bote
Well-known member
Im first mate on the good ship Samsara, floating in a postcard off the
Caribean coast of Panama. The Kuna Indians paddle their dugouts close and
show off lobsters, coconuts and embroidered clothes to the bikini clad
Swiss girls and hungover Brits, whom it is my job to entertain when the
caprain is nsnt drunk enough ro do so. He sips grandpas rhum and responds
wearily to queries and demands, another sandwich, where are we going,
until Ive paddled off and found him a fresh pack of smkes from one of the
island huts. A lucky break for me, rhis passage to Colombia, after beating
the docks of Panama, trying to talk my way into dockyards and getting
hostel hostile, seeing too many backpackers in the grips of their
expeditions, 6 months and 5 continents Id hear them say, and in my jaded
way Id see the values theyd probably always held intact and unaffected by
what was after all just a series of purchases, albeit international. Ive
had 4 guns in my face in the past couple weeks, potential seed of
pessimism, but truth be told, those were good adcentures for the most
part. Myself handcuffed in my tighty whities, standing in the NAicaraguan
jungle listening to a police officer, pistol drawn, suspiciously reciting
aloud passages of surrealist poetry from my Andre Brton Spanish
translation, while another officer raids my camp, my belongings strewn
among the leaves disrupting an ant column, oats, mango, dirty socks, and
bewildered camposino stands witness, machete trailing from one muscled arm
and rifle from the other, he kind of looks like an indigenous Charles
Bronson. I lost my soccer shorts then packing in haste, so now I swim in
my underwear, diving from the mast and knocking them right off in the
clear water for the benefit of the passengers and mine as well. I miss
Danielle, the months we spent in our little apartment in Santo Domingo as
Mexico city came into spring and the streets emptied with the outbreak of
influenza, cut us off from the world. There was a festive mood about,
fireworks in the evening air over the Barrio, always a seat on metro.
Danielle is somewherew else now, sharing rhings with other people Id
rather not imagine but do imagine, but the h2n1 will remain ours. I have
love and betrayal and clear azure waters to think about, hanging over the
bow as we cruise the San Blas islands staring at the reef lurking down
there and trying to commit port and starboard to instinct, everything a
little imperfect- the half Burmese swiss girl with bad novels and big
brown eyes requested that we anchor more carefully, as the sun set behind
a small palm covered island, disrupting sun-sinks-into-ocean. I have been
racing through Guatemala listening to Wham! and standing in the predawn
dark of a mountain road, pouring cool water over my head alongside El
Salvadorian truck drivers, I have not been stretching explicitly or
skateboarding or eating much, Ive been walking and keeping my thumb out so
that I forget its even there.
Caribean coast of Panama. The Kuna Indians paddle their dugouts close and
show off lobsters, coconuts and embroidered clothes to the bikini clad
Swiss girls and hungover Brits, whom it is my job to entertain when the
caprain is nsnt drunk enough ro do so. He sips grandpas rhum and responds
wearily to queries and demands, another sandwich, where are we going,
until Ive paddled off and found him a fresh pack of smkes from one of the
island huts. A lucky break for me, rhis passage to Colombia, after beating
the docks of Panama, trying to talk my way into dockyards and getting
hostel hostile, seeing too many backpackers in the grips of their
expeditions, 6 months and 5 continents Id hear them say, and in my jaded
way Id see the values theyd probably always held intact and unaffected by
what was after all just a series of purchases, albeit international. Ive
had 4 guns in my face in the past couple weeks, potential seed of
pessimism, but truth be told, those were good adcentures for the most
part. Myself handcuffed in my tighty whities, standing in the NAicaraguan
jungle listening to a police officer, pistol drawn, suspiciously reciting
aloud passages of surrealist poetry from my Andre Brton Spanish
translation, while another officer raids my camp, my belongings strewn
among the leaves disrupting an ant column, oats, mango, dirty socks, and
bewildered camposino stands witness, machete trailing from one muscled arm
and rifle from the other, he kind of looks like an indigenous Charles
Bronson. I lost my soccer shorts then packing in haste, so now I swim in
my underwear, diving from the mast and knocking them right off in the
clear water for the benefit of the passengers and mine as well. I miss
Danielle, the months we spent in our little apartment in Santo Domingo as
Mexico city came into spring and the streets emptied with the outbreak of
influenza, cut us off from the world. There was a festive mood about,
fireworks in the evening air over the Barrio, always a seat on metro.
Danielle is somewherew else now, sharing rhings with other people Id
rather not imagine but do imagine, but the h2n1 will remain ours. I have
love and betrayal and clear azure waters to think about, hanging over the
bow as we cruise the San Blas islands staring at the reef lurking down
there and trying to commit port and starboard to instinct, everything a
little imperfect- the half Burmese swiss girl with bad novels and big
brown eyes requested that we anchor more carefully, as the sun set behind
a small palm covered island, disrupting sun-sinks-into-ocean. I have been
racing through Guatemala listening to Wham! and standing in the predawn
dark of a mountain road, pouring cool water over my head alongside El
Salvadorian truck drivers, I have not been stretching explicitly or
skateboarding or eating much, Ive been walking and keeping my thumb out so
that I forget its even there.
