross, her arms stretched out in the manner of the crucified, and, even more interestingly, offering her naked chest up to my avid regards — there are indeed photographic evidence of the blasphemous event. This was the moment I realised that Asíle was quite my match: she obviously was nuts too! I’ve told her many times since that she’s a loca, but she insists that’s not something inherent in her nature, but that I make her that way. A comment which in turn struck a familiar chord of eternal and irredeemable guilt, resounding since times immemorial (or at least since that of Luther) in my Protestant soul. Remember: Adam was modelled from clay or something similar, but Eve was formed from his rib once his body existed. By female logic he forcibly therefore is responsible for her being the way she is, and even for the serpent being irresistible…

  That concluded our trip to and Asíle’s first visit to a country outside her own. As we mounted the staircase leading us back to Colombia, we expected having to show our passports again, possibly even to declare my merchandise (at this point in time I was still unaware of the free trade agreement). But we met with the stocky official — more like a solid cube of flesh and bone really — in the stairs. He was descending to finally enjoy his lunch, and although there was someone up there to replace him, it proved to be a guy of the same age and general temperament as his Colombian counterpart. At this time they no longer cared to uphold the idea of separate border controls and had joined forces in the Panamanian boot. As we passed in front of them they cheered, waving us on to new adventures while laughingly continuing to entertain each other.

  We found Cecilia at her post in the harbour, but the day had been slow with few tourists interested in homemade ice cream. That hadn’t tainted her good spi
rits though, and she was just as eager as ever to share news with us. Meanwhile I bought some refreshments from the local salesman and managed to forget my small plastic bag containing several hundred thousand pesos on its counter. We were just about to enter the scaringly narrow lancia headed for Capurganá, when I realised I must have lost my cash. Retracing my last steps I arrived at the shop. The owner made no attempt to conceal the truth, but I have to admit his strategy was watertight. Instead of holding onto the small transparent plastic bag to see if I would return — possibly accusing him of theft or at least for knowingly having withheld the money — he pretended he never realised it contained any money, and had thrown the bag into the garbage can below the counter. But Asíle, by Colombian instinct, quickly refreshed his memory and the plastic bag mysteriously surfaced again out of an indistinct heap of banana peels, juice containers and cardboard. All the money was in there, and although I realised the guy was only waiting for me to disappear beyond the horizon, I still gave him a bill for ‘helping’ me to recoup the lost money. It was a piece of theatre, but well worth it. I could have lost very much more. It’s even most surprising that the man didn’t categorically deny having seen the bag, which he very well may have done. But I do believe Asíle’s hypnotically big eyes, scrutinising his, tipped the balance in my favour.

  The lancia didn’t depart as immediately as we had been led to believe. First its captain took his sweet time to refill gas at the gas station, the pump of which had to be fixed before we could get to its essence. Then he swung around the bay in the hope of picking up further passengers, allowing us to once again admire the formidable jungle adorning the mountain slopes. But then the engine rocked and we headed straight for the waves, that we, gracias a Díos, only had to meet head-on for the shortest time, as the boat then turned southwards, waves subsequently rolling in on the aft.