The Trip Down

Chapter Fifteen

The Title????

[Note: This is an account of my road trip from Haddonfield to Playa Venao, Panama. It comes from a series of chapters in a longer book I wrote—which was about my spiritual trip after Sarah died. I’m including it on my blog because some readers who have been keeping up with my trip back have wondered about the trip down.]

Getting the Haddonfield house ready to sell was a 24/7 drama. But I did it. I hired a few high school students, who helped me in four days clear out two-thirds of my belongings and pack them in a POD sitting in my driveway. I was really emptying my house of myself (and Sarah), getting it ready to go on the market. All the pictures off the walls, Sarah’s story boxes, her paintings and tapestries, our pictures of our lives, beginning with our marriage. Well, emptying the house of us.

We did it. The POD was packed, sitting in the driveway on the day I had planned to leave with Lola. The POD guy came in late morning, craned the POD onto his truck, and away Sarah and I went.

I had to work for a few hours to clean up; then I said good-bye to the house and Lola and I got in the car and headed for Virginia. I am going to reflect on these good-byes because they have framed my life, and again, good-bye is what this book is about. Maybe living well is knowing how to say good-bye. Leaving home. Going on the road.

I don’t remember saying good-bye to my home in Richland Center. It was an apartment above a dimestore. I was quite happy to leave: my father, with whom I had an unhappy relationship, had come back to live with my mother; it wasn’t a great home life.

I left several other places, the places I rented during my undergraduate years—and leaving these places didn’t mean much. I was just going to another place I was renting. I didn’t like leaving Madison—I had a lot of friends there, but I thought I would be back. And I didn’t like leaving Canada because I knew I wouldn’t be back. Then there was our first house in California, the one on Carneros Road. All of us were crying as we left. And then the house in San Diego. We loved that house, too, with our friends in San Diego. And then our beautiful house in Omaha. There was a difference there: by the time Sarah and I left, Heather and Jesse had both left for their college careers. So when Sarah and said good-bye to our house in Omaha, we were saying good-bye to our times with our children. It just goes like that.

But Baton Rouge. I almost can’t think about it. That was where Sarah wanted to be. She loved living there. It was her dream. Living there after she died was very difficult, but still I didn’t want to leave. Sarah lived there. I am sure that when I left Baton Rouge, I left a little bit of Sarah behind. She is still there in the trees she planted, the rooms she redesigned, the pool she swam in, that back yard, the pergola she had me build.

And now my house in Haddonfield. When Lola and I piled into the car and drove off, I thought there might be the possibility that I wouldn’t see that house again. It has been a very nice house; I took a lot of Sarah there. But I emptied it and knew there would be a possibility that I would manage a sale and final moving process long-distance and never come back. So in my mind, it was good-bye to this little red house in Haddonfield. I liked it. I can’t say I loved it, the way I loved our house in Baton Rouge, but I liked it. And I really did not know where I was going.

Well, I knew I was driving to Heather’s. I don’t think I got there until late. Everyone was in bed. We spent the next morning looking at their new house down the street and imagining whether I could live in the carriage house—which would have been a radical shift for me. I still have boatloads of furniture that speak Sarah. I remember the moments that went with each piece she bought, beginning with our first purchase, a small love seat now in Heather’s entrance.

I left around noon and drove south through the beautiful country of Virginia; after a while, I turned west into Tennessee, where Lola and I camped for the night. I love camping with Lola. It takes me five minutes to set up my four-person tent; I take Lola for a walk along a trail; I open a bottle of wine and a subway sandwich I buy along the way; I open my computer and begin to write; the stars come out, and I play my guitar and sing a few of my songs; and we go to bed.

I didn’t have any maps (I threw them all away when I left Baton Rouge), so I made a few mistakes on my way to Jim and Michelle’s, where we were going to stay in Baton Rouge. Jim and Michelle are some of the friends I have loved and left behind on this strange road I’m traveling. I know I always have a bedroom there, even when I arrive late at night. Actually, I have many friends I could stay with in Baton Rouge, but Jim and Michelle’s home has a special calling for me: I went to their house after Sarah died. I may have stayed there for a week, because I couldn’t go back to my house. They have made clear to me that this one room in their house is always mine.

So the next day, I was  cruising the internet for details on crossing borders with a dog. I happened to spot one little tidbit that should have been headlined on all blogs about driving through Central America. YOU WILL NEED TO HAVE A CLEAR TITLE TO YOUR CAR (or if liened, a note of permission from the lien holder).

Ummm. Title? Does anyone keep the title to his or her car in the car???

I had just spent three days driving from New Jersey to Baton Rouge. I had also tightly packed in a POD most of my household belongings, including my file cabinets in one of which was filed the title to my bright red, 2010 Prius in which I and Lola were about to drive through Mexico and Central America to Cocoloche, Panama. The Pod was stored in some storage center in New Jersey.

I won’t take you through all that went through my mind, but it wasn’t pleasant. I did my best and swung into action: I went to the Baton Rouge DMV, stood in line, explained my situation (driving through Mexico and Central America with my dog, need car title desperately NOW), got a ticket, and was told to sit in the waiting room.

Still with some presence of mind, I asked,  “For how long?”

The official in his DMF suit, after checking his computer: “About an hour.”

He gave me a document explaining what I would need to get a new title.

“Ok,” I said. “I’ll be back in about 45 minutes—I have a dog waiting in the car.” (It’s 95 degrees out—I leave the car running with the AC on). This was at about ten in the morning. I needed a drink.

I went out to the car and started looking at the document. One of the details was that the title would have to be from the state in which the title was last reissued. Having moved from Baton Rouge to Haddonfield NJ, three years ago, I had registered the car in New Jersey. I didn’t know about the title.

So I went back inside and get on line. Finally, “Umm, I bought the car in Louisiana, but I live in New Jersey. How do I know whether my title is from here or there?”

There was some consultation with a more official-looking official and the other official says: “We can’t help you. You’ll have to check online. Go to the Louisiana and New Jersey sites and just put in your VIN.”

In spite of the fact that we’re both speaking English, I didn’t find this very helpful, but they weren’t going to give me more time, so I left, trusting to my Internet abilities.

So I went back to Michelle’s and Jim’s, thinking I could do this and still get back, with luck, to the DMV to claim my spot in line.

In case you ever need to find out what state your car title is in online, you can’t do it. (Well, I found a site that would do it or me for $12.95; but I’m still working-class and thought I shouldn’t pay for something that should be free).

I called the New Jersey DMV. Thank god, a woman answered in about ten minutes. I ran her through the script. She gave me a complicated reason explaining why she couldn’t find out either. But we did finally get to a mutual understanding, based on my increased desperation. She told me that if I gave her the VIN, she could tell me where and when the title was last issued (I’m thinking about the impossibility of one person ever understanding another based on language alone). Yep: New Jersey. 2015.

“Ok: how can I get a copy of the title?”

“You have to come in to get one and present the proper documents.”

I explained (I was getting good at this) that I had just driven to Louisiana and was on way to Panama and needed the title NOW.”

“Well, you can do it by mail.”

“How long will that take?”

“About four to six weeks.”

“You don’t understand (repeat of the situation ending with NOW).”

“I understand, but I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

I tried to get into a Zen moment. I am reminded of the man with the strawberry on the cliff. A tiger was chasing him. He came to a cliff. The tiger was attacking. He made a choice and leaped. As he was going down, he managed to grab the root of a brush and stop his fall. The tiger was breathing hard above him. The brush started to rip free from the cliff. He saw a strawberry plant with a with a ripe strawberry. He plucked and ate the strawberry. He thought, never had a strawberry tasted so good.

Deep breath. “Thanks.”

I checked flights. OK, I can get a quick flight on Saturday, back on Monday for about six hundred dollars. But what to do about Lola? Michelle and Jim are close friends, but . . . Lola is a newly rescued dog and would go nuts if I left her. Board her someplace. Fly . . . maybe leave for Panama on Tuesday (for complicated reasons, I was expected in Panama in about three weeks).

I called Heather, who was in the midst of negotiating a purchase for her new house, so she had her own drama. I was realizing that this driving trip was not going to be easy. Heather was brilliant (this is why we have children). She was patient with me and heard me out. We both were able to laugh at this ridiculous situation.  I know that nothing depends on what I do. I am retired. I have enough money to live on until I pass into nothing.

Heather said: “Why don’t you pay someone to go and get your title in the POD and express mail it to you?”

I thought for three seconds. “I love you, Heather,” I said. “I’ll call you back.”

So I texted Ethan, the high school junior who had helped me load the POD. I needed his telephone number. He texted right back with his number.

I called him and explained my desperate (but really not-desperate) situation. “Can I pay you $300.00 to go and get the title? It’s in the tall filing cabinet in the middle of the POD. Top drawer, filed under Car/Titles.”

“Sure,” he says. “You bet. Where is it?”

“I’ll find out and call you back.”

“Wait for an hour to call me. I’m in class. Cool teacher now, but I have to go to another one in a few minutes and she DOES NOT permit cell phone calls. Then I’m off for the day and can go and get it.”

So while waiting for Ethan to get out of the class that doesn’t allow iphone conversations,  I called the POD people. Usually, for that call, I have to wait for at least thirty minutes. This time, a lovely woman answered. Sometimes, I think there might be a God.

She heard me out. She told me only the owner could get into the POD. But she knew, I mean she understood my situation. She said, you can at least laugh about it. I said, yes, it is actually pretty funny. Like what if I had driven through Mexico and got to Guatemala (you don’t need a title to get into Mexico) and the border guard has asked, “Si, pero donde es su titulo?”

“Mi qua?????”

Now that would be metaphysically funny.

I asked whether I could give Ethan permission to enter the POD (again: I’m in Baton Rouge and this needs to be NOW).

She put me on hold. She got back: “Yes, we can do that. Does he have the key to the lock?”

Of course not-it’s on my key chain.

She: “We can cut the lock and sell you a new one—but I’ll see about whether he can have permission to have the lock cut.”

I wanted to tell her that I loved her.  “Please do,” I said.

She got back to me in five minutes. “Yes, we can do that. Just give me his name and make sure he has identification when he gets there.”

I said: “You’re wonderful. You just turned what could have been a disaster into a story.”

She laughed.

Ethan went with his brother (Ethan doesn’t have a driver’s license yet), found the title, called me to check, and then got it in two-day mail. I  got it the next day.

God might be a joker. That’s what I thought when the American people in their infinite ignorance elected Donald Trump president.

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Chapter Fifteen
Vijando sin Mapas

This chapter is my notes on my trip down—my trip, you might say, into another world. Kerouac and Cassidy ended their trip in Mexico City. I’m not certain that mine ended in Cocoloche.

Wednesday, May 24, 2017

We’re in a campsite on Lake Corpus Christi, Southeast Texas. We had a long day of driving because I had to return to Baton Rouge from Paul and Renee’s to get a revised document for Lola to help get us across the borders of Mexico and Central America. I could write pages on the dog certificate process alone, but I want to sketch other parts of the journey.

I had planned on starting at nine from Livonia (Paul and Renee’s house), but instead I started at eleven from Baton Rouge. So my planned arrival at Lake Corpus Christi at five turned in to 8:30. But there was still enough light to pitch our tent.

I had hoped to have a quiet G&T and write up my day’s journey while sitting lakeside at the picnic table, but some aggressive bugs began to bite. With rare lack of foresight, I had packed a tentlight and a camp chair, so now we went inside, more or less bite free (a couple of the biters following us in.)

The campsite is sketchily populated, quiet, and lovely. The wind is gently blowing. This is lovely, what I love about camping. Lola loves it, too. I think she loves the smells and the sounds. She likes being in a tent. For me, this is close to perfection: writing in a tent. Lola.

I could have camped earlier, a bit below Houston—which I squeezed through in rush hour, but I had my sights set on Corpus Christi and decided not to adjust. I don’t like camping near large urban areas.

This area is Texas, Texas: mostly unbelievably flat with a house every several hundred miles or so, the unpopulated land largely blanketed with mesquite. One could build a house nearly anywhere, install a septic system, dig a well, and no one would notice. A couple of times, I saw police had pulled hispanics over to check something and I couldn’t help but think of the irony of whose land this used to be (and then whose it used to be before it used to be) and our border patrols now arresting for illegal immigration those whose ancestors were here before los gringos. Additional irony: the hispanics who are checked are not the pure Spanish; it’s the mestizos.

There is something about traveling that takes me a bit outside myself. I think this de-egotizing is the consequence of simply being someplace different; my body and mind have to be “out there” to adjust. I do know that for whatever reason when I’m traveling, I’m better at being alone. I could unpack that claim, but I’ll leave it there.

I hope I’ll be able to camp through most of Central America. I will be able to camp through Mexico. I’m excited about entering Mexico tomorrow. It’s the moment of being in another country. I think that being in another country links to being outside oneself—being with others.

We will see tomorrow--border crossing at Brownsville  TX--how well this theory holds up. I think the Brownsville area is the place of mass graves.

I need to comment on Renee and Paul’s place. I told them when I left that when I would be coming back in September, they would have a hard time getting rid of me. Their restructured Acadian Plantation house is beyond beautiful. Sarah helped them design their rescue operation on this abandoned acadian house.

Ok: heading into Mexico tomorrow.

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Thursday, May 25, 2017

I got to the border about three. Spent time shopping in Walmart, figuring shopping would be different in M & CA. Got more camping equip; coffee maker. French Press was the only one I could get.

Lola has been a jewel. She loves camping and riding; not so pleased about hanging out in a motel room, where we are tonight. The border took about 1.5 hours, maybe 2. It was funny—they dealing with my terrible Spanish. The process was mostly one of going back and forth among three windows. Everyone was very nice—and they appreciated my fractured attempts at Spanish. The process took forever (the circling contributed), but for me it was a chance to work on Spanish. Probably a help that I crossed on 77, west of Brownsville.

Immigration wasn’t at all interested in Lola—after all the pet stuff. Nor did they bother to look in my car—just saw that it would be too much for them to unpack. They were interested that I had all this tent camping stuff. They don’t see that everyday. And two guitars and two bikes and a dog and an elderly man traveling singly through Mexico and Central America.

I got out around 3:30—got there around 2. Then drove until about 6:30 and thought it was going to be too late to make the campground at La Pesca, so I got for $30.00 this broken down hotel room. They are not at all concerned about a dog. They were surprised, I think, that I mentioned it. People have dogs.  Dogs are trotting all around this town, whatever it is.

This northeastern part of Mexico (at least along Hwy 180) is preternaturally ugly. It’s mostly like Tijuana or the really trashy parts of West Virginia. But everyone is very nice—even la policia. I have passed on the first day several roadblocks. Only one stopped me. La policia were extremely polite and friendly. They were interested that I was driving to Panama—and as with all Mexicans, appreciating that I was trying to speak Spanish.

I love not knowing what’s going to happen next or where I’ll be sleeping. I also like knowing that so far, I can cope with what comes my way. I think part of coping is being open to the good will of others, being patient, and being able to laugh. I like that I am in Mexico in this dry, dusty town in a broken-down motel with Lola. I like this a lot. It’s not really exciting; it’s more that it’s interesting and on the edge of exciting.

We will see what happens tomorrow. I plan on reaching the Emerald Coast above Vera Cruz. Then one more day in Mexico (my visa is only for five days); then one day, more or less in each of Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua, and Costa Rica. And maybe one day of camping in Panama.

I will remember this broken-down room, the fake tile floors, the toilet without a seat, the twin beds within which I would not sleep (sleeping bag instead, which I can trust), the green door—and Lola being her beautiful self sleeping on the floor while I write. I’m glad I stopped here. I vastly prefer camping, but this might be training for Central America. You can just pull over to a motel and get a room for $30.00, no hay problema con la perra.

So, we’ll get up six, be packed and have had breakfast by 7, and head out for Vera Cruz.

Basic import fee for car: $60.00.

Definitely having the original title helped. Didn’t need anything for the pet, but I wouldn’t try it without having the documents taken care of.

I would like to spend more time with the Aztec sites, but I feel slightly squeezed, so I’ll catch those on my way back and spend time in Belize. I also plan on driving back this way again—maybe for the Christmas gathering.

Well, that’s it for today. I am now into this nowhere motel space, reading to go to bed. I look forward to tomorrow. I’m flying blind.

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Saturday, May 27, 2017

Yesterday was an adventure. I was doing fine until the GPS mislead me—really, twice: I wasn’t following closely. The first time, I went farther inland than I should have. Added about an hour to my trip to get near the coast again. Then I got off again heading toward the industrial city of Tipania or something like that. Big disadvantage not having a physical map, and the google gps giving me strange instructions. Once I got in the city, I saw signs toward the Emerald Coast. Here was the mistake: about a half-hour before the city, I saw a nice hotel that I think either would have accepted dogs or let me camp.It was rustic,  in the country. About 3:00. Too early to camp, I  thought—and I had set my sight for the day on Coasta Esmerelda.

I got directions in town from a middle-aged man and he pointed me in the right direction—the one I was taking except I had started to worry about the excessive potholes. I couldn’t imagine this was the main route to Costa Esmeralda.

No reason to chronicle the subsequent missteps. Summary: found the toll road to Vera Cruz. They wouldn’t take dollars. Need pesos.  Some saint paid for me & I gave him 5 dollars. I knew there would be a drama at the exit. I got off at the first one and sure enough, there was trouble—no one down here accepts dollars. I gave a military man (the one who came over to see what the trouble was) a 20 and they let me through.

I got off quick, not knowing where the hell I was. I  thought if I kept driving country roads, I would find a hotel. No luck.

I ended in a bustling middle-size city—everyone in town for Friday night, the streets dark,  noisy, and narrow, the way Kerouac describes them: horns blaring, hundreds of motorcycles, loud music seemingly coming out of everywhere, people thronging the sidewalks and much of the street.

After driving around, dangerously, for about twenty minutes, I found a hotel—no, no dogs. The clerk told me where I could find a dog-friendly hotel about three blocks away (I think that’s what he said), but are you kidding? In a Saturday square of a Mexican town?

It was dark. It was clear I was getting nowhere, so we drove back out of town. Lola and I slept in the  country that night—in the car. I had to turn the air conditioner on every half-hour. I was afraid Lola would die from the heat. I would wake up and she would be panting. A couple of times, we took a half-hour walk in the night, the stars out, hot, no one near us.

This morning was a sweaty drama. We didn’t sleep well (duh?) and drove back into town at 7:30. It was like a sleepy French town—the only people moving were the ones washing down the streets. Otherwise, the sidewalks and streets were empty. It was kind of beautiful—like there had been a party, everyone had gone to bed, and in the morning, most people still sleeping but a couple of people were cleaning up the kitchen.

I found a place that had a  map of Mexico, but the woman needed pesos. I had to wait until 8:30 to talk to her. Her store didn’t open until then. I tried a couple others, but no luck. In Mexico, the mantra is wait—patiently.

I sat down in the now bustling square to wait for the 9:00 opening for the bank. I talked in my broken Spanish with a lovely young woman, perhaps in her early thirties, who likes dogs. She has five rescued dogs in her house. Her heart was as big as the world.

She wanted to practice her English, me Spanish, so we passed a pleasant half-hour half talking to each other. We talked about past dogs, explained to each other what we were doing in this part of the world (I think she was from Honduras) in spite of the fact that I had very little idea of why I was traveling through Mexico without a map.

I went back to the bank at nine, putting Lola in the car with the AC on. The bank doors were still closed. I asked some people near by, “Porque el banco no está abierto?”

One of the hombres pointed toward the sign and said, “Es Sábado. En Sábado, abierta a las diez.”

So I rescued Lola from the car and went back to the square. My new friend was still there, so we picked up the conversation. Her cousin was supposed to meet her a nine, but sometimes her cousin, she explained, has a difficult time organizing herself in the morning. They were also going to Costa Esmeralda for the weekend. She told me about some good camping places there. I would have offered to give her cousin and her a ride, but she was a fairly big woman, and with my camping gear, my two bikes, my two guitars, my amplifier, and suitcase, I barely in my Prius had room for Lola.

So I’m back at the bank at ten. I strap Lola, whining in the heat, to a pole and get in a long line—people had apparently started lining up at  9:30. Finally, I get to the window and the clerk tells me, “No puedo cambiar en este banco en Sábado. Solo la Aztec National cambia por pesos en Sábado.”

I should have predicted this. I get directions to the Aztec National as best I can, unstrap my whining Lola and away we go in the sweltering heat in search of the bank.

Because I couldn’t interpret the teller’s directions all that well, I rely on my general practice, stop and keep asking, “Donde esta la Aztec National/” pretending that I’m understanding but generally relying on gestures and pointing fingers.

Lola is dying by the time we find it. Again, I have to tie her to a pole. She begins yelping right away, but I have no choice. Necesito pesos.

There is another line (Lola yelping outside; I feel like I’m a mother who left her baby in a carriage outside in the heat). But the line moved quickly, and after five minutes, the clerk listened patiently to my broken Spanish request, and said, “Passaport?”

So back to get the passport in my car. I come back, Lola again, dying, tied to the pole, yelping. I get money; then go an buy a map.

I look at the map—a difficult map to read, scripted in 3 point letters. But I have money and some sense of where I am now. It was a hard morning. But I got what I clearly needed: a map and pesos. I should have mapped my trip and printed it out or bought physical maps of Mexico, Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, El Salvador,  and Panama. As is, I’m going by ear. When I get to Guatemala, I ask, How do I get to Honduras?  And I go from there. I thought there was one road all the way down—the Pan American highway; this is definitely not the case, or if there is, I couldn’t find it.

The afternoon at Costa Esmeraldo was perfect. We got there at three and had a great ocean-side campsite for 130 pesos. It is now 7:30 as I am writing.

Lola loved the ocean, chasing and biting the waves.  Lola is being being such a good dog: she is already sticking to me like glue. Ella es mia compañera.

The other people in the campsite are families, boyfriends/girlfriends. I am very much a solo—a solo (with Lola) traveling. I like this. I would like to have more information on where I’m going, but part of the trip is not knowing.

I wish I could camp like this all the way, but through Central America, that’s not likely. I think I will at most spend 4-5 days, staying in hotels traveling through CA. We can also sleep in our car, as we did last night. And then we will be in Cocoloche.

I wish Ali, my perfect dog, were still with me. That wish links back to Sarah. But here we are. I am getting very good at being alone.  As I thought it would, traveling helps. It gives you no choice.

I wonder why Hemingway shot himself. For a man who lived such a brave life, committing suicide seems soooo out of  character. I will want to read his letters when I get back to wherever I’m going to be living. There must have been clues in his final letters. What could be so bad that you would think you don’t want to be alive?

I know that’s a stupid question: I mean for a famous writer with a million friends, more wealth than he needs, the world his oyster? I am not a famous writer, and I don’t have a million friends—although I have a lot of them—and I would have to ask that question if I thought I would be better off dead. I am here with Lola; I hear the ocean; we are in our tent; I have nothing to worry about. The worst thing is how much I miss Sarah—but losing one’s partner is a part of life. And no partner would want the leftover to mourn so much that he or she would want to die. I know I felt that in the first year, but I also knew that period would start to fade and that my work would be make good use of the rest of my life.  He must have known he was a coward.

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Sunday, May 28, 2017

It was about an 8 hour drive today. It was a good drive. I stopped at about 5:30, started at 9. I was aiming for Villahermosa but stopped at Aqua Dulce, an empty camp spot at Rancho Dos Hermanos—really, the rancho is an extended shack composed, like most Mexican roadside shacks, of corrugated steel sheets.

A very nice man came limping out with a cane (he was about 40), and said, basically, anywhere for doscientos pesos. I am next to a Penex gas station. I’ll go into the XXGO or whatever it is and have coffee in the morning. Then I’m on my way. I want to write for a bit tonight, and then I’ll warm up some soup and go to bed. I can really put up my tent anywhere and be close to contented. It gives me a personal space—more so than a hotel, particularly the kind I stay in that permit a dog.

On my drive today—no GPS and a poor excuse for a map (and no maps after Mexico)—I thought of my trip with Sarah across North Africa—an even dicier expedition. Broken down motorcycle and a two-person tent with no maps. Just going from one town/country to another. What a wonderful woman she was. That was an adventure; well, others our age hitchiked. We rode a motorcycle and camped in a tent.

So I’m doing a bit of the same thing on this trip. I will know after this trip how to drive to Panama—and I will probably do it again.

The people are universally patient with my poor Spanish. I get help everywhere. They are interested in an older man traveling with a dog with two bikes on his car to Panama. I like doing it because it’s just a strange thing to do.

I watch the compass: as long as I’m going south or southeast, I’m all right. Really, I’m traveling from city to city. I just know I’m going through Guatemala, Nicaragua, Honduras, and Costa Rica to get to Panama (I think in that order).

A certain kind of luck: I did buy a book on camping in Mexico-and that led me to my cool camping on Costa Esmeralda last night and to this place in the middle of nowhere Mexico tonight.

I’m not worried about border crossings or bandits. Mostly, I’m concerned about a good place to land each night. And I know that Lola and I can always sleep in our car.

This camping site in Rancho de los Dos Hermanos: well, really, I like it. I’m here alone. I picked my perfect site on the scarce grass, and the night is quiet.

I’ll have to research tomorrow—where I’m going in Guatemala and where to cross. I’m excited to cross out of Mexico and into Guatemala and experience the countryside and people.

Mexico doesn’t seem that different from the U.S.—just infinitely more impoverished with no apparent reason for the poverty. Characteristic: Mexicans seem content with dirt; I guess they don’t want to waste water on grass. With few exceptions, the Mexican lawn is dirt.

I had soup tonight; it was good, heated on my backpacking stove, but I had to cook inside because of the fire ants surrounding my tent, There were a few predictable accidents that Lola happily lapped up.

Guatemala tomorrow. I’ll have to ask for the best route to San Sebastian (I think). I think I’ll head for San Cristobel. I wish I had a Central America map—stupid of me not to get one. I’ll ask at the border. Well, I just say I’m heading for Panama City; what’s the best road? This has more or less worked so far. I got to Aqua Dulce with not very much trouble.

I think of all of this as a challenge, certainly pushing me out of my comfort zone and into the unknown. I have to have a significant amount of trust in other people and in myself to do this. It’s really a trust in the world. Go out there; do something; you will survive. People will respond to you. It’s clear: you don’t learn much by staying home.

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Monday, May 29, 2017

Lovely day today. I’m always asking, so before I left Agua Dulce (not entirely an accurate description—I think I choose as my camping spot a place over the huge septic tank, an area replete with fire ants. I paid too much to the crippled Mexican).

At any rate, camped out, left by 8. In the station, I asked to check on the way I was going; a gentleman who spoke English said—no, don’t take that way. Very mountainous and you don’t want to be there at night (implication—banditos). He pointed me back to Coatzacoalcpos, take the speedway to Arriga and from there to Tappachula.

Even this route was extremely mountainous—the other route must have been the Mexican Alps. I saw them in the distance: if there had been a moon out, they would have touched the moon.

I was hoping to cross the border today, but I got lost in Arriga and then filled my tank, leaving me with very few pesos, so I went into central Arriga and spent a half-hour changing dollars. I couldn’t find the 1000 in 20s that I put some place, so I had to march in and give the lady 100 1s and ask for pesos. I occasioned a good deal of hilarity among the bankers.  Total time lost: at least one hour. So I knew I wouldn’t make the border in time—warnings were don’t hit borders at the end of the day when the banks at immigration are closed. So I decided to drive easy and look for a hotel (it was heavily raining and I didn’t have any notes on campsites in this part of Mexico) at about five.

I drove off to the right on a road leading to the beach about 20 miles west of where I am now (Chiapoles—or something like that) in order to walk Lola. I took a couple of pictures: it was a lovely little ranch, well taken care of, excessively green, the brahman cows grazing among luxurious grass. The owner (I think) came walking down the road after I had pulled off to the side and started walking Lola. He had a face that said he was at ease with life. I chatted for a few minutes and he dicho, Es muy precioso ici. He was pleased. The place was lovely. I would have loved to camp there but didn’t ask—going too far, but I’ll bet he would have welcomed me in his yard.

I had missed a couple of lovely hotels in the country and drove on, hoping I might find others. I didn’t. Around five, I saw hotels advertised—like turn here. So I turned and drove into this interesting Mexican town, perhaps Chiapas. I chose one of the hotels; no one at the desk. I rattled the bars a bit and a señora came out. She was reluctant to accept an hombre with a dog, but she met Lola and conceded. So I have this lovely little room for 370 pesos (22 dollars). My car is protected in a locked garage. She just wanted to make sure that Lola wouldn’t pee or sleep on the bed (hace caca.)

I walked around town, took a couple pictures, and then went to the place she had suggested I could get take-outs and eat with Lola in my room. The people there (as is generally the case) were extremely friendly, gradually accepting Lola into the patio while I ate.

Sabrina, the young waitress (17) wanted to talk to me—to know everything about what I was doing (likewise, I think). There were other women around who wanted to talk to me while I ate. They were very curious about a gringo who barely speaks Spanish driving with a dog from New Jersey to Panama. This is the general reaction of the police and soldiers, too. I have had no trouble with stops. Advice for travelers: grow old, take a dog, two guitars and two bikes (one mountain, one road). You will have no trouble. And at each stop, dice, mi piace su pais. Es precisio.

So I had dinner with Lola wiggling her way from the outside to the inside. Some loud Mexican music was on the jukebox, and I said to the three or four women who were having a good time talking to me (and me not understanding) that I play the guitar, like to sing, and write my songs. So they all wanted to hear and asked me to get my guitar and sing for them.

After dinner, I went back to my room, got my acoustic guitar and sang for them “Don’t Take the Painted Bus” and “I Go Where I Want To.” That was fun. Then I came back to this cute little room and here I am.

Guatemala in the morning. I got my GPS sort of working, so I have a basic idea of where I’m going. Just hug the coast. I might be able to cross Guatemala (or close) tomorrow and reach Honduras

This trip is far more expensive than flying.

I’ll put the go-pro on tomorrow. I should have done it today. The drive was lovely, the last third in the rain.

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Tuesday, May 30, 2017

I wish I had put on the gopro. Today was strange.. Finding the immigration station was impossible. Finally, one of the women I had asked for the thirteenth time volunteered to go with me. Margarita got me to and through the Mexican frontera. She wasn’t what I later came to call professional border rats, the people who in various ways make money off the complications with border crossings in Central American.

When Margarita and I got to the Guatemalan side of immigration, another man hooked onto the train. This was my first experience with this kind of border crossing. This man had the air of being someone officially connected to la immigracíon who was just there to help me through, but through the interactions between Margarita and him, I could tell what was going on: he was honing in on her territory. I should have told him to bug off but he was better at the job so I kept them both.

Basically, it cost me 26.00 to get through the maze of permissions and fees (which I later learned was peanuts).  I also paid Margarita and the other man each $15.00. The process took about three hours. Without question, when one is in a car and speaks very little Spanish, one needs to hire help. I wouldn’t have made it through on my own. One goal for my time in Panama is on my return, I will be able to do this on my own

Margarita rode with me to a hotel/bar about five miles on the other side of the Guatemalan border. I asked her to come with me for the rest of the way to Panama.

Before getting out, she said forcefully, “Si hay policia en el camino quien tratan detenerse, no pare. No son policías verdadero. Son rattos.”  She told me this several times. Even with my minimal Spanish, I got the message. Don’t stop on the road for people who pretend to be police. Later, I had to rethink this. Why did she tell me that?

So, here’s the driving in Guatemala: no such thing as a yellow line. Basically, you pass and force the oncoming traffic to the side. It’s totally crazy—like there is no right or left.  A bit like bumper cars. And everyone’s dodging the giant potholes like a spaceship going through an asteroid belt. One should carry a spare tire and rim and a spare front and rear axel. My poor Prius is being severely overtaxed.

And here’s the thing: When you’re driving REALLY slowly (about 15 mph) behind someone, you can dodge the deep potholes. But if you think you have to get somewhere (the majority of the traffic), you veer out into the anything-goes central lane. When you do this, you have to gun it because you can’t depend on the incoming traffic to flirt with the disaster of the shoulder (but mostly they do); because you are keeping your eyes on the oncoming traffic and the cars you are passing, you lose sight of the road and WHAM!, at fifty you hit a foot deep pothole. So driving is an adventure, to put it lightly. In Guatemala, I  averaged about 30 mph.

Sooooo, I didn’t get very far today. Then I had money problems.

I kind of gave up on the 1000 dollars I couldn’t find. I changed everything I had into Guatamalian dinero at the border, which ran out fast, permissos, paying Magarita and el senor, and a tank of gas. I thought I might have enough left for a hotel, but I wasn’t sure, so after a few hours of fighting potholes, I thought I had better get some more Guatemalan money, and got off the road to go into the mad town of Mazantenango.

I had been listening to Kerouac’s and Cassidy’s criss-crossing the United States (they hadn’t yet made the left turn toward Mexico)—they at least had each other, I thought, to figure out what to do. Two minds are simply better than one; and Lola wasn’t much help.

The traffic in Mazantenango was crazy. I went from one bank to another to get more quatzels—everyone was helpful, wondering about this aging gringo with a dog in his car, two bikes on top, trying to find a bank (not to rob). Finally, I found the right bank and dos hombres with shotguns saved a spot for me to park (after I had circled two or three time, by which time I think I had become a local celebrity). I parked and started looking for the $300 I had left in ones. Nope: I couldn’t find them either. So I unpacked the car and found them with my 1000 in 20s in a bag. Jesus. I was relieved. I had really thought I had lost one thousand dollars.

I got the exchange and headed (I hoped) out of town. I asked several people for el major camino a El Salvador (as if I knew I should get there). Entonces, una bella senora talked to me in English. She gave me directions, and I said I would like to stay in a hotel con mia perra. She told me about two hotels. I followed her directions and got lost. But she and her husband were on a motor scooter and had followed me. She redirected me to a hotel outside town and had me follow them to it.

I was very jealous. This was a lovely woman and handsome husband perhaps in their early sixties. They had lived in Los Angeles for twenty years—their daughter still lives there. They were very pleasant people who are lucky to have each other. I have this same response when I see older couples in airports—and they clearly are still in love.

I went to the hotel out of town they had recommended. That hotel said no pets. They recommended the other hotel in town my new friends had recommended. I went back through serious traffic, again getting lost, to the hotel in el central. No pets.

So by asking again and again for directions por el camino a El Salvador, I found this hotel not far outside town that accepts pets. It’s actually lovely. About $25.00. You would be crazy not to stay here.

I have no idea of what will happen tomorrow.

Let me add: the countryside is beautiful, like jungle. Heather and Bronson would love the jungle vegetation, the Guatemalan Alps on my left, the Pacific on my right. Pero los pobres line the road.

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Wednesday, May 31, 2017

Another day of adventure that ended well. I had coffee & mapped out my trip at that wonderful hotel. Then I repacked and had a very pleasant drive to the border, working with the goPro for much of the way.

The border was highly unpleasant. I am sure my guide screwed me for $50.00, telling me that insurance for my bikes, guitars, and personal belongings was necessary (it was originally $80.00 for one day in El Salvador). Well, at any rate, he got me through in about two hours—finished at about 4.

Borders are awful. You would think these Central American countries would court tourism, but the border experiences are designed to screw tourists, make entry and exit a nightmare, and provide unscrupulous employment. At any rate, I have learned with each experience—and that is the point. To simplify the process, I agreed to a day visa—a bit of a risk. I have to be out of El Salvador tomorrow.

I decided to take the coastal rather than the more practical inland route. How beautiful! That was a dicey decision (like most of mine) because night was falling. But the drive was beyond beautiful, the road clinging to the hillside, the ocean a straight drop of one thousand feet below: the Big Sur of El Salvador.

I made it almost to La Libertad. Toward the end of the Big Surish drive, I found a few hotels—the first three wouldn’t accept Lola. But the third, a kind of surfer hotel, did. It is a bit expensive (40.00 for a small room—joke) but the night was here, and Lola and I piled in. I am now waiting for dinner in their outdoor restaurant, the Pacific surf below me.

This trip is total wonderful. I would do it two times over again.

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Thursday, June 01, 2017

This is in the morning before taking off for Honduras. I just pass through the lower tip. I’ll leave here at nine; get to the border at one, and then drive for a few hours (probably two hours at the border).

I am sitting in the open air restaurant overlooking the surf. This is too tooo much. I posted on facebook a couple of videos, one with Lola playing in the ocean. She loves the surf. She is really going to enjoy Cocoloche. I could let her play freely--she sticks to me now, but the surf here matches Playa Venao. 

Everyone here knows about Playa Venao.

I understated the nature of this hotel last night: it is a surfer's hotel, It looks as if quite a few Californian's are here. I'm the only non-surfer, but I get points for being an old man with two bikes driving from Philadelphia to Panama,.

The people are cool here. They let Lola sit beside me while I eat a major breakfast--that comes with the price of the room. I would like to stay here a few days, but I have a 24 hour visa for El Salvador, so I have to get going. It's about a four-hour drive from here to the Honduran border. 

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Friday, June 02, 2017

First, that trip between the two volcanoes:  The theme, as with my thoughts on border rats, is the degree to which your past experiences can overdetermine your perceptions of current events.

I wanted to get back to the GPS suggested route to the north because I had lost my map of El Salvador (the border rat got me one). I saw on my feeble GPS this small road running (really, spiraling) north between two volcanoes (the tallest: Volcan de San Miguel). It looked like a 45 minute drive (and I knew I couldn’t make much of a mistake, because I had to get to the border by three or four at the latest).

The road quickly became choked with bikes, motorcycles, people walking. I knew this was going to be slow travel—thinking, it’s very interesting, but . . . .

I came to a village. The road turned to cobblestone, narrow streets on which two cars could barely pass. I was almost through town when I saw this large tent structure stretching across the street—to give shade to the workers, I supposed. I was, thank god, driving at about 5 mph and suddenly the tent moved as if by earthquake away from my car. Jammed on the brakes, knowing, damm! my bikes on the roof of my car hit it.

I backed up and the tent settled, albeit a few inches further to the north. A motorcyclist came up to my driver’s window, took his helmet off, and said in English, “Your bikes hit the tent.”

“Creo que si,” I said, backing up, “Necesito encontrar una otra ruta”

He said, “Your bikes broke the tent. You had better talk to somebody.”

I am sure he was speaking English, me, terrible Spanish.

“Si,” I said, backing up and closing the window. In my mind:  Gotta make the border. Minimal damage. Can’t speak Spanish very well. Hombres might claim excessive damage, ask for 300 dollars or so. I offer 20. No, tres ciento dollares. Police. A small riot. Miss my border date.

I keep backing up, turn and around, go back down the cobblestone block, turn left, go two blocks in order not to go by the hit and run scene, turn left again,  but the street turns into a dirt path up the mountain, so I turn around and head back, deciding to get the hell of Dodge.

I’m a little surprised that the motorcyclist isn’t behind me. I’m thinking of all the possibilities as I’m heading back: police notification, high alert, easy to get me: someone must have taken down my license plate and by this time, everyone in El Salvador knows about the red car with two bikes on the roof. But I really couldn’t afford a two-hour delay, so I keep driving—a bit guilty for not checking the damage and offering to pay for any, but I was on a survival trip.

I thought maybe the police at the border might be looking for a car with two bikes on the roof, so I thought I would stop before the border and find some way of getting the bikes in the car. Good idea.

After about a two-hour drive, my GPS showed me near the border. I was going to stop when I saw the trucks lined up, and suddenly I was there and surrounded by 15 to 20 men, shouting at me. I rolled down the passenger window: they were all yelling something like, Irvin, Irvin, blah blah blah at blah blah blah. You might imagine what I was thinking: everybody knew about the tent and these were El Salvadorian vigilantes.

I let one of them get in the front seat. He passionately showed me his identification, still shouting my name, but I could tell, he was trying to get me to hire him to get through the border.  He doesn’t know about the tent, I think.

Highly relieved, I asked, “Cuantos?”

You decide, he said. (they all say that—but they also have other ways of making their money and the get aggressive if you offer less than thirty dollars).

Alberto, we’ll call him, told me to drive up to the soldier/policeman checking passports and vehicle permits. I did—still holding my hit-and-run breath while he checked my passport and car papers. Alberto had said something about how this would go easy if I just slipped three dollars inside the vehicle permit papers.  My first bribe. I did this and the soldier happily waved us on.

There is so much to the story, starting with his introducing me to Alberto#2, who also started working for us. There are several border rat strategies involved. Here are some:

o   Number one: confuse the mark (the tourist)

§  One way to do this: have two people working. You say you are doing this to make things go more quickly, but really you are confusing the mark; one of you is with the mark at one window; the other is doing another thing (like supposedly taking care of the car import) at another window.

§  Get his papers; you handle them. Having the mark’s papers renders him helpless.

§  Get him to give you the fees—saying you’ll take care of everything. You of course tell him the fees are more than they are.

o   Set up a side show.. A pretense that something has to be taken care and for which he has to pay. There is where you really make your money. Like that insurance scam: me paying 50.00 for one day of insurance on my bikes and guitars.

The El Salvador customs was easy; then we drove to the Honduras side, where Alberto 2 joined us. Alberto 2 went to one window for customs while Alberto 1 and I worked on the car import and Lola issues. There were trips to the copy office and a two or three other offices before we got back to the customs, where Alberto 2 joined us and said the immigration was now all taken care of  and took us to a small office outside, where Alberto 2 said we could get all my papers, my passport and pay all the fees.

This was a small, seedy office. Hot, with fans on. A few men were hanging around inside. An hombre at a dirty desk, littered with papers and a laptop, had my papers and passport. He told me I have two fees for some functions I didn’t understand: one for $30.00; one for $35.00, which I paid. Alberto 2 promised me this is the last set of fees. I’m done.

I suspected the office and the person at the desk were fake. Alberto 1 or Alberto 2 paid with his own money the immigration fee (probably $20.00), then got all the papers/passport and so on, and set this third guy up as another immigration officer. So I got taken again.  This probably is how A1 and A2 make their money. They give the guy 10.00 to pretend to be an immigration official.

I paid Alberto 1 and Alberto 2 each $15.00. They were  visibly disappointed with their salaries. But I’m out of there.

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Saturday, June 3, 2017

This trip has cost a lot, but I have experienced and come to know each country viscerally. By traveling though, you feel each country. Honduras is no longer just a name to me; it’s an experience. Yesterday, I saw a remarkable young man who was clearly walking his way through Central America. Dreadlocks to his waist. Huge backpack. Sandals. No shirt. In charge of himself. His experience is worth an M.A. at the least. We will hear from this young man.

Nicaragua is lovely and forward leaning. You can see clearly the evidence of a communitarian way of thinking versus the capitalist version of each person for herself. Beautiful country. Honduras, with wonderful possibilities, seemed stuck in a peasant economy. The difference lies in the roads, the appearances of the fields, the way people seem to gather in groups along the road, the character of the strips on either side of the road, the houses you see from the road. Honduras seems like a lost country—at least from what I saw crossing the southern tip. I don’t think I drove along one smooth road: they were all unmarked and pockmarked with deep potholes—ok, maybe not a foot, but at least six inches, some three feet wide. These weren’t simply occasional: what was occasional was a smooth section running perhaps thirty feet. The strips on the side were thin, usually descending steeply into ditches littered with garbage. The small, dirty houses were close to the road, frequently being nothing more than sheets of correlated steel somehow tied together. Starving, ragged, pregnant dogs everywhere. Rarely did I see people gathered in groups along side the road.

Nicaragua was the opposite. The highways were wide and smooth—universally. The fields were large and well-tended. The strips along the roadside were wide and universally cut clean either by mowers, several of which I saw, or machetes. The houses in the country were small, but freshly painted and surrounded by gardened landscapes, flowers, even, which I never saw in Honduras. And I saw a huge windmill project, stretching for miles next to the ocean. I frequently saw people gathered in groups and chatting alongside the road. As in most Central American countries, cows and horses grazed unfenced alongside the road; in Honduras, the grazing was random; in Nicaragua, it seemed controlled with someone usually nearby.  You can tell a lot about how a country is being run simply by driving through it.

Here’s the drama of my night in Nicaragua.  I saw several hotels around 4:00. I’m thinking, I would like to drive more—rather be in Cocoloche than any hotel, so I drove on. 5:00—into Managua, coming out of the mountains like Kerouac, Cassidy, and Frank into the city lights of Mexico City. I was looking for any hotel, pero nada. It was turning dark.

Remembering my experience in that Mexican city, I decided not to go into downtown Managua, a significant city, so I continued on a road out of Managua, back into the mountains. It was dark now, lots of traffic and heavy fog. Mountain curves. No, this was not the way to be driving. The lights from the oncoming traffic, which was heavy, would blind me. I would slow to a crawl, hoping I was staying on the road.

I tried several hotels: no, no perros.

Leaving one of the hotels, one man, coming out of the hotel with me, said there were hotel con los perros, quizás,  diez derrocho—10 kilometers ahead.

I didn’t take chances. I looked at the first Auto-hotel (a new concept: a place to park your car and have a cement-enclosed room connected to the car park.).   I think he was asking $40 for this parking space and cell (actually, the cell was attractive).

I thought $40.00 for a cell was a bit much; so I went down the road and got the same thing for $12.

The clerk wanted to know for how many hours. I said, Una noche.

“Por quantos?”

“Solo yo, y mi perro.”

“Bien. Doce dolores.”

He was a young man, very nice. But I got the idea: when I turned on the TV, it went to some video of incredibly pedestrian pornography.  You had to work hard to get to the news.

When I was showering in the morning, I saw three items in the bathroom: one soap; two condoms. I took the condoms, just in case.

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Sunday, June 4, 2017

Each day brings predictable and unpredictable situations. I will write more at length about the predictable ones: the border crossings. Since Mexico, I think I have crossed one border per day. I anticipate  a border crossing as a twelve-year-old might think of the next visit to the dentist who has scheduled a non-anesthetized filling. I told Heather that I think of these events as a problem to be solved—but really, they are unsolvable. Each time, I think I have the protocol schemed out and ways of not being scammed by the border rats, but I haven’t gotten close to the solution—maybe the Panama border.  But I doubt it.

I look forward to coming back with I hope much improved Spanish, which won’t get me even (these border rats have worked on far smarter people than me), but it will be more of a contest. One of my future book projects: turn social anthropologist and do a deep structured study of the culture of border rats. They are interesting people, just trying to make a reasonable living off the marks, of which I am one.

I have way too much to say about this. Well, let me give you today’s scene:

After George, the uninvited border rat on the Costa Rican side (you generally have to have one for each side of the border—or at least that’s the way they work it), had more or less gotten me through the Costa Rica side after 1.5 hot hours, he guides me back to the Nicaraguan border (says he made a mistake about the direction) and wants me to pay him there (his tip, the amount on which I was supposed to decide).  I say no fucking way. You get me across and into Costa Rica, or no dinero.

A lot of cross-talk here. I turn around, head back to Costa Rica, stop and say, Ok, you want to get out, hasta la vista, no dinero.

This conversation happens several times on our way back to the Costa Rican border, several times, me stopping and saying ok, no quiere ir conmigo, hasta la vista.

For reasons I think I understand, he got more frantic as we approached the Costa Rican border. Like very frantic. Me stopping right before the border and saying again, ok, you don’t want to complete the trip, get out.

What a scream. He stays in, visibly upset. We get across the border, no problem—me wondering what his big deal was (but I think I know).

So, ok, I’m across.

He says what’s my tip?

I count out 14 dollars.

He goes into a hissy fit. No, no, no, no. Mucho mas. Sesenta (60) dolloras.

Me: Are you out of your cabeza????. Ok, I’ll give you 15. (I had given the Nicaraguan border rat 15.)

George is incensed. Won’t take 15.  Needs 60.

So we go into this thing (great Spanish practice for me). I say you said in the beginning whatever I decided, and now you demand $60.00!!!!! Usted esta loco! I again invite him to get out if he doesn’t like my tip.

He says, Ok, I go. But you’re going to have some trouble a few miles up the road (now I see why he didn’t want me to get across the border before we had this discussion).

This discussion went on some time with threats and counter threats, including my command, Get him, Lola! This is too funny. So I gave him $20.00. El dijó “Usted es hombre fuerte,”and we bumped fists.

A little later, I had my second bribing experience—this one a bit more serious. The traffic was slow in Costa Rica. I passed on a double yellow line before a bridge, on the other side of which a cop pulls me over. Nice guy, really. I practice my Spanish. He tells me about how he has to write out a $650 ticket for this very bad driving.

“Lo siento. No tengo seis ciento y cinquanta dolores.”

Some conversation  about who I am and what I am a crazy gringo is going driving through Costa Rica with two bicicletas sobre el carro.

Al fin, el: “Que podremos hacer aqui?”

Yo: “Lo siento, mucho. Estaba mía culpa. Vienti dolores?

El: “Quarenta.”

Yo: “Está bien.” Bump fists.

Monday, June 5, 2017

Today was highly unusual: almost every decision I made (maybe all of them) was the right one. I woke early in this kind of ok hotel with a lot of lawn field space so that I could practice with Lola chasing the tennis ball (no—Lola wasn’t throwing it). Then I had coffee and breakfast in the hotel (really, the rooms were casitas); the owner letting Lola lie beside me as I ate in a far corner of the open air (which most of them here are) restaurant.

We packed and were off by 8. Everything today was simply a beautiful drive. In part as a consequence of my crossing the double yellow line yesterday and my decision not to cross the border today, I drove easy, averaging about 40 mph and getting 55 mpg.  And the drive was simply beautiful, the best one I’ve had. I can’t emphasize enough the value of traveling through a country—it is better by far to walk through it as the young man I saw yesterday was—then comes biking; then comes driving. Last of all comes reading about it (there’s a message about literacy there).

When I’m driving through these new lands, I get into a space. I could drive forever. I just posted on facebook a video where Lola and I stopped.

Lola has been terrific. In some ways, she is trouble because I have to go through a few hotels to get one that will accept dogs and she complicates the border crossings, but she has been terrific. She’ll wait in the car for three hours (I keep the car running and AC on) while I negotiate the border. She has learned to stick with me, and she knows her new name. I snap my fingers and say her name and generally, she comes running. She is an easy dog to love.

My timing today was  good. I didn’t want to ruin my day by crossing into Panama in the late afternoon, so I decided to start looking for a hotel at around three. At about 3:00, I was stopped at a checkpoint. I had a great conversation about Costa Rica, biking, dogs, my daughter and the reforestation of Panama seca with the police while the traffic lined up behind me. Thinking of my yesterday narrative: I have used any encounter as a chance to speak in Spanish. Even with George and the cop who wanted a bribe: for the latter, I started to tell him the story of my life and why I am where I am at 72 years of age driving to Panama with my dog. I think he came down from a bribe of 100.00 to 40.00 because I was hurting his ears.

So here was the good call. At about 2:00, heavy rainstorms hit. I had to drive at about 30 mph. This was a serious drench. At about 3:30, I saw this hotel in the country (they are usually the preferred ones), Hotel Impala.

I stopped and asked about el perro.

Patricía checked with el chefe—and as long as la pera no caca, we were in. $20.00. This is the best hotel deal I’ve had. I’m pretty close to no-bucks. I started with 1400. I have about 120 left. That should get me across Panama.

Tuesday, June 6

Little did I know (or little do I know). The border crossing at Panama was the worst. No problem leaving Costa Rica, but at Panama, I ran into the border rats, all of whom seemed to know about me. The rat who was most aggressive, not paying attention to my assertion, “No necessito su ayudado,” saw my dog and said, “They make you pay $160.OO for your dog. I can get it done for $80.00. You give me $80.00, and I have a guy who will sign the papers for that” (a rough translation of his mixed Spanish and English.)

Right. So I’m supposed to fall for this claim that Panama will make me pay $160.00 just to bring my dog—and that I should give him $80.00 to bribe some official to sign the papers for half of that?

I told him again, “No necesito su ayudado,” and he walked away. I found what I thought would be the customs for Costa Rica and asked about this claim that I would have to pay $160.00 to take my dog into Panama. Although I didn’t understand the man’s reply, I thought he was saying he had never heard of that; there was also a young woman in the background who seemed to be looking at me and shaking her head. The man said I had to go through customs first, and he pointed to the other side of the street where there was a long line of people leading into a set of glass doors. “Duane (Customs).”

I went over to the line and asked an obvious gringo, “Habla ingles?” Of course he does (the young ones from England and Australia are easiest to spot); and he tells me, yes, this is the line for customs. And it is getting longer very quickly, as if a bus had pulled in.

At that point, the aggressive border rat was at my side again, and he tells me, “Come on. Follow me. I get you through right away.” He’s insistent; otherwise, I’ll be in this line for at least an hour. I considered, thinking about Lola, about this myth of paying for Lola.

This is a decision with consequences because if I go with him, I lose my place in line. There are already ten people behind me. I take a chance and go with him. Essentially, we just bypassed everyone in the line and went inside where people were lining up at different windows, once they got inside after their tenure in the single line stretching outside. The border rat, Rialdo, chooses the least populated line—about five in a line. I was out of there in ten minutes.

I would have paid for that alone, although I have never liked queue jumpers. So we got in the car and drove to the Panama side of the border, which was where the trouble began. There were some conversations between Rialdo and other border rats, some of whom seemed honest—mostly the older ones. I could tell that in their conversations (in Spanish) that Rialdo was explaining he had offered to get my dog in cheaper but that I had refused. Much shaking of heads at el gringo.

So we got  to the animal portion of the gauntlet. Rialdo introduced me to a gentleman who looked as if he were an actual official—he wore a white shirt on which was affixed a badge. A crowd had formed around me—it’s hard to tell in the border crossings who is a border rat and who’s a real official. Rialdo told me that White Shirt was in charge of the veterinarian portion of immigration. White Shirt speaks a little English and tells me how important it is not to try to get around the requirements (there has to be some kind of game going on here with Rialdo, who was saying I should do precisely that, standing right there in apparently a good relationship with this official).

So I complained about the high cost of bringing a pet in but said I will pay—however, I didn’t have that much cash left (140 for one portion; 15 for another portion; and 10 for another). “Puede consiguir mas dinero del Banco—es cerca de aquí,” White Shirt told me.

So Rialdo took me to the Bank. The scene there was funny. I have to get by the guard with his AK-47. For that, I have to get through the scanner. Well, I have metal knees and a metal shoulder. In addition, my backpack set off a million alarms. In there, I had several problematic items, but the most serious were a pair of scissors and a 5 inch, heavy duty fixed blade knife that I use for camping. These items and my metal body did not go over very well, but with some explanation that “Yo voy a campar con tenta atrás de Mexico y Americana Centra, y por eso, tengo que tener una cuchillo como este,” he let me inside. So to the window, where the clerk explains that I can’t get money there. I have to use the ATM machine.

It is very hot. Lola has been in the car for an hour. I tried the ATM machine. It didn’t accept either my Amazon credit card or my TD-Bank Debit card. Rialdo said let’s try the next bank down the street, which we did. After several tries, I got $500.00 out by using the debit card.

So back to the official, and he said he’ll start with the papers; in the meantime another hombre who said I have to pay $15.00 for something else says if I give him $15.00, he’ll start work on that. I said, no, let me take care of one thing at a time.

This was a nightmare, getting worse all the time. White Shirt got his paper work done in about a half-hour. Then Rialdo and this other guy took me too this place where I’m supposed to get this $15.00 certificate of some sort. We left the official looking section of Panamanian immigration and walked a couple of blocks through what looked like a poverty settlement, around a store on the side of which is a foot-wide path bordered by a chain link fence, went through a hole in another fence, and up a block to where there actually was another official looking office with a veterinarian sign of some sort over the door.

We went in and Rialdo explained my situation. I gave them all my papers (about fifteen for Lola). One of the men took them, left the room and went into a side room where he shut the door.

I waited and waited and waited. Rialdo was waiting outside. And I waited some more. Finally, I told la señora at the desk that I have left a dog in a car for two hours and I’m very worried about him.  “Casi terminado,” she said and went out of the front office and into the room with a closed door. And I waited and waited. Rialto was jumping around outside, saying he needed to talk to me—signaling with his hands, as if he doesn’t want anyone to hear what he is saying to me. Reluctant to leave my place at the window, I went outside for a moment: “Que quiere?” I ask.

Rialdo was very excited. I told him, “No quiero hablar ahora. Necessito terminar aquí.” This happened two or three times. I understood that he wanted his “tip.” But I didn’t want to get into a tip negotiation right then because I was focused on rescuing Lola and getting out of this hellhole of an unairconditioned office with a temperature of about 95. So I just shouted a few times through the doorway, “No comprendo.”

He was very frustrated and then suddenly he was gone. In retrospect, I now know how to handle the tip discussion. Actually, there are two ways. One can just keep saying no comprendo. If they speak some English, tell them when they bring up the tip, “I thought you were doing this just to help me. I didn’t know you expected to be paid.”

After about one hour, the $15.00 paperwork was through. The guy came out of the closed room and gives me the necessary papers, whatever they were. And a young man (the one who wanted me to give him the $15.00 to take care of it) escorted me back to the customs. On the way, we had to stop at another office where I had to pay $10.00 for something. I set my backpack down, fished out the papers and wallet, and paid them. They gave me a receipt and made the copies of all that we’ve done. So the young man and I left.  On the way back, he asked, “Donde está su amigo?” “Non estaba mi amigo,” I said, and he kind of smirked.

As we are saying adios to each other at the customs, I go pale. I didn’t have my backpack. I quite adequately conveyed my panic. Not only was my money in there; so was my passport. I forgot about the second office in my serious panic and asked him to take me back through the alley ways, the narrow path, the hole in the fence and back to the torture chamber. So we started off but stoped after a couple of blocks to go into that second office, where my backpack lay on the counter. People were smiling. Gracias, I say, and resisted looking in for my wallet to see whether I had about six hundred dollars there.

The young man got me back to the Panamanian customs, where I got into the car to have a conversation with Lola and check my wallet. Yes the money was there. So was the passport.

The line for customs was outside and the clerks were at windows, so I brought Lola with me as I went through this last step. It was a slow-moving line. Lola was panting. People were very nice in the line; they all wanted to pet Lola. I started talking to an Australian couple about my age (actually, I think everyone from about fifty on is my age). They lived in Costa Rica and also saved dogs. They also had a farm in Panama they were trying to sell. The woman told me they often have to come back and forth. She said, I have a list of everything I have to do to get through this. At the top of my list is “Take tranquilizers.”

I got to the window, declared my car, my guitars, my bicycles, paid about $40.00 and I was  off. The border guards barely looked at my papers.

I didn’t tell you all the dramas I had to go through. I just hit the high points.

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Chapter Seventeen

The End of the Road

The first twenty miles or so of Panama at the David border looks like an American strip mall. You don’t enter Panama and think, ahh, beautiful. You think, why am I coming here? After an hour or so of driving, somewhere around two, heavy rainstorms hit as I was driving up the mountains. The next three hours were in the high mountains with small clusters of houses every twenty miles or so. The rain would start and stop. The mountains were lush and as green as Ireland. In the late afternoon or early evening, we came down out of the mountains into Santiago. It was dark by the time we hit Chitre, the place where we took a left toward Pedasí and Cocoloche.

After Chitre, I started listening again to the end of On the Road. Jack, Neal, and Frank were nearing the end of their road trip, getting close to Mexico City. The point of being on the road is learning about other places, other people. When you stay home, you know only what you’ve been born into.

After Las Tablas, the roads at 9 O’clock at night are nearly empty. They are also for perhaps twenty miles unmarked; that is, you cannot see any line marking the middle of the highway or white lines marking the edges. Even with good headlights, you are guessing the edges of the road. It gets worse when you meet a car because even if the oncoming driver dims his or her lights, you are blinded by the lights and the darkness of the night. I thought, this is dangerous.

But after about twenty miles, the roads had lines on the sides and in the middle again, and I felt safer. It was getting late: I was hoping to make Cocoloche by ten. I passed though Pedasí, about 40 minutes from Cocoloche. No one was on this road. This was a deep country road, like driving on your own private road in the jungle. Quiet. Lovely. Deep, deep country. A house here and there.

Jack, Neal, and Frank have paused above Mexico City. This is where they were going, so in some sense, it was the end of their road. They get back in the car and descend into the lights of Mexico City. I remember the description of noise, cars without mufflers, motorcycles, honking, people weaving in and out, and Neal Cassidy shouting about this is what I’ve always dreamed of: “Everybody going!”

The end of my road was quiet, a country road like the one I grew up on. No one driving after dusk. I loved that part of the drive, me petting Lola and saying, we’re almost there.

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Epilogue

I have been in Panama for eight weeks now, living with Lola on fifteen acres on the edge of the Pacific. If you go straight on the road leading here, you reach Guanico in fifty-two kilometers. That is truly the end of the road. After that is a mountainous wilderness that goes for a hundred kilometers before one finds a road on the other side. Jim, one of my biologists friends. said most of that area is entirely unexplored. No one knows what’s there. He was talking about flora and fauna.

I would like to end this book with some kind of  resolution for others who have met death too early and others who will meet it. I have had my hard moments at Cocoloche, being perhaps too alone, but as one of my friends put it, you have leaned into loneliness—and that’s what I needed to do.

But it’s more than that; it’s leaning into the question of what we mean by being alive. For me, that means, learning. I haven’t entirely left behind the hope that I might once again fall in love, but the point of this trip has been to move forward on my own. That’s why I drove with Lola through Mexico and Central America.

I have a new friend, Mike. We were driving together into Pedasí for Sam’s birthday party. We were talking about gringos who stay and gringos who don’t make it here. Mike said that people who ache for their home in the States, Canada, England, Australia, never make it here because they can’t see Panama the way it is; instead, they are always comparing it to where they came from.

I understood his point, but I said, “I’ve loved the places I’ve lived, Richland Center, Madison, Dundas, Aromas, San Diego, Omaha, Baton Rouge, Haddonfield. I would go back to any of those places at the drop of a dime. But having these places I’ve loved has not kept me from loving the next place I’ve gone to. Maybe I don’t see it for what it is, but I see it within all the other places I have loved. It’s a different way of seeing.”

I don’t think I was entirely convincing—or clear. Maybe I was just practicing for my conversation with Cory.

Cory is one of Mike’s friends. She is probably my age but looks maybe ten years older. She is kind of bent over, heavily wrinkled, a heavy smoker. We picked her up on our way to Sam’s. Cory, an extremely nice person, asked me what I do.  I told her I write.

She was interested and told me about several other people in Pedasí who are writers. She ran through several people and then told me about her friend, Lori. “She loves to write. She’s just finishing her first novel. But she’s older, and maybe people won’t want to read what someone who is older writes.”

I gave her my usual spiel about writing being primary; having people read what you write might be cream on the strawberry, but writing is the strawberry. “Being older makes your writing richer,” I added. “When you write about an experience, your experience is layered in so many other experiences. Those other experiences add depth to your new ones.”

“You need to get together with Lori,” Cory said.

I love to read what my young students write—they perhaps write with an intensity that older writers like myself and Lori lack; but still, I think there is some truth to what I said. The relationships between experiences are more complicated, however, than that. I imagine time as flat, the experiences speaking to each other, adding richness the way people add to each other. Or the previous experiences, like the people we have loved, add to the new experiences we meet, but the new experiences speak backwards, adding to the ones we’ve had. Maybe this is where I’ve been going: being on the road does not mean leaving home. Home sticks with you. Like Sarah.

Goto Day 1: The Trip Back