Panama Part 3: Santa Fe to Bocas Del Toro

 Day 5

We left Santa Fe early in the morning, catching a minibus back to the regional town of Santiago. Our goal was to cross the country’s Tabasara mountains and reach the Caribbean islands of Bocas Del Toro by night. The bus station in Santiago was predictably chaotic and confusing. We were trying to get transport to Almirante, admittedly not the most important destination in the country and not a regional hub with loads of buses heading in and out of it.  One bus company claimed to have a 10:30 AM bus to Almirante, but everyone at the station told us we had to go to David, another regional town, to get a bus to take us there. We eventually learned that we were at the wrong bus station and had to take a short taxi ride to a truck stop that had a bus company operating out of it.

The bus company’s office was closed when we arrived so we ate some food at the open air restaurant while waiting. When the office opened, the woman at the desk told us a bunch of information that didn’t seem very accurate and left us a bit confused. Anyway, a bus did eventually come and we were on our way.

After a couple of hours on the main highway that ran across southern Panama, we turned north, into the mountains. The drive through the mountains was absolutely stunning. We ascended through rolling hills of emerald and up into misty forests surrounded by jagged peaks. Near the top of the divide, we crossed a reservoir created by a massive dam.

 

Crossing the Continental Divide across the dam reservoir.

On the other side of the divide, the country started to feel a bit different. It was visibly poorer and the people more indigenous. The housing was basic and very clapboard. We noticed a new flying, which we later learned was for the Ngäbe-Buglé Comarca, one of Panama’s five indigenous zones.

When we arrived in Almirante, we were immediately greeted by an enthusiastic man with a lanyard trying to hustle us into a taxi. I didn’t want to agree to anything just yet, as I knew the port might be within walking distance. We crossed the street to the convenience store to buy some food and a couple of five gallon jugs of water, as the potable water situation on the islands was spotty. We got info from the cashier about how to get to the port and how much to pay for a taxi. With the new information we were able to get our short taxi ride to the grimy port. We easily bought our ticket out to the town of Bocas Del Toro and crammed into a long wooden boat with about thirty other people. Surprisingly there were only a couple of other international tourists on our boat.

 

 

At the port in Almirante.

 As the boat slid out of its slip and out of the little inlet of the port, we saw that we were right next to a massive export of operation of Chiquita bananas. Stacks and stacks of Chiquita branded shipping containers awaited their departure to Florida and beyond. Knowing the history of Chiquita (formerly the United Fruit Company) in Central America, it was kind of a chilling sight.

I was bracing myself for an obnoxiously touristy area, but even at the port in the town of Bocas del Toro, I didn’t see many foreigners. Then i realized that most people probably fly in, avoiding the eight hours of bus and thirty minutes of boat that it took to get here. Then we got into town and I could see that while it was grossly touristy on the main drag, it was dead. This was low season and boy did that have an impact. Nobody even bothered us, trying to take us to a hotel or come into their restaurant.

 

In Bocas del Toro town

 

 

At the port in Bocas.

We took a short walk to the hotel we had planned to go to, but when we arrived, we couldn’t find anyone to check us in. The front gate was closed, but lights were on inside. We walked all through the hotel, looking for somebody to help us, but it was temporarily abandoned. Lise sat in the courtyard, waiting for someone to come, while I went and looked for other places to stay. Luckily, right across the street there was a funky hostel (you know the type) that had a pretty cheap room, so it all worked out. We dropped our stuff down and went in search of a beer.

The first bar was completely empty, but had cheap beer and was set right on the water. A great place to relax while the sun peaced out. We walked closer to town, on the main street and went into a slightly fancier place with a great on-the-water dock situation. The tables were made of heavy hardwood. The woman running the place seemed to be a foreigner…French maybe? While it was a very agreeable setting to unwind in the Caribbean, I was very unsettled by the art on the walls. The theme was romantic depictions of banana plantations. Maybe banana plantations in the early 20th century were actually workers’ paradises in Panama…but based on my understanding of this region’s history, this felt like going to a white-owned restaurant in Alabama that had rosy-toned art about antebellum plantations.

Down the street we found a little spot for dinner. It was basic little hut with stools at the window. They served up local-style food for locals at good prices. We each got a hearty plate of chicken with rice and lentils. It was good, but with the hot sauce I had brought with me from the city, it was delicious.

Day 6
 
We woke to heavy rains. We felt lazy about getting up and out of our room. Eventually we did it though. We had to get off of this island and on to a different.

Back at the port there were plenty of people there to offer rides to a variety of destinations throughout the archipelago. We had already reserved a spot in the town of Old Bank on the island of  Bastimentos. Our hotel’s reservation confirmation included details about getting there, including the price for the boat to be $3. Of course now, nobody would let us get into their boat for less than $5 each. I got pretty frustrated, but after going from person to person, someone finally, begrudgingly allowed us to go for $4. I understand that maybe the hotel forgot to update their price, but this was a collective boat (like a bus, not a taxi) and i saw the local passengers pay $1 or $2 for the ride. There was definitely a two-tiered pricing situation going on and I can get frustrated by that.

We arrived in Old Bank in the mid-morning. It was a sleepy village with no cars. I love when there’s no cars. It changes the atmosphere in such a positive way. This area was obviously used to tourists, but there was little sign that people were desperate for tourist dollars or even cared at all that we were there. People barely even looked at us, but would be friendly if we greeted them. It was kind of refreshing.

Our hotel was basic, but it was literally over the water. We could see the Caribbean through the gaps in the flimsy floorboards of our basic room. It also had a communal kitchen, a pier and several hammocks. That’s pretty much all I could ask for.

We went out looking for lunch, which was a surprisingly difficult task. There were several restaurants, but they were all closed. A couple of hotels also had restaurants, but as it was low season, they didn’t seem to bother to offer food. Eventually we were pointed to a restaurant being run out of family home. The woman who stood in front of the giant pots of food gave us the option of stewed chicken or fried chicken with a side of rice and lentils plus avocado for $5. We ate our generous portions out of styrofoam boxes on the porch of the house.

Our next mission was to hit the beach. We had to cross to the other side of the island, over a modest hill through a forest featuring guinep/mamoncillo trees that spilled their fruits all over the trail. Halfway to the beach, there was a break in the trees and we could look down to a bizarre housing development. The houses, all painted either green, blue or yellow, were identical and in neat rows. I wasn’t sure if this was some kind of government housing project or if it was worker housing for some kind of industrial project happening on the island. Neither quite made sense and I never figured it out.

The beach was pretty idyllic. It was huge, completely undeveloped and lined with coconut palms. The surf at the moment was a bit rough so, at Lise’s insistence, I was very careful to not get in too deep. On the shore I gorged on mangos and mangosteens I’d bought back in Bocas del Toro town. Unfortunately, fruit on this island seemed hard to come by and even the fruit I’d bought in Bocas was not from there. It wasn’t quite mango season yet and there didn’t seem to be much of anything growing on this island. Later in the afternoon, the weather started to turn and the waves got bigger. We decided to head back to town to relax for the rest of the day. 

We walked up and down the main path in Old Bank a couple more times. It was perfectly calm and boring, just as it should be. At night, when we got hungry again, we were faced with a dilemma that would perpetually flummox us during our time in Panama. Where was the food? Some places would close early or not open at all. We walked up and down the path and all we could find was a basic food stall serving salchipapas, a plate of fries with sliced hot dogs on top and slathered in condiments. It wasn’t the worst thing, but, ya know.

Day 7

Part of the reason we booked the hotel that we did was that they offered a free day of kayak use. Well this was the day. I imagined us spending the day exploring the unseen edges of Isla Bastimento or paddling out to remote, tiny islets. The weather wasn’t looking great, though. It was kinda gray and a bit windy, but not too bad. The hotel manager suggested that we paddle across to Isla Solarte where there is a little beach and good snorkeling. It looked close, but turned out to be a decent paddle of about a mile. We approached the point of the island, and unsure where to go, we went around to the far side of it. There were a few homes along the coast. A couple of homes were typical basic shacks, belonging to people from the island, and a couple of sturdy vacation homes with enclosures sat among them.  We pulled up onto a muddy beach, not quite sure if this was the spot that was suggested to us. If it was, it was a pretty bad recommendation. I would later figure out that we should not have gone around the point and stuck to the uninhabited, forested side. That is where the hidden little beach had been hiding. We lazed around in the mud for a few minutes then decided to try something else. There was a dive boat just off shore a few hundred meters. I could see they were getting ready to leave, so we paddled out towards them, hoping to poach their spot. It was a great move. As they zoomed off, we were arriving. Lise and I took turns diving down with the snorkel and mask. There was plenty of coral and brightly colored fish to peep at. We were lucky to find this spot as it didn’t seem that you could just dive anywhere around here and see something interesting down below. As we considered trying to find that beach again, the wind started to pick up and the rain began. The sky had turned a pretty menacing shade of gray and we thought that maybe we should at least head a bit closer to our island for the time being. We were heading straight into the powerful wind and the rain started to pound hard. There were moments where our hardest paddling simply let us stay still. I started to get a bit nervous, but I managed to keep the spirits of the crew (Lise) up by singing sailing songs and not letting on that I thought there might be a reason to worry. It took a lot of work, but we reached the bay that Old Bank sat on and the conditions eased up a bit. As we dried off and warmed ourselves up back on land, I realized that the $40 I had had in my pocket was gone. I knew it was stupid, but I had put an emergency $40 in a ziploc and into the pocket of my swimming shorts. I am still haunted by this serious error.

For lunch, we went to the same place as the day before for a big meal of fish, rice and lentils. Later we went out on the kayak again, but it was pretty cold so we didn’t really go anywhere or stay out for very long. That afternoon we were hanging out in the village center, sitting on a bench watching the local teens play basketball. All of a sudden a white woman who I recognized from our hotel arrived with her son of maybe seven years. The boy had a ball in his hand and looked kind of timid. His mom encouraged led him onto the court as if there wasn’t already a full on basketball game going on. The players all just stopped and watched as this woman told her son to shoot the ball. He did and missed badly, but tried a few more times as the group who had been playing just kind of watched patiently. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Why was this woman doing this? Why didn’t she try to ask first if she could let her son shoot a couple times? She really just looked like she didn’t notice that people were already playing there. The game restarted and the mother and her son stood off to the side. A few minutes later, though, they did the same thing again. I couldn’t understand it. I had already been mildly annoyed by this family of six as they tended to monopolize the whole common area of the hotel (hammocks, tables, kitchen), but I tried to be understanding. This, however, was out of control inconsideration. The basketball players cleared the way a second time while the kid threw up a few more airballs. They seemed cool about it and didn’t even seem impatient or annoyed. Respect to them for that.

At certain points I felt that awkward tourist guilt in Old Bank. I’ve traveled a lot, but I would say very little of my travels have been for pure pleasure. This trip in Panama had no excuse except that we wanted to go have a tropical adventure, especially somewhere we could afford. It was hard to ignore the poverty in a lot of the Caribbean parts of Panama, especially Old Bank. It made me wonder if I had any business being there. I never felt any sense of resentment from the Old Bank residents nor any desperation for the tourist dollar I might bring. This helped ease my guilt a lot, but it was hard to ignore the people in the shops buying individual slices of American cheese or single hot dogs. I mean, if you’re buying loose hot dogs, ya poor. But at the end of the day, I noticed that the actual wealthy tourists never even saw Old Bank. They went to any number of private and secluded upscale hotels located on more remote parts of the archipelago that required private transport to get reach. We were paying like $25/night for a shoddily constructed clapboard room.

That night we couldn’t find any place open for dinner except the “Danish” restaurant of a nearby hotel. It was a bit pricier than what we were used to and they had almost nothing that appeared on the menu, so we ended up sharing a plate of fried chicken. It was fine.


Day 8

We decided to stay an extra night in Old Bank as we were really enjoying the atmosphere of it. However, we didn’t spend our day in town. We went back to the beach. This day it was perfectly sunny and the beach was nearly empty. We walked all the way to the end of the beach where there was a little rocky cove and the water was calm. We spent the day swimming, getting really nice and tan, snagging coconuts from the trees and drinking their water (a real godsend, as we hadn’t brought enough water) and eating mangosteens and bad baloney sandwiches. It was probably one of the simplest, but most memorable days of the whole trip. There’s few things I like more in this world than getting my own coconut out of a tree and cutting it open myself. I only had a little $2 kitchen knife, but with enough hacking at the right angles, I was able to get my coconuts open without too much trouble. I mean, what else is there to say about this day. Nothing happened, but it was the best.
 

That night we noticed that a fried chicken restaurant that had been closed the night before was now open. We said we wanted two plates of fried chicken, and the woman told us it would be about thirty minutes. So we came back thirty minutes later and now she only had one serving of fried chicken left. So for a second night in a row, Lise and I shared a plate of fried chicken for dinner. I know that one can’t expect a lot from the food in a village on a small island, but this area did have a distinct Afro-Caribbean cuisine. We just didn’t know who was serving it. There were even a few tourist-friendly informational signs that explained aspects of the local culture, including the cuisine and certain specific dishes. We never saw any of the things mentioned food-wise in real life.

Day 9
It was time leave Isla Bastimentos and Old Bank. On the way out, I asked the guy working at the hotel, who also drives boats, the cost of getting back to Bocas del Toro. He said $5. Again, the e-mail the hotel sent me said the price should be $3. So instead of getting a boat from our dock, I figured it would be cheaper if we went to the pier in the village. This led to the embarrassing situation of me trying to haggle the price down, also explaining that we had paid $4 to get there. Our previous boat driver was there, but acted like he wasn’t hearing any of this. Some Rasta guy passing heard that we didn’t want to pay $5 and he just said “so kill them”. An elderly woman already on the boat was cursing us in the local Creole and not being too shy about it. The boat driver eventually admitted that locals pay a lower price, and dropped the price to $4. I regret getting frustrated and kind of causing a scene, but I also don’t know if it is that unreasonable. Everything else, buses, meals, loose hot dogs, all have the same price whether you are from there are not. Why are boats the exception? Anyway, I felt sheepish and guilty the whole ride back to the main town.

From the main town we planned to head up to the northern part of the island, where food and potable water would be sparse. So we filled our jugs of water, bout some groceries and Chinese steamed buns and hopped on a mini bus. The bus was blasting a reggaeton mix put together by “DJ JIMMY CLAR”. We know who it was because throughout the music a DJ would constantly be shouting over the top “DJ JIMMY CLAR”.

After about an hour, we arrived at Boca del Drago, a kind of remote area of the island. We had reserved a hotel room which was basic, but one of the more expensive places we would stay. I can’t complain at all, though. The room was clean and the hotel was steps away from the water. I immediately grabbed my snorkel and started exploring the turquoise waters. I saw a couple of stingrays, a barracuda and random fish. It wasn’t exactly the kind of beach one wants to hang out in all day, but it was nice to be able to swim so close to the hotel. 

Don't remember where this is from.

 

View from our porch

After getting settled in, we set off for the main attraction of this part of the island: Playa Estrella. We’d heard it was a nice, white sand beach famous for the starfish that hang out just off shore. The path to get there was a beautiful little trail along beaches, through forests and even among mangroves. Before we even got to the beach, we could hear it. The reggaeton rhythms reached well beyond Playa Estrella. We were pretty shocked when we arrived to find such a party going on. The beach was lined with food stalls serving drinks, seafood, coconuts and other food. There were loads of tourists, both foreign and domestic. It was weird because we hadn’t seen many tourists so far, especially all grouped together. We also hadn’t seen too many other tourists walking along the trail to the beach. Most of these people had arrived on boat as part of day trips from other parts of the archipelago. Honestly, the atmosphere was a little obnoxious, so we walked all the way to the other end of the beach where there were no more beach bars, but also no more shade trees. We took turns using the snorkels to check out the purple and orange starfish. Other than another stingray, that was pretty much all there was to see under there. We eventually moved back to the main part of the beach as we needed to get some shade. Most of the people were renting chairs or little cabanas so it was actually difficult to find an open spot to just sit with our towels but we eventually found one. The weirdest part was that we saw more than one person doing influencer stuff, holding up their phones, doing take after take saying “Hey guys, I’m here at….HEY guys, I’m….Hey guys, I’m here at Starfish Beach in Panama!…” It was pretty bizarre behavior to see in real life. We hung out a little longer, but decided to head back on the trail to try and find a calmer spot.

Mangroves on the trail to Playa Estrella

Our next spot was a little patch of sand near the trail, under some coconut trees. I had brought a couple of coconuts that had fallen while we were at the main beach. Unfortunately, these weren’t quite young enough to open easily. I spent a long time, just hacking away at these stupid coconuts, making a horrible mess on this beach. I don’t even remember if I ever managed to get them open. Probably, but I’m not sure. While we were sitting there, two flustered blonde dudes from some northern European country came and asked us if we’d seen anybody come by on bikes. We hadn’t. They had been exploring the island on bicycle and had left them somewhere along the trail, locked to a bridge, I believe. But the bikes were now gone and they were looking for bikes and/or culprits. I was just glad I was not them, because they were not going to find these bikes. 

 

Our little spot away from Playa Estrella

That evening we just hung around our hotel, eating bad cheese sandwiches and sipping beers and it was the best.

Day 10

After being a bit disappointed by the crowds at Playa Estrella, we decided to go back, but early. This was a great idea. The whole place was completely empty and we had it to ourselves for about two hours. It was fun to watch the people trickle in. First the coconut sellers arrived on a boat, with a load of freshly picked coconuts. Then a couple of the seafood shacks started to flicker to life. The first tourists to arrive was an American couple who had retired in Costa Rica. They were very taken with a charismatic trinket seller who called himself Ricky Ricardo. Then a boat load of high school-aged midwesterners landed on the beach. They were so fresh from America I could still smell the corn and freedom on them. I did a bit more snorkeling and saw some rays and a fish I called a Blue-Faced Longy. I looked it up later, though, and apparently it’s called a Needlefish, which to be fair, also makes sense. Before heading back to our spot, we decided to at least try one of these fun little seafood beach establishments. We had been tempted to splurge on seafood, but in the end just decided to have a beer. We watched a nearby French couple who were feasting on lobster. They were a bit of an odd couple. They were probably both in their 60’s. The man had long hair, board shorts, a few tattoos and piercings and no shirt. She was dressed in smart, airy linens and appeared generally conservative, if not just out of place. I imagined that this woman was a lawyer and she was having an affair with her client, who promised a sense of adventure as well as steady work for all of his custody cases.

Panama Part 2: Santa Fe

 Day 4

We came to Santa Fe to get out doors. It seemed the area had a lot to offer in terms of accessible hiking and waterfalls. No guide necessary. We rose early to go on a big hike up Cerro Tute, a nearby peak (or really big hill). According to our guide book, the trail head was just down the road from us. We headed down the hill for about fifteen or twenty minutes where we saw a sign that indicated that Cerro Tute was just up this steep road to the right.

The paved and eventually dirt road wound upward through a landscape of farmland, pastures and a few luxurious country homes. The forest that the guide book had promised was nowhere to be seen, but we kept trudging up the increasingly steep country road. After an hour or so we stopped at an abandoned roadside food stall to eat our bad sandwiches (white bread, mayonnaise and a very plasticky cheese that seemed shelf stable) and cassava chips. After another hour of steep climbing we considered giving up. While the views were getting better we saw no jungle or forest in sight, nor could we see the summit. Eventually we turned around, fairly disappointed, and headed back down the mountain. We found out later that most people rent a car or get a taxi to drive up to around where we gave up and start the hike from there because eventually there IS a trail up there to the top. 

 

A no-littering sign that says "No votar basura", literally meaning "don't vote for trash". A typo, I assume.

 

Back on the main road we saw a sign for a swimming hole, so we followed a rutted road down to the Santa Maria River. It would have been nice to cool off, but the bank was a messy quagmire and the river looked brown and unappetizing.  

 

Crossing a bridge to the swampy swimming hole

Payphones everywhere. Do they work? 

Well, the part that accepts the coins works, but the part that makes the phone calls? Not so much. Spent a dollar or so trying to call Mama on her birthday.
 

 

We headed back to town where the local artisanal market was taking place. It was small, but featured some cool, woven bags and hats plus a homemade mosquito repellent made of a tightly wrapped bundle of banana leaves (and other things I assume) that you burn. In my nascent quest to try as many different fruits in Panama as possible, I bought a bunch of yellow rambutans. Outside the market, we took advantage of a raspado (shaved ice) vendor to cool ourselves off. I got a mix of grape and nance (another new fruit!) and Lise got strawberry and nance.

We headed north of town toward a known swimming spot on the Santa Maria River. We had heard that there was the possibility to rent a tube and float down, but we didn’t see any sign of this. Still, the river was clear and looked pretty refreshing after all the walking we had been doing. It wasn’t unlike the mountain rivers I grew up around in Idaho.

We were alone for a while while we swam in the river, but eventually two Panamanians, a man and a woman, arrived to take a dip too. It started to drizzle a bit, but it didn’t really matter as it was still pretty warm outside. Getting a bit bored and curious, I decided to wade across the river to see what was going on on the other side. As I reached the shore, where there was a small beach that led to a trail into the brush, I heard a voice from across the river. It was Lise. I couldn’t tell what she was saying to me, but the Panamanian man was gesturing wildly for me to come back. I looked at the river and noticed it was rapidly swelling. Half the beach I was on was already submerged and the river was starting to rush. What I had experienced as a mere drizzle was causing a flash flood as all the water in the valley was flowing into this once modest and calm stream.

I made a split second decision to cross, knowing if I wanted any longer, I’d be trapped. I ran and dove into the river and started to paddle. I’m not a strong swimmer, but I know the basics. I could feel the river pulling me downstream quickly. As I paddled, kicked and splashed around in a panic, I saw Lise save our bags from being submerged in the nick of time. As the water rose, the bank of the river grew farther away. I paddled as hard as I could and I reached the other side, where the man was standing with his arm out at the farthest downstream point that he could. I could touch the bottom now, and the man helped me out of the river. If I had jumped in a second or two later, I don’t know what would have happened. I definitely would have gone VERY far down stream, definitely would have been injured, possibly drowned.

I thanked the man for helping me and we got to chatting. He was a police officer named Mario from Santiago, and he and his fellow officer had come up to Santa Fe for the weekend for a birthday party. The woman didn’t speak at all during this conversation and I suspected that they were perhaps more than colleagues, or maybe that she wasn’t really a police officer. When I had asked her name, Mario had paused and stuttered “Margarita” and it seemed like either he had forgotten her name or he was trying to make something up. When I asked what she does, he said she was a cop who works on a motorcycle for an agency like the FBI. It didn’t really make sense, but I didn’t really care.

We went back to town and decided that since we had semi-failed two adventures that day, we would go for a third one. Our guidebook was thin on info, but there was supposed to be a waterfall accessible by public transport and a short hike. On most maps, Santa Fe appeared to be the end of the road heading north toward the Caribbean. However, there were definitely rough dirt roads that snaked farther up into the mountains to reach rural, indigenous communities. Recently, however, one of the roads was paved. We grabbed a minibus heading north (or something like that). and the driver was really taking advantage of the fresh pavement. It was rainy, misty and green everywhere. The driver stopped at a spot where the road crossed a river and told us this was the stop for the waterfall. Lise had looked it up on Google Maps though and didn’t recognize this spot as the trailhead. So we insisted on continuing. A few minutes later someone else in the bus said THIS was the spot. So we got out. There was a sign for the waterfalls, but the trail was unclear. We found something of a path and followed it until it quickly petered out and ran into a fence. We saw a nearby wooden home built on stilts. Several family members were hanging out under the home and on the porch. I approached, greeting them loudly from afar so I didn’t startle anyone with my presence. They seemed amused by us and I explained that we were looking for the waterfall. They sent a small boy to show us the way. He led us back to the road and back the way we had come. I tried to make conversation with him, but he barely spoke any Spanish (the family was from one of Panama’s many indigenous communities). He wasn’t shy though. When we got to the trailhead, which was at the spot where the bus had first tried to drop us off, he told us the entrance was $5 each. We knew this was a swindle and felt kind of disappointed that this is what it had come to. It was especially surprising as this area was not overrun with tourists at all, the kind of situation that will make a lot of people trade hospitality for opportunism. When we refused, he negotiated, saying if he comes with us it is only $2. We told him that he was free to go and we would take the risk of punishment for not paying. He kind of wandered around, dithering, trying to figure out another means to make us pay him, but he soon gave up and headed back home.

 

Lise waiting for the bus in the rain

Within minutes of ascending the trail, it was clear that we were not going to have a nice nice pool at the bottom of a waterfall to swim in. The rain was pouring harder and the river next to the trail was getting more and more intense. The surrounding jungle was beautiful, though and the atmosphere was enough for us. About ten minutes up the trail, the river had swollen to the point that it was now flowing over the banks and blocking the trail. We went back to the bottom of the trail and found another path on the other side of the river. The path was rougher and and after ten minutes we found ourselves just clambering up through brush and mud. The trail was gone and we were just trudging up the side of a forested hill. Once it got too steep and, honestly, a bit dangerous, we headed back down. It was another semi-failure, but it was fun anyway.

Back in town, it was time to figure out dinner. We had noticed that the few tourists in town all seemed to go to one specific restaurant called The Herbolarium. Normally we would avoid the places intended for tourists, but they did advertise a very cheap “Menu Ejecutivo”, which is like a multi-course set menu.

The woman who served us was a remarkably genial middle-aged woman with some kind of handicap that made it look laborious for her to walk around. The atmosphere was homey and warm. The food had the same vibe. It wasn’t necessarily Panamanian food, but I would also say that it wasn’t NOT Panamanian food either. The fare was simple, comforting and very well-made. There was a chicken noodle soup with homemade noodles, a small piece of meat, mashed potatoes and a cheesy bread, baked in the oven. As we ate, a middle-aged white man who had been meandering around the restaurant stopped by our table and started chatting. It turned out that he was the owner and had retired here a few years earlier. Henrik, from Denmark, wasn’t a trained chef and didn’t really have restaurant experience. He had a lot of passion about food. He was talking about all the little food adventures he was on and how rich the produce of the region was. He pointed out the oven sheet of roasted (I might say burnt, but hey, not my kitchen) cacao beans that he was playing around with. He reveled in the monotony of rural life and the freedom it gave him. I noticed a bowl of fruit that contained a noni, an obscure and in most circumstances, never-eaten fruit. I had seen it once in a forest in Nicaragua and it smelled, honestly, like a fart. I was under the impression that this wasn’t really something that was consumed. In fact, according to wikipedia, it is considered a “famine food” in most places where it grows, though it is eaten in some parts of Southeast Asia and the South Pacific. I was very curious what he was doing with it, so I asked him. He got very excited and said he was going to show us. Henrik disappeared into the kitchen. After a few minutes of clanging and whirring noises, he returned with a small dish of what looked like a loose ricotta and a few pieces of grilled bread. He said he wasn’t sure if I would appreciate this, but Lise, a French person would probably like it. We spread the funky smelling stuff on our toasts. It was rich and cheesy. “Roquefort”, Henrik exclaimed, “doesn’t it taste like Roquefort?” He reminded me of Willy Wonka proudly revealing that the schnozzberries taste like schnozzberries. It was very delicious and had a striking similarity to blue cheese, however, I’m not sure if I would go as far as calling it a substitute for Roquefort. He was very excited, especially about the fact that he seemed to have discovered a vegan blue cheese. I would have been too if I had come up with something so delicious from a fruit that most people wouldn’t consider consuming.

That night, the frogs outside our room sounded like vintage flying saucer sound effects.

Panama Part 1: Panama City to Santa Fe

 

Making Long Banh Mi for the flight to Panama

 

 Ok, ok, ok, I’m writing blogs again, mostly so I can remember what I did on these travels.

Why did we go to Panama? We basically were trying to find any place in the world that would be fun, warm, not too expensive, cheap to get to and have things to do. Panama ended up being the only real option with about ten days notice, if that. I guess it would be a way for me to travel in the last Central American country I hadn’t been to.

To get from the airport into town, we decided to take the new light rail. It was so new that getting clear information on how to get to town on it was difficult. We asked around at the airport, trying to get my Spanish back on its feet. People were helpful and friendly and we made our way onto a light rail that I know I’d been on before. It must have been made by the same company as the one in Seattle or Saint-Denis, but I wasn’t quite sure which. We quickly noticed how clean and orderly everything was. There was lingering evidence of what were once strict covid protocols. Signs with cartoon mimes urged people not to talk on the train. The backdrop of illuminated skyscrapers against the night’s sky was dramatic and I was feeling like this country would be a lot different from every other country in the region I had been to.

When we emerged from the underground station closer to the center, we finally got hit with that thick, tropical heat and the street seemed much more chaotic than our sterile light rail ride. I was relieved.

It was only 9:30, but the streets were empty. A few homeless people, some passed out drunks, stray cats and dogs were the only souls we passed on the way to our guesthouse where we had a reservation. They didn’t seem to have a record of our reservation, but they were friendly and were clearly trying to make a good impression on us. They even moved us to a different room after we noticed ours didn’t have a window.

We went for a little walk. Someone standing in front of the guesthouse warned us that if we went in one direction it wouldn’t be safe and to only go in the direction of what was a pretty bougie, touristy neighborhood. We semi-complied, doubting that it was really that dangerous around here.


Day 2
The next morning we went on a long walk, which started just around the corner at an exquisitely old school cafe that won’t survive the gentrification rapidly infecting this neighborhood. It was in one of these colonial era buildings with high ceilings and probably other interesting features that I wouldn’t know how to spot. They served basic, classic stews, meats and starches from a counter. But we just wanted their big cups of coffee in styrofoam cups. Now, it’s kind of weird to find styrofoam weird because it was a big part of my life until pretty recently. But I never see it anymore. I assume it’s banned in France and I know it is in Seattle. But we could have filled a small lake with the amount of styrofoam we used in Panama. Anyway, I imagine Panama will probably get rid of it soon.

 

At the café where we had our coffee. They love the house plants in Panama

We continued our walk into the Casco Viejo (also known as Casco Antiguo) the oldest standing neighborhood in Panama. The original settlement of Panama City, the real “old town” was destroyed when it was raided by Captain Morgan (yep, that Captain Morgan) in the 1670’s. So the city was rebuilt here. It is extremely charming and clearly a lot of work is and has been made to restore old buildings, attract investment and promote tourism. I mean if someone wants to feel like they are in some colonial town in the tropics, getting rich off banana plantations, this neighborhood is nailing the vibe. However, it doesn’t take long for it to feel a bit synthetic. The restaurants are too hip, a few too many of the shops are selling souvenirs and if you’ve seen almost any other part of the city, it just doesn’t match. Anyway, it is very pleasant to stroll in and a lot of the architecture is easy on the eyes. Also, lots of Americans in tour groups.

We continued on toward the adjacent old China Town. It’s not large, in fact there are other, more modern parts of the city that have much larger Chinese populations, but this is the oldest Chinese neighborhood in Panama. The Chinese have a much longer presence in Panama than in the rest of the region. In fact there is a monument near the canal, which I assume was built by the Chinese government, commemorating 150 years of Chinese in Panama.

This China Town was pretty basic. Just a few shops, some restaurants with the classic ducks and pork bellies hanging in the windows. It wasn’t lunch time yet, so we didn’t eat here.

Nearby there was an indoor, air-conditioned market. I mean, I’m not going to complain that Panamanians would rather shop in an air-conditioned market, but it wasn’t my vibe. There were a lot of good products though, including an array of oils, like avocado, onion, shark, sea turtle, coconut, etc. I also bought some locally made hot sauce which would go on to rescue dozens of meals over the next few weeks. The highlight was the fresh juice. Lise got carrot/orange and I got pineapple horchata. Wow, so good.

Next stop on our walking tour (which, honestly was just half of what Anthony Bourdain did when he went to Panama) was the fish market/ceviche stands. The fish market was, well, a fish market. Interesting to see prices, but I’m not really able to buy a kilo of langosteens right now. Then we went to the row of ceviche stands. There were at least a dozen of them with plastic tables and chairs in front. Every one of them had servers that would come running out to wave menus and assure you that they had good prices and everything you want. We ducked and dodged all these servers until we found the stand that hadn’t noticed us (the servers were busy chatting) and so we just sat down there, rewarding them for not being annoying. Luckily it was also probably the cheapest stand! We got three ceviches (shrimp, octopus and corvina) and a couple beers for 9 bucks. What more could you want?

We continued on foot away from things that might attract tourists, to just a normal neighborhood. This is when I really caught fire. The markets were open air, there were stands on the street selling fresh juices, fresh fruit, pastries and hella other stuff. We stopped at a stand selling batidos, which is between a fruit smoothie and a milkshake. I got a batido with borojó, a type of fruit I’d never tried before. I was so pumped. I felt like I was finally back in my element after years of staleness. There were fruits everywhere, many of which I’d never tried. I decided I would try to have a different fruit every day.

We kept wandering the neighborhood. At some point there was a downpour that lasted five minutes. At some point there was someone selling palmiers (what they are called in French, orejas in Spanish) the size of a plate so we got one. We went into a grocery store and Lise snuck inside the beer fridge to cool off. I condemn her actions, but she was refreshed. I realized I should also be on the look out for seeds for the local Aji Chombo, a chili similar to a habanero. I asked a woman selling decorative plants if she knew where to get them. She recommended I go to Melo, which turned out to be a chain gardening store. It was a new mission.

As we walked around this neighborhood, we noticed a lot of hair salons and Lise got curious. She had wondered if coloring her hair in Panama would be a good idea, so I encouraged her and we started asking around for prices. Lise decided to go ahead and bleach her hair. This would take a few hours so after getting her settled into her chair I went back on the street and kept walking. I saw a large mosque (apparently mostly used by south Asians who have slowly arrived in waves over the years). I also went to a modern grocery store because I needed an ATM. This is where I learned that it would cost me $6 every time I withdrew money and I could only take out $250. I also helped a young woman withdraw money. She said she’d never done it before and needed help, but her card was well-worn. I was kinda suspicious, but nobody pick-pocketed me. Maybe she was just looking for an excuse to talk to me?

Back at the hair salon, Lise was finishing up. The stylist warned her that she couldn’t just bleach her hair, because it would turn out yellow and bad. So she did a bleach and a dye. But the hair came out yellow anyway. I didn’t care. I thought this was fun and that Lise looked good. Lise was fine with it for now, but figured she would get it fixed later.
 
On the walk back to our hood, I noticed some people selling a fruit recognized called kenep, also called mamoncillo or Spanish lime. I’d had it in Belize years ago and pined for it ever since. I even tried my best to get on good terms with folks at a Jamaican restaurant in Rialto so they would hook me up with the fruit when they got a hold of some. It’s like a small lychee with the skin of a lime, orange flesh and bit more tart.

As we walked back to our hotel, it was early evening and the street was alive and brimming with people, vendors and music. Chickens were getting roasted on street-side grills all sorts of things were on offer. I figured we would go get a quick shower and then head back out for dinner. Unfortunately when we came back out onto the street around 8, the street was nearly empty again.

We walked around the neighborhood until we found a relatively lively spot, just a few steps outside of the touristy Casco Viejo area. It was seedy. Prostitutes advertised openly next to a few cops. We sat at the wide open of a casual restaurant and ordered a couple beers. The owner sent someone to the club down the street to get the beers for us. Although it was empty, we liked the atmosphere of the restaurant and our window gave us a great view of the street where there was plenty to watch. Across the street there were a few basic food stalls. We went to one that looked good and got a filling dinner of grilled chicken with a side of patacones (a style of fried plantains) drowned in mayonnaise, ketchup and (because I brought it) hot sauce.

We went back to the hotel and stopped in at the bar on the ground floor for a last beer. As we sipped our beer on the sidewalk, one of the bar patrons approached us. He asked us the normal questions about where we were from and told us that he was a cop. We chatted for a long time. He warned us that Panama City is very dangerous and to be careful. I chalked that up to him being a cop. I mean, if you see crime all day, won’t you think it’s a dangerous place? I imagine health workers see the world as disgusting. In interviews, drug dealers always talk about how EVERYONE does drugs.

Day 3

The adventure was about to get underway. We rose early to get to the bus station. We wanted to make it to the highland town of Santa Fe.

The light rail took us directly to the main bus station. Finding our bus was pretty straight forward. The modern, coach style bus to Santiago was fairly comfortable. On the way out of town we crossed the canal. The Panama one. That seemed like kind of a big deal. On the opposite side of the bridge, there was a monument commemorating 150 years of Chinese presence in Panama. The first Chinese came to Panama in 1854 to work on the construction of the Panama Railroad. While there are Chinese populations throughout Central America, they have been in Panama longer and appear much more woven into the fabric of society. This does not mean, however, that we didn’t see an incredibly racist portrayal of Chinese shopkeepers on a local TV show. 

 

Crossing the Canal

 

The highway west of Panama City is pockmarked with glimmering shopping malls and brand new housing developments. There were areas that could have been indistinguishable from Florida or Texas. American chain restaurants ran roughshod over the local food courts.

A few hours later we arrived in the bus station in Santiago. The chaotic atmosphere was familiar, but I wasn’t quite enjoying it. Eventually we found a minibus to our next stop, Santa Fe. The bus was a bit beat up, and intermittently crowded. We were starting to travel in a manner that suited me more than the air conditioned coach. The roads got narrower and windier as we eased into the hilly interior. The fashion faded from cheap Chinese knockoffs to cowboy hats, jeans and long skirts.

The small town of Santa Fe welcomed us with one of those made-to-be-instagrammed, brightly colored displays of the town name that sits somewhere in the center of every single city, town and hamlet in the world in 2023. The center had just a handful of small shops, an empty marketplace and a couple basic restaurants. Anyway, we weren’t really here for the town, but more for the surrounding nature.

We checked into our hotel, which was clean, basic and fairly empty. Each room had hammocks hanging in front of the door. It should be legally required for hotels to provide hammocks in front of rooms. In town, which was up a steep hill, we went to an empty but somehow homey little restaurant for dinner. The woman who served us was shy, but charming. She explained the few options to us. Lise had a pork chop and I had a piece of smoked pork, both served with rice and beans. It was simple but very delicious. We went on down the hill and stopped for a beer at a small bar/restaurant on the way. Then it was time to hit the hammock and read a bit before bed.

Grilling Festival

The text message I received from MTN, Africa’s biggest cell phone service, said there would be a grilling festival in a week. I held my breath with muted excitement. I hadn’t been out much. A public event promising grilled meats, beer and live music seemed like the thing I needed after weeks of work and solitude. 

When the evening arrived, I cleaned myself up, put on my flyest outfit and zipped on over to the Bio Guera roundabout on my moto. A landscape of bright yellow MTN canopies, flags and wacky inflatable tube men welcomed me with the sounds of thumping hip-hop beats and a rainbow of flickering strobe lights flittering off an empty stage. Two grills, looking like an afterthought, sat off to the side, adorned with a few lightly seasoned chicken thighs. 

I sat down at the last empty table and ordered a Castel. Not my preferred beer, but the event was co-sponsored by Castel, so it was my only option. The drum set on on stage hinted at a promise of live music. In the mean time, though, I sat through hours of a couple MTN-themed hip-hop songs on repeat, a game of musical chairs on stage, and two dance contests, in which they tried desperately to get just a few of the women in attendance to participate. These contests turned out to be fairly male-dominated, and the judges showed no sympathy for the couple of brave girls on stage. 

The thrill of winning a Castel t-shirt from a raffle I was entered into for buying two beers soon wore off. I was getting depressed about the fact that cultural events in African cities can only happen with the support of cell phone, beer or instant coffee companies. 

Even the Ganhi festival, the most important cultural event of the Bariba community was sponsored by the two biggest cell phone companies in Benin. The local chiefs entered on horseback, as is tradition, under yellow MTN umbrellas, as, I assume, is not tradition. Neon green signs advertising Moov, the other cell phone company, provided the background to their entrance. 

I once saw one of my favorite African rap groups perform in Dakar on a Nescafe stage, where young, attractive Nescafe reps dolled out as many free cups of their last-resort coffee as you were willing to drink at 1 AM. 

In Rwanda, the best way for a musician to gain a following is to enter Primus Guma Guma Superstar, the touring American Idol style tournament of rappers and singers sponsored by the country’s biggest beer company. The winner gets a cash prize and the obligation to appear in Primus advertisements. And please, cut off your dreadlocks for the photo shot.

By 10:30 the charm of the dance contests and the MTN girls performing on stage to the MTN theme songs wore off. I left without even tasting the grilled chicken. 

I rode home discouraged. 

As I approached my house on the edge of town, I thought I would just keep going. Just ride my moto into the bush and go on a midnight adventure. Few things have brought me more pleasure than just wandering rural trails and dirt roads. 

I passed my house and just kept going. I turned the next corner and was immediately confronted with the thumping sounds of drums and singing. The courtyard of a simple two-room cement shack was packed with men and women in a tight, layered circle. At the center, a young man led the singing while a few teenage girls, unaffected by the crowd onlookers, undulated their torsos to the frantic rhythms. Women howled their songs while the guys thumped their drums. Children danced independently on the periphery. Seasoned men banged metal percussion instruments from the comfort of their reclined reed chairs.

I leaned on the mango tree and bobbed my head to the sounds I had been looking for all along.

***

This blog was unable to be posted in a timely manner due to the unreliability of the MTN internet service. Also, their internet is unfairly expensive and the software that comes with their modems should embarrass them. 

My Sandlot

Growing up, I always envied the boys from The Sandlot. I always knew I would love the kind of simple lifestyle that revolves around a community of friends and passion for a sport. Of course, I played a lot of sports growing up, but it was always in the convoluted environment of leagues, teams, organizations, rivalries, playoffs bureaucracy and multiple ranks of coaches. It was rarely in that carefree arena where the only things that matter are that your friends showed up and the ball lasted until the end of the day.

After living in Rwanda for about nine months, I realized my life was starting to parallel that of Smalls, from the Sandlot. I was the new kid in town. I was shy and didn’t really have many friends. I eventually found some people to play ball with. After a while, I learned all their nicknames, was welcomed into their community, and played with them almost every single day. Eventually they invited me to their tree house for a sleep over, and I learned about the scary dog that lived next door. The scary dog would later steal my step dad’s basketball, which was autographed by Wilt Chamberlain. Manasse, the best player, jumped over the fence and got my ball back. The owner of the dog turned out to be James Earl Jones, and Manasse went on to be a professional basketball player.

Well, some of that really happened.

Regardless, the most important part of my day was lacing up my decaying sneakers and heading to the court where I could count on a group of guys ready to play ball.

***

Manasse really was the Benny of our basketball community. He was the most gifted athlete, had the strongest passion for basketball and was just a really nice guy. Everybody liked him. Sometimes he coached a group of girls, which I really respected. The girls in the community rarely got to play. I would try to get the boys, especially students from my school to share the ball with them. Manasse, however, was the only one I ever saw put any effort in supporting girls basketball.

Manasse is an unstoppable force.

He can't be stopped.

***

It took a while to learn everyone’s nicknames, and I wasn’t even sure where most of them came from. There was Pastor (Pasteri), who I assumed had earned the moniker for his staunch protestant beliefs…until I bought him a beer while watching the world cup. Fizzo might have gotten his name from his slight stature, since sometimes it was spelled or pronounced “fils”, the French word for son. Sometimes Epa tried to give himself the nickname “Reblon”, a mispronunciation of Lebron. Luckily for him it didn’t stick. I was never sure if the lanky kid referred to as Hamza was Muslim, or somehow he had just acquired the Arabic word for 5 as a nickname. My snaggle-toothed friend who wore a jersey that had somehow made its way from Coeur d’Alene’s alternative high school introduced himself as Gavin. Everyone called him something that sounded like “Jivva”.

At some point, Moise started going by Moses, the English version of the French name. And my nickname? Well, it might as well have been Joel, since most people couldn’t comprehend the name “Joey.” A few people caught on, but in general, I was Joel. 

Epa has a sick jump shot.

Pastor takes his signature jump shot from the free throw line.

***

The basketballs we played with were perpetually over-inflated. I always lectured the guys not to over-inflate the balls, but they never listened. The lifespan of the balls was short. Sometimes they would develop a bubble. One time, I threw the ball from under the hoop and it caught the bottom corner of the backboard and exploded. It was the end of our game for the day.

***

Basketball with these guys was rough. I regularly walked home limping, bleeding or smarting from a fresh lump on my head. I sprained my ankle once, took a few game-ending nut shots and once went flying head first into a pole at full speed after getting tripped on a fast break. That last one terrified me as it was the kind of injury that could have easily been life changing. Usually when I went down from slamming into poles or twisting an ankle, my teammates would find the damaged area and start massaging it intensely. I usually had to yell through clenched teeth to get the hell away from me. They didn’t understand why I didn’t want their help. But maybe there was something to their methods. I can’t remember a single time when someone seemed even remotely in pain from the constant jostling and violent fouling that went on under the hoop. The day after I sprained my ankle, Baya visited me with some imitation tiger balm and leaves from a citrus tree. He said he would help my swollen ankle. I was more curious than optimistic. He rubbed the balm over my ankle while boiled the leaves. Then he took the leaves packed them in a hot wad and started pressing them into my ankle with his palms. I winced and squealed as he kneaded the leaves into my ankle. It was incredibly painful, but I appreciated his thoughtfulness. I have no idea if this helped, but within a few days I was playing again.

Taking it inside is a dangerous activity in Rwanda.

***

While I loved the fact that everyone was friends and played together peacefully, sometimes I felt like there wasn’t enough trash-talking, showboating or overall competitiveness for street ball. I, on the other hand, got out of control on a regular basis. I am a pretty good sport with a mild temperament. I don’t even think I have felt a competitive emotion well up in me since I was in high school. But getting back on the basketball court brought out a side in me I forgot existed. I lashed out at people for calling fouls, I cursed and smacked the court when I missed easy shots and I threw the occasional cheap shot at people who had recently committed flagrant fouls. What made my lack of control worse was that Rwandan culture dictates strict management of emotions. Losing your cool is, well, not cool. It makes everyone uncomfortable, and people generally respond by laughing awkwardly. When things got intense on the court, I turned into Charles Barkley with a twist of Dennis Rodman. My most shameful moment came when I was blatantly pushed out of bounds on a fast break. Our acting referee didn’t blow his whistle. The aggressor, who is really one of the nicest, most genuine guys in town, denied blatantly pushing me out of bounds when I protested. My emotions got away from me, and I shoved him in the chest. He looked as surprised as I felt as he stepped to me. All eyes were on us now, and I suddenly came to my senses. I smiled, tried to act like it had been a joke, and went back on the court. I apologized after the game for taking it too far.

The positive energy was also a bit lacking. Whenever a game came down to the wire and I was at the free-throw line, I would insist that my teammates and the kids watching cheer for me. Sometimes I felt like I was channeling Kenny Powers and his quest for baseball stardom in Mexico.

My biggest fan.

Manasse shoots a free throw.

***

The only player who ever showboated was a young up and comer named Mucoma. At first he would only get a spot when we were short on players. He was fundamentally weak and clumsy. He was rough, out of control and missed too many easy shots. He didn’t know how to pass. However, he played harder and with more heart than almost anyone else on the court. Suddenly, he became a player, slowly scoring more baskets. It took a while for him to be seen as a real threat and was generally left unguarded. The more he scored, the more confident he became. He started celebrating after nailing 8-footers, running around with his arms extended, pumping up the imaginary crowd and yelling, “THE CHAMPION!” I found it obnoxious, and eventually made it my duty to knock this guy back on his place. I would cover him tightly and make sure he would go scoreless. This frustrated him to no end, and he would actually get mad at me for not guarding him. I enjoyed matching up with him because no matter how physically I played against him, he would always be rougher than me. He was one of those guys that didn’t know his own strength and couldn’t control his body. The blows he delivered when contesting a drive to the basket were lethal. I was often on the ground when matched up with him. My dislike for Mucoma grew, over a long time, into a reserved respect. I appreciated that after a few games, he was the only one still playing at 100%. I rarely let my admiration show, though.  I just continued to battle him for every rebound and contest every one of his drives to the hoop with the well-intentioned maliciousness of an older brother. As he got better, I think I was the only person who noticed that Mucoma was often the highest scorer on his team (when I wasn’t guarding him) and was the deciding factor in a lot of games.

Mucoma takes it to the hole.

Not in Mucoma's house.

***

The hoops were a little under 10-feet tall, so it wasn’t surprising that I saw a couple of guys learn to dunk while I was there. Pastor and Moise were the first to dunk during games. When we were shooting around, Mucoma always tried to dunk. For a while he would either get rejected by the rim, or would turn his attempt into an awkward finger roll at the last second. Little by little, however, he got better. Eventually he could get the ball over the rim, but it would either slam off the backboard or the back of the rim. Then, I remember when it happened. He told everyone to clear the lane. He ran with in a slight arc toward the hoop, the ball clasped between his hands. He leapt up, put the ball over the edge and grabbed the rim. The ball clanged and he released the rim. The rim snapped up and shot the ball soaring fifteen feet in the air. It came straight down and went right through the center of the naked hoop. Mucoma accepted this as a successful dunk and ran around court with his arms extended, and cheering for himself. I reluctantly applauded.

Mucoma knows how to dunk.

Moise also knows how to dunk.

***

Most villages in Rwanda don’t have a functional basketball court. We were lucky, however, that the cement factory in the community not only owned one, but maintained it and kept it, somewhat, open to the public. I was excited when I returned from Christmas break to find the court re-painted, the fallen rim replaced and both backboard refurbished. We could finally resume our full-court games.

Manasse with a reverse layup.

The most exciting moment, however, was the night they turned the lights on. Sure, I had always noticed that the court had four stadium lights, but never even considered that they might work. Then, one night, they just came on. It was like 4^th of July in The Sandlot. We played an hour past sunset that night. After that we often got extra time on the court after dark and even got to play an organized game at night.

***

That game, between the secondary students in the community and the adults was a highlight of my Rwandan basketball career. I didn’t play well, and the game wasn’t close, but the atmosphere of playing under the lights, with a small crowd watching took me back to the days of high school sports.

The two teams, as labeled on the scoreboard etched on the cement with a red stone, were “Students” vs “Old Man”. I was on the team of Old Man, and I thought we were going to get crushed. However, what we lacked in bottomless energy, speed and fundamental skills, we made up for in teamwork. We won with a score of something like 142-84. We only played three quarters, as the security guards kicked us out at 8 PM.

***

I sweat a lot in normal life. I sweat even more when playing basketball. I sweat buckets when playing full court basketball in a swelteringly humid climate. I was constantly battling to keep hydrated. However, it didn’t matter how much water I brought to the court, it was never enough. I was the only person who ever brought water (hydration isn’t a big thing in Rwandan culture). Everyone else was always thirsty, and when things enter a public space in Rwanda, they tend to become public property. So I had to share my water with everyone as soon as I took my bottle out of my bag. This wasn’t a problem when there was a tap by the court. For some reason, though, the tap was turned off, and the nearest water source was a few minutes away. Sometimes boys were sent to refill my bottles, but not always. After a long game, one day, I went looking for my water bottle. We had sent a boy to refill my reused disposable water bottle, but it was nowhere to be found. I was furious. I never bought bottled water, so I clung tightly to these bottles. “Where is my bottle?!” I yelled. One of the players shrugged and said one of the boys probably took it. They are always asking for my bottles, but only once had one of them actually stolen it. I slammed the ball onto the ground in anger. The ball did what overly inflated balls do: it bounced back at me with shocking force and jammed two of my fingers. My right middle finger would remain puffy and sore for a couple of months. Just as I realized I was embarrassing myself again, I saw a six-year-old boy in ripped shorts and a filthy shirt waddling toward me with an arm extended, holding my full water bottle.

The next day Hamza brought me a box with about 12 empty water bottles. It might have been one of the most thoughtful things anyone had done for me in Rwanda. It was also kind of awkward.

***

My neighbor Baya is one of my best friends in Rwanda. He comes to the court sometimes, but usually isn’t good enough to get a spot on the court. His sport is soccer. Usually only the best players get to play, and I was never one to decide who got a spot. One day, Baya was playing when I showed up and they immediately gave me his spot. I refused and said he could continue. I would wait until someone was tired. Baya, knowing his place in the social order, also told me to take his spot. I refused again. The older players said that Baya covldn’t play because he was wearing flip-flops. That had never been a problem for some of the more skilled players, but if that was their reason, I would respect that. So I took off my shoes, to everyone’s wide-eyed amazement, and handed them to Baya. I was trying to make a point, but I could tell I was putting Baya in an awkward position. I insisted he put them on and keep playing. He continued for a few plays, but then came out, telling me to replace him. I was done fighting this, but I still wasn’t going to take my shoes back. Most people that played regularly had shoes, but occasionally there was someone in flip-flops or barefoot. I wanted to make the point that not only could I play without shoes, but that they should be more inclusive with who they let play, regardless of footwear. I wondered if it was worth it though. I don’t think it changed anyone’s mind, and I think I shamed Baya by trying to come to his rescue.

***

While a lot of my time in Rwanda was bland and forgettable, I will always miss the Cimerwa basketball court. It was the strongest community I had and I don’t think I would have lasted long without it. It was also a vital release valve for my pent up emotional energy that built up throughout the day. While I may have let my emotions get the better of me on the court, I imagine I would have had much more damaging incidents if I didn’t have basketball. 

The one time you will see me willingly pose for a group photo. From left: Epa, Manasse, Moise, Pastor, Mucoma, Joel.