Puerto Lindo and the Euro farce

Whilst in Panama City we came to a big decision about the next step of this journey.
Panama, to a degree, represents the end of the road, figuratively and literally; it's the last country in Central America and it's southern state, the Darien Province, is purported to be a lawless wilderness with few settlements, no roads and more ways to prematurely end your days than perhaps anywhere else on the planet.
The guidebook says that 'some travellers have reportedly made it across the Darien Gap by land but the fact is that some have not. Do not attempt this unless you have a death wish'.
Given that we think twice before nipping out of our hotel after dark for a bottle of water we needed no more encouragement to seek an alternative way of getting to Colombia.

There are really only two options as far as we could tell; fly from Panama City to Bogota or charter a yacht from the north coast via the San Blas archipelago to Cartagena in northern Colombia.
It was no contest.
Fly? Pah!

A youth hostel in the city was the place to make tentative reservations for your passage and we paid a small deposit to secure two of nine places on the "Manigua", a boat captained by Jose, a Spaniard.
With sailings only every five to six days it was more a case of selecting the boat that was departing when you wanted to travel as opposed to picking the best boat or more experienced captain.

In the lobby there was an ad for a German crewed boat which offered passage past the Darien Gap to the border and though we had an email conversation with the captain of this vessel we discounted it as not really being best suited to our needs.

With that exciting if slightly tenuous arrangement made, tenuous because we didn't know when Jose would set sail nor how we could contact him, we travelled by train to Colon on Monday morning where we would change for a bus to Puerto Lindo, anticipated departure point of the Manigua, assuming we could locate it and its captain.

The train was expensive but a real treat. We travelled alongside the Panama Canal and through dense jungle making it an utterly unique experience. No briefcases and umbrellas, standing room only or disaffected city types miffed at the latest fares increase on this little beauty, just excited and awe-struck gringos lapping up the free coffee and dodging the rivulets of water seeping through the domed roof of the observation car.

All too soon it was over and we were in Colon, a former colonial jewel but left to rot for nearly 100 years now and, my goodness, does it show.
Hawkers at the station advised we take a cab as the place is dangerous but we didn't really know where we wanted to go so, after a brief and heated exchange, I opted for us to walk.

If you can imagine the seediest and scummiest hell-hole you have ever had the misfortune to clap eyes on then I am sure that would look like heaven on earth compared to Colon.
If it were human it would be the love-child of Myra Hindley and Adolf Hitler and its culinary equivalent would be a mouldy and maggot infested apple.

We walked 400 yards into town marvelling at how anywhere could be quite so run down then spied a McDonalds, hardly Egon Ronay but at least we could get breakfast and then get the hell out of here.
Unfortunately it was closed, it wouldn't open until 1100, in some two and a half hours time, so we stood in silence, looking around for a flash of inspiration or better, to be spirited away somewhere that didn't feel so menacing.

Help arrived in the form of two policemen who, on learning we needed some nosebag, insisted on escorting us to a nearby hotel that had a buffet breakfast offer. Thank goodness they showed up. The streets we walked through were so poor and dirty and awash with the great unwashed that there's no way we'd have done it alone.

Sated in the form of unidentifiable pap and cold scrambled egg we next sought the bus station so I went outside to hail a cab. Quite why the driver was carrying a large wooden dining table in his boot was unknown but it did mean that Kerry was wedged in the back seat along with our four bags for the short journey.

In the first stroke of luck of the day we found our bus straight away and it left within five minutes of our boarding.
Adios Colon you fetid pit of depravity and despair, if I ever see you again it will be a warm day in hell.

90 jiggly minutes later we were in Puerto Lindo and enquiring at the inaccurately named "Hostal Wunderbar" if they had a private room. They did so but rooms built close to a swamp, of bamboo construction and with football sized holes in the walls are more for your hardy twenty something backpacker than your air-con and queen-sized bed loving correspondent so we politely declined and sought somewhere more up our strasse. On the way out of the hostal I asked a couple if they had problems with spiders in their room at night.
"No spiders, but there are lots of crabs on the floor at night".
Decision vindicated, nein danke!

With Puerto Lindo being a tiny place we ended up in the only acceptable accommodation, the extortionately priced "Bambu House" run by a couple of French Canadian travellers called Gen and Sebastien, fresh from their own eight month road trip from Mexico to Panama.
No matter, we're due to sail tomorrow if all works out well so we can handle one night of expensive luxury, we thought.
Oh, did I mention we had to sweat our way up a steep hill to get to the hotel, that the shower was cold and that the electricity was off in the whole town so we had no light, air con or fan?
Hmmmmm.

As we sat in our room wondering how a day which had started with such Panama Canal Railway based excitement had descended into stuffy murk there was a knock at our door preceding our first meeting with someone we would come to spend fully the next ten days with.

It was Arno, a 28 year old French chef from Paris who was spending eight months travelling from Guatemala to Chile with his mate Jerem, an optometrist.
They were trying to get to Colombia by yacht and wondered if we were too.

Ok, before I go on I need to warn you that this is going to get complicated and you'll have to concentrate to ensure you understand what transpired.
If you're the sort of person who watches a film and then turns to the person next to you to ask what just happened then you may as well stop reading at this point.

Arno and Jerem (hereafter collectively known as the Frenchies) had been in Puerto Lindo for a week trying to get passage on an affordable boat to the border. They had finally hung their hat on a German called Jens who was due to sail tomorrow and told us if we would join them then the price would drop by $50 each.
Excitedly I told them that I'd already corresponded with a Jens via email whilst in Panama City but he'd told me he was in El Porvenir in the San Blas.
He may have been then but he was now here and a meeting was arranged for that afternoon to see if we could do a deal after all.

In the meantime the agent we'd reserved with for Jose and the Manigua had emailed us with a telephone number. Helpful. Ish.
We don't have a phone.

Anyway, Jose was on the back burner for now as we made our way to the one restaurant in town, a waterfront place run by the slightly vacant Hans, ex-captain of Cartagena bound boats and his Argentinian wife.

Hans' joint was hilarious.
We were offered a menu but told he had nothing on it.
Asked what he did have he said he'd go to find out but returned ten minutes later to ask us what we wanted.

Here we met with Arndt, Jens' mate, who immediately poured cold water on our expectation to set sail tomorrow with news that Jens had secured a translation job which he must deliver by Wednesday night. Therefore the earliest they could leave would be Thursday.

Thursday? It was Monday afternoon, we had been in town for around two hours and had already seen everything this place had to offer.
I piped up and told Arndt that we were now a foursome and as such we held the cards. If they could not sail tomorrow then we would find another boat that could.
His facial expression told me he didn't like this Englishman trying to force his hand. There was an atmosphere and though we all remained polite and cordial there was strong distrust on both sides.

The Frenchies told us that the fräulein at the Wunderbar knew about boats so we walked back there to see about any other options. Our reception was frosty. Here again were the haughty English who visibly recoiled when shown the crab hut accommodation just two hours ago.

After some superficial pleasantries she made a call to the captain of the Tango, a six berth vessel leaving tomorrow. Last she heard it had two spaces left so we agreed that if that was still the case then the Frenchies should take them.
It was an irrelevant accord as those last two places had gone.

No matter for us, we had Jose to fall back on. Back at the Bambu I borrowed Sebastien's phone and dialled the number I'd been emailed.
A guy answered in Spanish and passed me to someone who spoke a little English:

"Hi, is the Manigua sailing tomorrow?"
"Que?"
"Is Jose's boat, the Manigua, sailing to Cartagena tomorrow?"
"No"
"Oh, we'll when is it going?"
"We don't know"

Exasperated, we sat in the communal area at the Bambu and discussed our options, agreeing that they were evaporating quicker than a raindrop in the Atacama. We began to understand why the Frenchies had been here for a week and began to fear we would too.

Kerry and I toddled off to Hans' to mull our situation over and whilst dining on his quite delicious king prawns we saw a chap looking agitated and apparently looking for someone.
I asked if he was ok and it turned out he was the captain of the Tango and he was two passengers short for his sailing tomorrow.

Oh really? Well, captain David, I may be able to help you out there. We are looking for a boat so maybe we can take their place?
He agreed on the proviso the missing two didn't show up on the last bus and if they did not he would come to the Bambu later and brief us.

Later that evening David came to see us and told us we were in and to report to the dock at 0800 next morning.
This was great news but we were not really prepared. Nevertheless we had to accept, we couldn't stay in Puerto Lindo indefinitely.

An hour later David was back. He'd found his missing people so he was sorry but we were out!

Despondently we turned in for the night only to be roused by a knock at the door. It was Arndt and Jens armed with an offer: sleep on their boat on Wednesday night for free, sail Thursday AM and arrive at the Colombian border on Sunday for $325.
Despite our reservations about just how trustworthy these guys were we struck a deal to include the Frenchies.
We were sorted.

This gave us time to secure provisions so that cold day in hell arrived and we drove to Colon on Tuesday to go to the supermarket with Arno and Sebastien.
It was also an opportunity to withdraw cash to pay for the trip as there was no such facility in Puerto Lindo.
When I tried to do so I got an error message but Kerry was successful so I didn't think too much of it.

When we got back to Puerto Lindo that afternoon we learned that two captains had been to see us with offers; Frank, a Frenchman and...............Jose!
We had lurched again from a choice of one to a choice of three, though of course, had shaken with the Germans.

Frank came back later and spoke eloquently and elegantly about "Amande" and came across as a really nice guy. The only drawback was that his captain was in Panama City until Thursday so we couldn't sail until Friday.
Oh, and we'd shaken with the Germans.

That evening at Hans' we got talking to an English guy called Ed who was here for a boat to Cartagena too.
"Which boat are you on?"
"The Manigua".

This was great news, I could tell I was going to get along with Ed. Originally from Leicestershire, a Leicester City fan, ex of the stock exchange and most recently having spent five years as a banker in Singapore but having given it up to go travelling before opening a business in the UK.
Meeting people like Ed is one of the great joys of travelling.

At last Jose then made an appearance. He was a nice chap and had an absolutely top drawer yacht but couldn't speak one word of English. This worried us because surely to be able to communicate with your passengers is vital on the grounds of safety, not to mention to ensure they get the most out of the trip.
We had lots of questions such as where do we sleep, do you provide life jackets, what sort of food do you provide, do we get to go snorkelling etc so he grabbed Frank to translate.
That Frank did so with good grace when he was vying for our business too said a lot about him and pretty much made our minds up to go with him.

Though we had of course shaken hands with the Germans.

Exhausted by this maelstrom of deals and plot twists we agreed a fee with Frank, for Ed to join us and arranged for Frank to explain the situation to Jose when he returned from wherever he'd just disappeared to.
We would deal with the Germans which we achieved by using that most manly and honourable method of communication; we sent them a text from Arno's phone.

Yes, I know that's pathetic but there were mitigating circumstances. The phone signal in PL was dire so the chances are we would have got cut off mid let-down had we called, we had grave reservations about putting to sea in their 32 ft boat at all and we were still consumed by distrust.
On top of that the Frenchies had spent the day with them on Saturday and had sailed to a nearby island with them before disappearing into the interior. When they returned the Germans had left so our boys were marooned. Seeing a kayak on the shore they stole it and began to paddle back to the mainland but immediately fell under a hail of gunfire. They ran for their lives into the jungle and hid out all night before swimming for 90 minutes back to the mainland at sunrise.
This is a true story and a big factor in our ability to renege.

Wednesday morning was a horror show.
Jose arrived at 0800 spitting Spanish barbs in our direction. He was livid we'd let him down and also that we'd convinced Ed to desert too. It was uncomfortable to be the subject of his ire even though the situation was hardly all of our making.

An hour later Arno and I bumped into Arndt and Jens and spent almost a full hour explaining ourselves, a bum-clenching squirm fest that I have no desire to ever repeat.
To their credit the Germans were magnanimous and merely sought to understand what they could do differently to ensure they keep future custom. Had they been so affable and humble from the off then I don't doubt we'd have sailed with them.

With a day to kill Kerry and I sat at Hans' and had to endure his Argentinian wife laying into us for letting Jose down. I'd had enough of this by this point and left her in no uncertain terms that she should keep her hooter out of our affairs, paid for my piña juice in coppers and boycotted the place thereafter.
This saw us eat dinner that night in a local woman's house having been tipped off by Jerem that she'll cook for you for just $3 per meal providing she has five hours notice.

With all this ill-feeling directed towards us I desperately needed some space and spent all afternoon alone down by the waterfront considering the madness of the past couple of days while Kerry swung in a hammock atop the Bambu.
Also on my mind was why I couldn't get my hands on my cash. Not only would the cash point not pay out but checking my account online told me my account was frozen.

This was the background then to our negotiation of the infamous Darien Gap.
Adventure not dementia? You bet!