Mountains and More Mountains

The drive from Medellin was a marathon and we made it to Cali, with Jim at the wheel for 11 hours.  Leaving Medellin, we climbed on slow, winding roads for hours behind dozens and dozens of very slow freight trucks and busses.  The mountains of Colombia are gorgeous and never seem to end; our speed averages about 35-40 mph, and our driving skills are challenged passing the trucks around hair pin curves in the driving rain.  

Although I have flown into Cali several times, I have not spent any time in the City.   St. Maria, our GPS, did a fine job of guiding us into the City directly to the hotel about 10 pm. Cali is not what you would call an attractive city, so the following morning we did not spend any time looking around.  I'm sure it has it's attractions, but they sure weren't apparent to us.  As we were loading the Little Red Truck (LRT) in front of the  hotel, we were approached by a gentleman, looking very local, carrying a bunch of mops and brooms to sell.  We were about to politely say "no gracias" and turn him away, as we do the hundreds of locals that approach us daily to sell everything from fruit to candy to drinks, etc., but he merely said "wow, Utah plates, did you drive all this way?"  He introduced himself as an American and said he was born and raised in the US , but had been living in Cali the last 14 years.  "A little trouble back home, so here I am", he said.  We interpreted that to mean he skipped the country after trouble with the law, but we were too polite to ask for details.  After a pleasant chat, we sent him on his way with his mops and brooms, and no, we didn't buy.

Today's drive was a complete surprise...our goal was to get close to the border of Ecuador, and we figured it would be a relatively easy, uninteresting drive in the lowlands.  But nooooo, after the first hour, up, up, up we went back, back into the high mountains, with everything that goes with them...eye poping beauty, narrow windy roads, and the endless stream of trucks.  As darkness set in, we reached the town of Pasto, a surprisingly large city of over 300,000 people.  Set at about 9,000 feet in elevation, we are chilled in our sandals and shorts.  For the next two hours, we did our best to act out an old Laurel and Hardy movie by getting lost in Pasto's spaghetti bowl of narrow one way streets, with heavy traffic, and hoards of pedestrians and motorbikes.  It seems that St. Maria, the GPS, does not understand the concept of one-way streets...that means that 50 percent of the time, she is lying to us, and that means trouble driving in a large Colombian metro area at night.  The good news is, the upset Pasto motorists and pedestrians will never see us again.  

We managed to make it to a Pollo Feliz chain restaurant and regroup over a cheap meal, and with wifi service, found the address of a hotel who's address we could punch in to the GPS. Upon leaving, it seemed natural that the course of events would include the LRT not starting, demonstrating the same problem we encountered in Mexico. So, with a pair of two kind security guards, we pushed the vehicle until it started by compression.  Eight minutes and another wrong way drive down a one-way street later, we found a good hotel...sanctuary!  

Once safely in the hotel, I checked my emails, only to find out that I left my passport in Cali, at our previous hotel.  At hearing the news, Jim's deep sigh and silence demonstrated his kindness and restraint after a long, grueling day on the road.  I merely retreated to my room to write this entry and put and end to a long day.

On the Road Again

Jim and I were on the road again after a two day process of getting the truck away from Seaboard, the shipping company, the Port Authority, and Colombian Customs.  Jim did a masterful job of getting the truck on the ship and on its way from Colon, Panama, to Colombia.  We met up in Cartagena and spent the next day playing tourist in this facinating and beautiful city.  Jim had been here for a couple of days by the time I showed up, but seemed to be happy to be the tour guide for me.  We mainly hung out in the historical section, and it is certainly worthy of a longer inspection than we gave it.  

We started the process of retreaving the truck by following our detailed  instructions of where to buy Colombian auto insurance.  Unfortunately, we arrived at the office at 12:05 pm, to witness everyone leaving the building for a 2 hour siesta.  Back at two, we were greeted by female agent at front desk who we were sure to be the sister of the Soup Nazie from Seinfeld.  We succeeded in securing the insurance in spite of our language barrier and our snarky comments under our breath.

Off to the shipping company to claim the Little Red Truck...we had resolved that we would roll with the punches and not get frustrated...yes, were ready to relive the first 20 minutes of Saving Private Ryan with this transaction.  Not to be disappointed, we immediately learned that the shipping payment had not been recieved, and the company could not proceed any further.  But in spite of this setback, we learned that we could start the process with the Customs office.  So, off we went in a taxi to the other side of the bay to see the Colombian officials.  

Not to bore you with the details, but the next day we were able to get the truck and get on the road....stern emails back and forth with the agent, back and forth, back and forth between customs, Port Authority and Seaboard, form after form, over and over again, taxi after taxi ride...more fees paid...

Entering the truck, we discvered that the cab had been ransacked, likely by the stiffs that put it in the container in Colon, Panama...leatherman gone, a mall amount of cash gone, some tools gone...papers strewn about...but our Dashboard Jesus prevailed, greeting us upon our entry.

But as with most tragedies, there is always someone who has it worse...two other chaps, an Argentine, and a Canadian, who shipped their autos with us were burgled much worse...the interiors of their rigs were ransacked.

We licked our wounds and hit the road by 1 pm with high expectations.  Finally south of town we bid farewell to Sir Francis Drake, Blackbeard, and what was left of the Spanish treasure fleet and happily entered rural Norther Colombia.  Our happy mood quickly changed to dispair when we encountered the beginnings of an all day/night Latin American style protest...frustrated local youths ignighting tires and lumber in the middle of the road, blocking traffic in all directions.  Three minutes earlier, we would have been in the clear!  The cops and the army came, but seemed uninterested in restoring order...they were intent on just letting the masses have their say and their fun, while not letting things get violent. 

We were force to turn around and retreat to a cheap truckstop style motel ( for 20 bucks), where we opened a bottle of wine and licked our wounds, celebrated our victories, and resolved that tomorrow would be a better day. Unfortunately, no WiFi, our lifeline.

Tomorrow turned out to be a 13 hour epic drive  of 300 miles to Medellin,  winding from sea level to 9,000 feet, displaying driving and navigationsal skills neither of us knew we had.  Finally, in Medellin, lost , tired and frustrated, we hired a taxi driver to just take us to a decent hotel, with the Little Red Truck Following behind.

From the Sky to the Beach

It's Feb 22nd, and Im about ready to head to the airport, about one hours drive up on a plateau above Medellin.  Last night, we were delivered back to town, driving through a huge thunderstorm through the mountains.  Driving in this country is a terrifying  and this drive was no exception.  Driving rain, steep, winding road with dozens and dozens of diesel trucks inching up the road, with Rubin impatiently passing on blind curves.  At times, we encounter a diesel on the blind curve, and sometimes are forced to take the curve sandwiched in between the two trucks with inches seperating us on both sides.  Rubin smiles and takes these close calls in stride as routine maneuvers. Chris, one of the Canadians and I are in the back of the van, with plastic cups held high, collecting the streams of water pouring through holes in the roof of the van.  

Once back at the hostel, gratefully alive, it was time to pay off the bet I had with the Canucks on the USA/Canada Olympic Hockey game.  After being gathered up after the last flight near La Pintada, we were able to catch the last minute of the game via live internet at the open air restaurant with wifi.  The game meant much more to them than it did to me, and I was happy to pay off the bet with a few beers.  The Canucks are off to Cartagena today too, for a week of sailboard lessons before they meet more Canadian buddies for another paragliding tour of central Colombia.  They are a good bunch of guys, and we part with the idea of me heading up to BC and Alberta to fly in their neighborhood in the future.

My last night in Medellin was not a pleasant one.  I got stuck in a full 10 bed dorm room with with Euros of 20something vintage.  Due to a hip injury sustained on my last landing, I could barely climb the ladder of the top bunk...no air, loud music, guys streamin in and out...our neighborhood is Party City.  Nothing left to do, but slam home a sleeping pill and get through the night thinking that someone of my age should not have to do this,  but sadely, there were no other options tonight.

All in all, the break paragliding in Colombia was a good and satisfying experience.  Jim has been going through difficulty with the truck shipping arrangements, and is now in Cartagena waiting for the truck and me to arrive.  As he says in his emails, shipping a truck has been very frustrating and everyone seems to make it a much harder experiencethan it needs to be.  The consensus of those I speak to, it's because no one reall gives a sh#* (cares).  I hope Jim is in a good mood when I arrive...I am.  I seem to have reached reached an equilibrium, where I am comfortable with my surroundings and conditions...and everything that comes with low budget Latin American land travel.

  Damasco, a 270 year old villiage high in the mountains, established by the spanish to exploit locals for gold mining.

Tour de Colombia

By now, Jim is back in Panama City after a well earned and hopefully satisfying "vacation" back home in cold and snowy Richmond, Utah.  He, at this moment, is no doubt is up to his elbows in bureaucracy attempting to get the Little Red Truck in a shipping container and on it's way to Cartagena, Colombia.

I, on the other hand, am in a finca in Santa Fe Antioquia, Colombia, a charming colonial town established by Spaniards too long ago for anyone to relate to.  I'm the odd man out in a group of four Western Canadians that, true to their

caricature, say, "eh?" at the end of most sentences.  They are old friends of 20+ years, and are having a great time with each other.  Most of their conversations are about mutual associations and experiences, and inside jokes, which I am not a part of.  They do treat me well, and are as hospitable as they can be toward an American that crashed their party.

We are on a five day tour of paragliding sites within a three hour auto radius of Medellin, and I must say, the flying has been interesting and spectacular.  Some observations and thoughts:

-I've experienced what it is like to be in the air in a gust front of a thunderstorm, trying to land.  Thankfully, all turned out safe and sound, using a cool head and some luck.

-I'm learning, or relearning, the pricncilples of patience, and focus, as conditions in the air change and I am forced to adapt and make the correct decisions to remain safe.

-The Colombian people are generous and kind.  Today, I sank out half way to the landing zone and had to make an unexpected landing on a steep semi-forested mountainside.  A local flyer saw me, and voluntarily landed on top of the ridge above to tell me there was a launch just up the hill from me that would allow me a second flight to town, rather than a long walk down the mountain.  

-Colombia, because of it's drug history, gets a bad rap.  This country has treated be well, and is beautiful.

-Although I do miss my home and my loving family, I am thrilled to be here, and I feel alive and exhilarated.

The first photo is by me in flight.  Spectacular waterfalls, eh?  The second is from launch overlooking the town of  Cocorna, with a soccer field the landing zone.

Who'll Stop the Rain

Two days of rain have put a halt to paragliding bliss in Medellin, and I have been forced to find more history, culture, and amusement in the City while I wait for a change in the weather.  I have arranged to join a paragliding group of four Americans guided by Rubin Montoya, a prominant pioneer of paragliding in the area.  They leave Monday for a 5 or 6 day itinerary in North Central Colombia that include sites that have world-class cross country flying potential...too bad I'm not a world class cross country flyer.  This schedule requires me to hang around in this area for a few more days, rather than move on to Bucaramonga to another flying site; but the wait will be worth it.

The rain allowed me the time to get a haircut, in an effort to become more aerodynamic.  The usual game of Charades allowed the two of us to communicate, and "Raul the Butcher" did his best.  Alas, I still look like an old Gringo...with freshly trimmed eyebrows, I might add.

I set out today to take the Metro to both spurs that transform the train to aerial trams.  The City Planners were wise enough to realize that a metro train running through the middle of the City did little to help the poor who reside on the steep mountains on both sides of the City.  So they extended the public transportation system to include aerial trams that can deliver the people to the other forms of public transportation in the valley...brilliant!

What a delight to find that as I arrived at the top of the mountain where the urban development ended, a new continuation of the tram as been completed that can take one another mile or so over the mountain and through dense highland jungle to Parque Arvi, a national park of about 10,000 hectres (20 acres in a hectre?) .  Lush and beautiful, this natural area is a jewel.  Consistent with my luck, as I embarked on a exploratory hike, it started to rain bucketfuls, and killed all my fantacies of discovering lost civilizations and fighting wild animals with sticks.

The rest of the afternoon was spent riding every inch of the Metro and the other tram, just to say that I have done it.  

Second Verse, Same As The First

The goal today was to go back to San Felix, and once I figured it out, the 2 hour foot, Metro, and bus trip was a snap.  Knowing it was Monday, I figured the crowds to be low, but was surprised to see only one other dude there...we had the place all to ourselves.  So, sitting on the grass, we engaged in a pantomime conversation about the weather and flying conditions...a lot of pointing to the sky, waiving arms and our respective babbling, which neither of us could understand.  Im going to be great at Charades after this trip. In the end, we communicated.  Translation:  We should have been here earlier, watch that line of cumulonimbus clouds heading our way, if it doesn't rain, the shade will kill the thermals, so lets wait it out.  Two hours and a nap later, I awoke to see the Colombian setting up for launch.  Being the less than assertive pilot I am, I watched him go first.  But in the end I had a satisfying, if not smug smile on my face as I outclimbed him by 1000 feet.

Medellin, Colombia

Early Saturday morning, we made our way to the airport...Jim dropped me at the curb with my paraglider and a bag of clothes.  He was to fly out to SLC later that morning, leaving the car until he returns to Panama City Feb16th, after his reunion back home with Marcie, family, and friends...lots of work to do as well on the basement finishing project, he says to me.

The flight to Medellin, Colombia was short, sweet, and expensive.  Determined to find my way to the hotel via public transportation and avoid a $50 cab fare, I got to within a quarter mile of the destination after bus and city metro connections.  I walked aimlessly for 45 minutes through the vortex of upscale high rise condos and office buildings looking for the hotel but Medellin has no rhyme or reason to its city layout.  It's easy to notice a lost and bewildered gringo, and that's exactly what a very nice young couple did as they pulled up beside me in their Honda Accord.  They looked at my notes and offered to drive me there, going out of their way.  I must have stored up some karma sometime, but I cashed it in there and the Familia del Cielo saved the day.

I spent the day walking until I was exhausted in this beautiful and facinating city of several million people. It is relatively long and narrow, sandwiched between two mountain ranges, the northern portion of the Andes. My hotel is in a quiet and peaceful side street but there is really no convenient retail outlets or restaurants near.  Later that evening, I set out to find sustinance, and walked for an hour, only found one pizza joint.  Having eaten nothing all day, I was desperate and reluctantly settled for the Colombian equivalent of Chucky Cheese.  Picture this:  a 61 year old man, sittling alone in Chucko Cheeseo, with about 50 kids (half a dozen bithday parties) eating pizza playing on trampolines and various kiddy things, with mostly mothers and a few bored fathers...all staring at me.  I'm lucky they didn't call the vice squad or launch a preemptive asault on the old man in the corner.

This morning, I made the arduous trek to the closest paragliding site to the city, a trip of about two hours via Metro and bus.  San Felix is high above the northern end of the valley, just outside of the city limits of Medellin.  I had made contact with Marlin via the internet who works for a paragliding company and he mentioned that he would be at San Felix and would watch for me.  Luckily, he found me and dly gave me a briefing on the conditions and idiosycracies of the takeoff.  Wow, what a wonderful flight I had, about two hours in the air, with gentle and abundant thermals to keep me aloft.  I flew until I was tired and cold, and performed a less than graceful top landing at the end.  Enjoying refreshment at the outdoor cantina overlooking the takeoff, I felt a sence of total relaxation and contentment for the first time of the trip.

I think I'll hire Marlin to guide me to a few other sites within a reasonable distance from Medellin, especially to Sopetran, where I have had wonderful flying the last two trips to Colombia.

My "Chucky Cheese" Close Call

San Felix

Half Time

A full day in Panama City arranging the shipping of the truck to Colombia.  Ships leaves every Saturday or Sunday, and unfortunately, we missed the opportunity to depart this week.  Shipping the truck is a frustrating multi-level process that starts in Panama City, departs in Colon, on the Caribbean side of the country, and ends in Cartegenia,Colombia.   The process starts on a Monday, for a Thursday delivery of the truck at the dock to load into the container for a Saturday or Sunday sailing.  The boat trip takes about 3-4 days and we cannot travel on the boat with with the truck.  So, it requires a flight to Cartagena, Colombia, to meet the boat.  Two days of bureaucracy later, if all goes well, we will be on the road again...theoretically.  It's an expensive endeavor, and one can save money if another vehicle is sharing a 40 foot container.  We have no one to share the container with thus far but we are hopeful the agent can find one for us.  Nevertheless, it costs about as much to ship the vehicle as it does to buy an airline ticket to Europe.  So, we were faced with the problem of killing three days in Panama until we started the process.  After much deliberation, we came up with Plan B.  We are scheduling the transport for the following week...Jim will fly home for a week, while I hop down to Medellin, Colombia for a week or so of paragliding.  Jim will then return to Panama City to see the truck onto the ship, while I will make my way to Cartagena to meet him when it pulls up in the port.  We should be on the road on the Pan Am Highway by February 23rd...theoretically.

Banana Republic-Not Just a Place to Buy Clothes

Heading out with a feeling optimism to the border of Panama this morning, just a few miles down the road.  Viewing dozens of green parakeets in the trees just off the deck of the room as we left put me in a good mood.  As we made our way to the remote crossing, I thought of how satisfying it would be to our wives, and the entire female gender for that matter, for them to see two grown men stop numerous times to ask total strangers for driving directions.  St. Maria, our GPS, is not always trustworthy in the rural countryside, and road signs in the outback are nonexistent.  We soon found ourselves at what looked like a border...a small green building with a flag and soldier in camo standing out front.  Of course, he didn't think we could see him in that outfit, and we played along until he revealed himself.  He looked bewildered when we asked him if this was the border immigration office...where is customs?       Where do we get our passports stamped? I used my trusty iPad translator APP to spit out a couple of pertinent sentences, but he was still confused.  Just then, a taxi pulled up and luckily the driver spoke english. He invited us to follow him down a windy mountain road and around to the  right crossing about 4KM away.  

There, we found ourselves fussing about a potentially sticky situation.  We'd already crossed the border up the road, and were approaching the gate from a place Costa Rican authorities had not given us permission to be in.  At other Central American border crossings, this would have been enough to take us into custody, or at least deny us entry.  But life, and the attitude of the officials in rural parts, seems to be more casual...no problemo, they say,  just drive the 50 yards acrosss the border and get the stamp, and then come back and see us...

The whole process was unstressful, but equally lengthy as the others, as we had to wait 2 hours until the woman in the insurance sales shack returned from lunch/siesta.  After all the paperwork was done, the official inspected the vehicle and was greatly impressed by the contents of our cooler...that is, the quality of our beer and limes.

The rest of the day was spent traveling on a winding 35 mph road through the incredibly beautiful countryside toward our goal, the city of David, Panama.  

Way Down in Costa Rica

Decided to cruise through San Jose and take the Pan Am Highway through most of Costa Rica to the Panamanian border, rather than take the secondary roads along the coast.  This is an amazing road that takes one from the sea to 10,994 feet in three hours through jaw dropping scenery.  After stopping for lunch in San Ignacio el General, we decided to avoid the hectic Pan Am border crossing and try a little  used and obscure crossing to the north.  We prefer chickens to coyotes.  So we veered off the Pan Am and had a delightful ride past vast pineapple fields, back into the mountains and the sticks of the outback...we are just blown away how beautiful this country is.  As we passed one of the ubiquitous little independent auto mechanic shops, "tallers" in Spanish, Jim remembered that we had tail lights out.  Wanting to avioid any incidents with the local authorities, we decided to replace it.  The owner, Roberto was more than happy to address our problems, and was facinated by the description of our destination.  He and his crew of four quickly addressed the problem, and sent us on our way without charge.  Hold off on those drones, Barak, these people are awfully nice!  We stopped near the town of San Vito as it was getting dark and are tucked away in a clean, rustic shack for 30 bucks.  Ten miles from the border, we are now starting to be concerned about just how we are going to ship the Little Red Truck around the Darian Gap...hmmmm.

Gypsies in the Palace

To our relief, the boarder crossing from Nicaragua to Costa Rica was only two hours and devoid of any major crime or acts of human misbehavior.  Fees were paid, services rendered, and we were on our merry way south through what is arguably the most beautiful country in Centeral America...certainly the most advanced economically.

I had sent an email ahead to Fred, who owns  a paragliding B&B near Caldera to see if we could stay there for the night, but the message never got through.   We miraculously found our way to his place, where I had stayed back in 2010, and found no one there, but a non english speaking caretaker.  When it became clear that they were out of town, we made ourselves at home and had a relaxing evening and a good nights sleep at the Inn.  Leaving the money for habitacion on the table, we continued on our way

Surf City

About ready to leave the fun town of San Juan del Sur in southern Nicaragua, about 25 miles from the Costa Rican border.  This is a vacation community on the beach and draws surfers from all over...a magnet for the young packpacker set seeking the perfect wave for the least expense.  All in all, a good stop for us, and reminicent of both Jim and my visit here in 2006.  The only mishap came on our entry to the town last evening, when a big white duck flew to the middle of the road directly in front of our truck.  Just before the gruesome thump, thump, I swear I heard him say, AFLAC...Jim says it was, OH SHIT.  As the hotel room came with breakfast, we enjoyed fruit and tacos this morning...chicken, we wondered?  Likely duck.

The route down Nicaragua was long, but eventful.  Our goal was to avoid the metropolis of Managua, another town that leaves one wondering why anyone would ever put it on their travel list.  After the highway seemed to just stop with construction in progress, we spied a road on the map that took us 7 miles west to the coast on a good road.  The plan was to then head south and reconnect with the highway after looping around the construction.  Two hours later we emerged battered and sweaty from one of the worst rocky dirt roads either of us have ever been on, past disturbingand humbling scenes of rural poverty.  Missing a key turn (Nigarauguans save money by not putting up road signs), we found ourselves in the middle of you know where.  Relying on the kindness of strangers for directions...maybe 6 times, we worked our way out of the labyrinth back onto the Pan American toward our next goal of Cost Rica.

Hell Hole Honduras

Gladly into Nicaragua and tucked away in the cool town of Leon, Nicararagua's arts and education center.  We are recouperating in a great downtown hotel in a Bohemian part of the city...well deserved I might ad.  The two border crossings into and out of Honduras were tests beyond my ability to endure, putting me in such a fowl mood, I wonder how my teammate, Jim could stand me.  First, I will say we deserved everything that came  our way, because we had the nerve to drive through Central America without any real Spanish skills.  Yes, we can order a beer, say thank you and please, but to really communicate with these people is beyond our ability.  Then, when you ad the disorganization, the lack of desire to communicate from the bureaucracy,  and the pervasive and blatant corruptionof the system...you have a recipe for disaster.

As a Libra, I have a basic desire to have fairness in all dealings, and as an American, am used to working under a system that identifies a product or service, establishes a fair price for the product or service, and then upon payment, full payment according to the deal...everyone wins, right?  Well not so in border crossings in Central America.  The ingress crossing was totally chaotic, starting with a dozen guys waiving their arms and yelling as we approached the border checkpoints, as though we just entered the wrong way up a one way street (which we have consistenty accomplished :-).  Yes, these are the Coyotes previously mentioned, who are proclaimed experts at guiding you through the labarynth of  of the bureaucracy.  There are no signs or directions to indicate where to go, there are no outlines of the proceedures and fees, there is abssolutely nothing posted in either english or spanish that will guide a mototist through the system.  It's no wonder the Coyotes can thrive in this process.  

You never really hire anyone, they just latch on to you and never let go...competing with a dozen others.  We take the one who speaks the best english and is the most convincing.  Our guy sold us on his ability to get us across the border in 60 minutes...no problem.  They explain to you how much the officials need, and you give it to them.  Then the problems come...we can avoid you having to endure multiple inspections for more money for payoffs...there are unanticipate troubles that require more...you need to avoid unbearable lines we need more...I had to give my away to pay the officer...on and on, and on.  After forking out $170 and 3 hours later, we were relieved to be on our way, me seething in anger, not just for being ripped off, but for making ourselves vulnerable through our own lack of language skills.

The next day, we hoped for a smoother experience leaving Honduras into Nicauagua...but noooooo...there, things started to play out in the same fashon, with hordes of Coyotes and money changers decending upon the Little Red Truck.  We hoped to go it alone in a do-it-yourself mode, but the biggest, brightest, and smartest of the pack stuck to us and would not let go (we'll call him Eduardo) What happened next, we (I) didn't deserve.  Somehow, as we exchanged our Limperas for Cordobas, Eduardo, or someone associated with him pickerd my pocket and took my wallet containing my credit card and driver's license.  The process went forward on the Honduran side until Eduardo led us to an unmanned police kiosk near the Nicaraguan border.  As we waited a minute or two, a policeman rode up, placedn himself in the kiosk, and asked for my (not Jim's) drivers license.  In a panic at not able to produce my lisence, the cop calmly stated that it was a violation and we were not permitted to proceed.  He had no idea who the driver of our truck was...Jim produced his license, and I prduced my alternative International drivers lisence, alas, we still could not proceed.  As Mana was delivered from Heaven, Eduardo offered to ride his motorcycle the .25 miles back to the town and find the culpret who stole my walllet.  He, of course said it would require 50 bucks in payoffs to get it back...which I had no choice but to pay.  The policeman stood there stoically silent.  A few minutes later, Eduardo comes screaming back with a tale of how he found the wallet, but the bastards want another 50 bucks to relinquish it...gosh, those greedy pirates, he says.  I give him every last Coardoba in my pocket with a helpless resignation, about 30 bucks worth...I'll do what I can, he says, and off he rode to my rescue.  Five minutes later, he came rushing back with a broad grin on his face...success!  My wallet was in my hand with DL and credit card in tact...thank heaven.  Eduardo explained that he had to front me an extra 20 bucks beyond what I had given him to satisfy the pirates...what a good guy!  I borrowed the money from Jim, and were reminded that we must pay Eduardo his fee for services, which we did with the stoic and silent policeman standing guard. The Honduran transaction complete, Eduardo gone, we readied to proceed to the Nicaraguan side of the process. The stoic and silent policeman approached the drivers side to wish us well.  How about a little cash for me, he said...no, I replied, we already paid Eduardo for your share, and I sped off to the border.

When I return home, I must see a Clinical Psychologist, and a Proctologist to

assess for any permenant damage.