I Need To Get Reais (Reais: Plural of Real, the currency of Brazil)

After leaving our killer view little hotel in Buenos Aires overlooking The Obelisco with my buddy Walt who has morphed into Imelda Marcos with the sheer amount of shoes he purchased for himself, we took a semi-cama (semi-bed), 20-hr bus ride to Puerto Iguazu. It was hot as Satan's armpit in Buenos Aires and Puerto Iguazu was worse. We then took a short 30-minute ride to the border of Argentina and Brazil where we got our exit stamp and my very expensive Brazilian visa (USD$110) got stamped. I am now legal in Brazil.

As we speak Carnaval is going on in Rio. This little border town of Foz do Iguacu is actually quite trendy. Everything is as cheap as Buenos Aires except for the internet. (Hence the shortness of this entry.)

I do not understand the words that are coming out of everyone's mouth.

I thought that Argentinian Spanish was bad enough but Brazilian Portuguese sounds to me like a cross between Vietnamese (with the nasal sounds), German, and Arabic. But in reality, when people speak very slowly, Portuguese sounds a lot like Spanish...

Thank goodness Walt can speak Spanish and Portuguese!

My internet time is running out so until Rio!!! So long!

Standard Deviation

I am very thankful for those who have been my friends for more than five years because they are the ones I know I can truly rely on. You know who you folks are. I could mention you all by name but that would mean I would piss off, as apparently I have already with my whining, those who are not included in the 5-year category. You will be in my thoughts as I travel. Cheers too to my new friend Harry (Walt's cousin) in Arequipa for being a super cool guy! Every Salud! I will now say to everyone will include a deep look into the eyes of the person I'm clinking glasses with! We certainly don't want to invite that kind of bad karma into our lives!

With the mushiness set aside, let me tell you know what inspired this journal entry title...

Thursday night in Arequipa, I was still suffering from altitude sickness. We have determined that the violence in my stomach was not viral or bacterial in nature because I wasn't getting cramps within seconds of eating anything. Apparently, as Walt's cousins Heidi and Harry concluded, one of the symptoms of altitude sickness was a sensitive stomach. I hadn't been able to eat anything richer than fish since I got to Cuzco. Arequipa wasn't as high up (1500 meters above sea level) than Puno (3800 meters ASL) but nevertheless, some people were known to suffer from altitude sickness there. Because of that, I found myself quite pained around dinnertime and I decided to crash at a very unusual 8:30 PM. It was at that time that my fate was decided.

The afternoon prior, Walt and I were at an internet cabina (cafe) where we bought tickets from Arica, Chile to Santiago, Chile. But Harry called up one of his travel agent buddies and hooked us up with tickets from Tacna, Peru to Cordoba, Argentina instead. Also, the connecting flight from Cordoba to Buenos Aires (Bs.As) would've only cost $35 which was cheaper than a bus ride from Cordoba to Bs.As. We were foolish not to take it.

I woke up the next day only to be told I was going to Cordoba instead and that I had to pay for my tickets ahorra mismo (now).

Walt's family is totally cool! Harry, Heidi, Tio Jaime, los chicos (kids) and everyone in Arequipa rocks! His folks from Lima and Puno kick butt too! They helped us get ready to literally run to catch our 5-hr bus ride to Tacna.

Something odd is happening to me.

All throughout my stay in Peru, I had been telling Walt that I was feeling already far, far away from my life in Los Angeles. It seemed like my birthday and Monster Ball was something that happened to someone else a million years ago. I got used to hearing Spanish spoken all around me and for a while there, I had developed "cracked sidewalk legs"-- akin to sea-legs or hiking-legs. I even told Walt that I didn't want to go back to the States anymore.

I realized too that I had become quite shallow--maybe shallow is not the word I meant to say, more like, more visceral. I had forgotten about some of my complexes and the issues I go to my therapist for. I found out that deep down inside, I really didn't have much time to worry about crap like the past, the people that piss me off, or the little things in life that stress me out needlessly. Running around with a 150 lb. backpack strapped to your back to catch a bus certainly changes your perspective and priorities.

And speaking of being visceral...

Cordoba, Argentina:

In Che Guevarra's city of birth I noticed this: I see white people. All the time. They're everywhere.

Not that I'm complaining or making some sort of racist remark here. It's just that all throughout my trip down these continents, I had been seeing all sorts of people of mixed heritage or of indigenous heritage. It's very odd for me to all of a sudden find myself in a country that's European. Completely. Todos. It made me make a double-take. I also lost my ability to speak and understand the Spanish spoken here. Argentinian Spanish defies tons of rules I had learned up until Peru. I was clearly understood until Tacna. After that...

Argentinians use the word vos instead of tu. They pronounce Ys and double-Ls in words with a zh sound. They use slang or Argentine-unique words that even native-Peruvian Walt is having problems speaking Spanish. They speak fast, like spitting bullets, so fast that I ask people to say things to me twice mucho despacio (very slowly). So now, if I need to ask for someone's name, I don't say "Co-mo say yah-mah?" but "Co-mo say zhah-mah." Needless to say, I am confused and I stopped speaking unless I am addressed to. I will be much more confused in the next few days. We will be in Brazil where they speak nothing but Portuguese. I have never heard Portuguese spoken to me in my whole life before.

It's not only my insides that have changed. My outside has changed too. I went to a beauty salon in near 25 de Mah-zho (Mayo) and asked to get my hair cut, dyed brown, and highlighted with honey-colored streaks. I got a facial, a manicure, and a waxing. Don't worry people, it wasn't that expensive! Me! Making myself all rubio (light) for no reason other than because...! Walt made a joke, after I transformed, that he had no clue whatsoever how I ever got myself laid in the States looking as plain as God made me. I laughed. I said, I used brains or wit to do it. He made a prediction that I should be getting laid more now with The Hair.

(Foreshadowing?)

Saturday night in Cordoba. According to the guidebook we'd been draging around, the clubs here do not OPEN until 2:00 AM. Harry had given Walt a special list of clubs to go to and we decided to check the clubs out. Most of the clubs were in the Avenida de las Heras. We checked out one where we got free entrance to only because Walt and I started speaking in English. We asked initially if we can just go in and out of the club after Walt paid his cover (guys pay Ar$5.00 and women go in free). But the 6'3"-280 lb bouncer said that our entrance was a gift from him to us instead. Whoa! We got in there and no one was dancing. After all, it was only 2:00 AM. Most people weren't drinking either. We apparently had the expensive cocktail drinks while everyone sipped on gigantic plastic cups of beer. After hanging around there until 3:00, we decided to cross over the river to this other one.

This other one was a half-straight, half-gay bar. It was one I had never seen before. Before I left our hotel, I had been sipping on Peruvian pisco I had bought in Tacna. I was feeling very happy along with my drink from the other club. I was wearing a tank top, sans bra, my Shakira pants (hip-huggers) and a frilly belt. We were quite styling, actually. But the bar wasn't hopping at 3:00 and I was already getting a headache from the alcohol I had been drinking. I told Walt to let me pass out at some corner with my water bottle.

A few minutes later, I had recouperated and was awakened by someone gently bumping my foot. The once deserted dancefloor was now filled with beautiful guys and a handful of girls. Some of the girls were even men because when I went into the bathroom, I saw a very tall guy in drag touching up his make-up. No, I didn't even give him a second glance.

A very cute guy accidentally bumped me as he sat resting from dancing. He had very dark hair, dark eyes, and was dressed in a crisp white shirt.

Okay, I think I'm going to stop now. I have to leave something for you guys to anticipate in publication.

I will tell you this: If you guys think Nicaragua was nuts, this club was even MORE INSANE! What I chopped out can be clearly labeled as NC-17.

(For more information on Nicaragua and the club there, go through The Archives toward the end of January.)

Signing off from Buenos Aires! (Which will be another entry some other day!) Hasta luego!

Would You Like To Super-Size That Cuy?

Wednesday here in Arequipa was filled with all sorts of surprises. We were having desayuno (breakfast) on the patio of Walt's cousin Harry's penthouse condo when all of a sudden, Walt's uncle shows up! Harry's dad had business to take care of but he was also kind enough to show us around town. After breakfast, we toured the 400+ year old Dominican nun cloister of Santa Catalina. Legend has it that there was a secret tunnel connecting the Santa Catalina cloister with another cloister for monks. Needless to say, my imagination and Walt's imagination were swimming with thoughts of straight and lesbian orgies.

We then decided that we wanted to eat some cuy. Cuy is a delicacy here in Arequipa and even the cloistered nuns ate it 400 years ago. Walt's half-Chinese uncle Jaime knew a campesina (country) restaurant that served it. So surrounded by fields of dime-sized-kernel corn stalks and herds of milking cows, I ordered Cuy Chactado.

Hold your stomachs, folks! Cuy is the larger sized guinea pig and Chactado means it's cooked deep fried with a hot stone on top of it to flatten it. I ate it and no, it don't taste like chicken. In fact, Walt said, as he picked on my plate, that cuy tastes a lot like rabbit. But I've never had rabbit before. Needless to say, I was very slow in eating the once cute little rodent...

Here's a photo of cuy as taken by another tourist. The cuy on my plate looked sooo much more rodent-like than the one on this photo.

After eating, we then went to another side of town to have buñuelos, this round, fried dessert dribbled with sugar cane syrup. We ate three helpings of it for S./2.00 ($.70) a piece that the woman gave us another helping for free. Walt was tripping on memory lane and was very happy. So was I because those buñuelos were good! In this series of kiosks, rich and poor people alike go there because the were the only people who made buñuelos in Arequipa.

... On a Wednesday night, after watching an Argentinian film in a movie theater for a mere S./7.00 for two people, we went to this club called Zero for their jazz night. It was great! Harry, Walt and I were drinking local drinks. Harry had cerveza Ariquipeña. Walt had Mojito (rum with Yerba Buena) and I had a Pisco Sour (Pisco, egg whites, and something else). I didn't get sick! Either Pisco is my drink (made out of grapes) or the Shaman in the Amazon cured me!

... We then walked to the dance club downstairs where Harry and I danced like crazy people on the near-deserted dance floor. It was a Wednesday night after all. I danced as if I was going to die tomorrow to this song I first heard in Panama entitled Cara Luna. Who needs therapy when you can just let yourself go in the music?

After dancing, Walt tried to catch a cab to the bus station to Colca Canyon but they cancelled the bus he wanted to take at 3:30 AM. So "To Colca or not to Colca", we have answered the question.

Life is so good! However, we're kinda stuck here in Arequipa. We're stuck for time and we decided to change our itinerary. We're going to fly to Santiago, Chile instead because it takes 26 hours to get from Tacna, Peru, the border town before Chile, to Santiago, Chile. Chile is a long-assed country stretching about 5,000 miles from end to end. Our problem is this: we can't find cheap airfare. Wish us luck because Walt may have found one.

Until Argentina!

The Floating Islands of the Uros

To my buddy Mike who has willingly forked over cash to save my overspending and side-tripping ass, thank you! You know in the 11 years you've been friends with me that I never ask for money. You have no idea how grateful I am. Well, I'll give you an idea: first dibs of pictures of women in nude beaches in Rio. How's that?

But back to my health and the Islas Flotantes...

I'm feeling better now. No more fever. My sinuses are still clogged with green phlegm but that's natural. I discovered that I can't eat anything richer than pescado y mariscos (fish and seafood) or else I will get la turista (diarrhea and stomach cramps). Good! My forced diet will prevent me from becoming the bigger American lardball that I am and my budget should stretch longer. Poor Walt has been sick too with la turista since we split. Needless to say, both of us haven't been happy campers since February 13.

Yesterday, I took yet another lancha (ferryboat) ride to the floating islands of the Uros, another tribe of indigenous folks here in Peru. The Uros speak Aymara. The islands are pretty amazing in that they are made entirely of reeds laid out across the roots of the reeds which make up the base of the islands. Each island is anchored by poles drilled deep into Lake Titicaca, the highest navigable fresh-water lake in the world. Needless to say, walking on the islands feels like walking on a floor made out of wood shavings. I even got a chance to ride one of the reed boats (for 3 Soles or $1). The Uros have a floating school where the indigenous kids go.

After visiting the Uros, we went to the land-based island of Taquile, three hours away. Taquile is beautiful with terraced land dotted with sheep. There are no roads in Taquile, only foot-paths made of stone and earth. It's very tranquil with barely any electricity and the population is sparse. The main mode of commerce here is tourism and bartering with neighboring islands. Men and women here have a unique culture that is demonstrated by their ability to weave intricate hats. I've seen men, women, and children weaving and crocheting everywhere in this little island. There is one problem with this island for gringas like me: it's 3800 meters (11400 ft.) above sea level! Needless to say, when I was going up the footpaths, I was gasping for breath every 10 feet. Granted, I've developed some killer slim and durable hiking legs since this trip started a month ago, but hiking in high altitude makes my lungs burn! For more information, see the pics in a few weeks. :)

Going back to Puno, I was tired as heck. I spent the whole time sleeping in the exhaust-smelling lancha. That's around 3 hours of recouperation time for this ill traveler-girl!

So tonight, I leave Puno to meet up with Walt in Arequipa. Peru is a great place to travel for women! I haven't gotten any catcalls at all! Until the next time I find an internet cafe, hasta luego! (so long!)

Enferma y Sin Palanca en Cuzco (Ill and Without a Guide in Cuzco)

People have been disuading me from traveling alone for fear of my safety but because I am me, I went and traveled alone anyway. I´ve been sin palanca for a couple of days and I expect to be sin palanca for another couple of days until I get to Arequipa, Peru. But since I got to Cuzco and even around when we were in Iquitos, I've been feeling under the weather. In Iquitos, the city in the middle of the Peruvian Amazon without any roads to any other towns, I've been bitten by bastante (enough) insects to fill an insectorium. I'm trying to figure out when I started feeling like shit to find out what activity I did to make me sick. There are many possible reasons:

One of Many Possible Reasons Paula is Now Sick:
1. Two straight nights of clubbing in Panama City and being under the influence to boot which led to a total of only 6 hours of sleep for two nights.
2. Sleeping in a hammock exposed to the elements in San Blas, Panama. San Blas, Panama is a series of islands in the Caribbean side of Panama. It was warm there but the water coming from the shower head was half salt-water.
3. Circulated air from the flight from Panama City to Lima, Peru.
4. Iquitos, the Peruvian Amazon Jungle. Trillions of bugs per square mile. Enough said.
5. Just sheer exhaustion from traveling non-stop for 3.5 weeks.

So I have no clue why I'm sick as a dog. Needless to say, I spent Valentines Day night sleeping comfortably in my very nice but cheap Cuzco hostal. I had hot water coming out of the faucet and a portable heater in my room with a little balcony. Trust me, this was the nicest accomodation I got since this whole trip started. I'm amazed I didn´t go out this Friday. Walt and I have been going out clubbing every Friday since this whole trip started.

I am also running out of money. I´ve been begging my family and my lifelines for a bit of cash. After all, some of them owe me some cash. But if I don´t cut down on the spending, I will be begging for money in Buenos Aires like the rest of the recently destitute Argentinians. I know what I can cut down on first, being the lardball American that I am: food. I can live on some of the things I´ve been eating cheaply anyway. Choclo (Cuzco corn with salty cheese) is a mere 2 Soles ($.70) and bread that is relleno (stuffed). Mate de Coca (Coca Tea) also helps cut down appetite. I'll be damned if I get to Brazil looking like the lardball that I am now.

But let me tell you all about Cuzco and Machu Picchu.

Cuzco is one of the most beautiful old cities I've been to yet. In fact, I might venture to say it's the most beautiful one of all. It beats Antigua, Guatemala and Granada, Nicaragua. All of the streets are cobblestone. The houses are made of red adobe with red shingles. They are all in rows like in Philadelphia or Baltimore but of a different style: Spanish colonial. Even the Cathedral and other Iglesias are made with this red stone mined from the nearby Andes. Green hills surround this city shaped like a puma. This city is so high up that it seems like you can touch the clouds (3000 meters above sea level). It's chilly here, like winter in Los Angeles and I've bought myself a nice, downy alpaca scarf to warm myself. In Puno (3800 meters above sea level), I expect to buy myself a llama or alpaca sweater. It's colder where I'm going.

Machu Picchu is exactly like the photos on the postcards people will be getting from me. Surrounded by mountains that seem to rise vertically from the ground, this all-stone city sits atop a mountain a few meters below the clouds. It is terraced with gray stones and between the terraces are large patches of green grass. Machu Picchu has seven llamas living there. There are temples in this city that was once inhabited by 1000 Incas. It's amazing. Just like when I was in the most insane mercado central I've been to so far, Belen market in Iquitos, I have run out of words to describe this spiritual and magical place. For a writer to run out of words, a place must be absolutely spectacular. Machu Picchu is.

So even if I'm sick, I still haven't lost my sense of description. Besides, I have pictures to back up whatever I may forget.

I also got news from Cecilia Brainard about Growing Up Filipino! It will definitely be out April 2003. Advanced reviews are available here: http://www.palhbooks.com/cbrainardgrow.html Check out that front cover! My name is on it!!!

To all, a belated Valentines Day! To my lover, I'm sorry I can't be there. I'll make it up to you when I get back. To my cousin Katherine, Happy Birthday! Let me know what you want in Arequipa or Puno.

Oh yeah, send money and antibiotics.

Until next time!

Fulfilling An Unlikely "Thing To Do Before I Die"

With a heavy heart, we left Panama yesterday. Funny thing about our plane ride down to Lima was the fact that flight was VERY unshoestringy: we were flying first class. How did we get that? Here´s the deal: We got to Lima´s international airport an hour before we had to leave and the hot-looking, dark, Panamanian man with cocoa skin and green eyes stopped us from boarding because he said the flight was closed. But as we got to the counter, we argued our case of constantly reconfirming to get into our flight. As it happened to be, Walt has silver status for Continental and because of the lateness of our check-in and our bitching, he got upgraded for free to first class. Then, the guy behind the counter realized that there was two of us traveling. He couldn´t very well have split us up so after I looked heartbroken, I got upgraded for free too! We got our seats and had enough time to go into the President´s Club for Walt to change from shorts to pants. We almost didn´t get in because of some contract with American Express snafu but the lady behind that counter let us slide. God! Panamanians are so nice! Nicer than the Nicaraguense! So in the President´s Club, while my head was wrapped with a traditional Kuna Indian red and yellow head-scarf and beads around my wrists, we invaded this very posh-looking place with the la gente de plata (rich people) of Panama sipping drinks in it. Walt had a glass of merlot and I had cranberry juice; something I haven´t had since I left LA.

We got to our gate and the regular folks were boarding. The line was long as fuck. Walt went up to the counter near the boarding door and asked if first class boarded already. As I tried to get to where he was, some woman was telling me that the end of the line was in the back. No duh! I mean, I knew she was looking down upon me because I looked like a Kuna Indian with my digs but Walt got the nod to cut into the line and because I too was holding a first class ticket, I told the woman perdon (excuse me) and I proceded to walk down the ramp leaving her and about a hundred or so passengers behind me. How obnoxious was that!

... We were picked up in Lima by Walt´s mom, aunt, and uncle. We didn´t sleep until late.

... (Some crazy adventure regarding red tape in the Lima airport that almost made us miss our Iquitos flight. Actually, rather banal.)

... When we got to Iquitos, we were bummed to find out that the only way we were going to get into the Amazon river is by staying at a jungle lodge. The only way to get into a jungle lodge was to get a package. Boo! Needless to say, this side trip is a hell of an expensive one. But can you really put a price on a once-in-a-lifetime trip into the Amazon Jungle? Mmm. Not really.

We got there rather late and we were pleased to find that Iquitos is a pretty little cosmopolitan town of 500,000 inhabitants (according to our guidebook). It´s clean. It´s rustic with old (Spanish-style) and new (modern low-lying) buildings side by side. Also, the main mode of transportation here is the mototaxi. It´s a cross between a motorcycle and a carriage. The closest equivalent to the mototaxi I can think of is the Philippine tricycle (look up photos of it on the internet). I´m telling you guys, this is yet another mode of transportation I´ve taken on this trip that I´d never see in Los Angeles.

Paula´s Various Modes of Transportation During This Trip:
1. Bus
2. Jet Plane (commercial)
3. 15-seater Cessna
4. Horse-drawn Carriage
5. Lancha (ferryboat)
6. Speedboat
7. Bicycle-taxi
8. Mototaxi

Well, one of the unexpected things that have occured on this trip is this: on my list of things to do before I die, one of them is how to ride a motorcycle. Today, I just very badly learned how to ride one. I´ve nearly crashed a few times. I can´t seem to get the hang of it. There´s a little rental in front of the hotel we´re currently staying and I could rent a little moto for 8 Soles an hour. Guess what the exchange rate is? 3.5 Soles per dollar. So here I am badly learning how to ride a bike for a little over two dollars an hour. Too bad tomorrow I have to go to the Belen section of Iquitos to check out that floating neighborhood´s market that sells armadillo shells, dried iguanas, hallucinogenic herbs/roots, and god knows what else. Belen is also known as a Zona Brava (Brave Zone). Somehow, I feel safer in these Latin American Zonas Brava and they aren´t as scary as the gigantic Zona Brava I know and love called Los Angeles. Go figure.

So I´m gonna try to learn how ride that moto again tomorrow between going to Belen and going into the Amazon River to see anacondas and piranhas. Besides, while I was sitting here in the internet cafe, the rather cute young proprietor of the moto-rental place came up to me and we were talking for an hour in my severely broken Spanish. Even when I don´t want to scam, I´m being scammed upon everywhere I go... *sigh* I can´t think of a better aphrodesiac than being a carefree traveler...

Until next time!

A Catfight In Any Other Language Is Still A Catfight

No no, mi gente. Walt and I didn´t fight! We never fight! :) Shit, we don´t even disagree on anything, my palanca and I... But last night, oh! last night! Let´s just say that Panama City truly is the party town that I´ve heard it was! We´ve been here two nights and on the first night, we didn´t do anything. Our little dump of a hotel with the thread-bare mismatching sheets and cold shower is a mere few blocks away from La Zona Brava--The Brave Zone, meaning, you gotta be a brave muthafukka to be walking out there at night. I, yet again, attempted to catch up with my hard copy journal to no avail but instead crashed from physical exhaustion. I am now a week behind and Walt and I are beginning to forget some little details such as where in the world did he eat this delicious little piece of Tres Leches that he shared a spoonful with me. I gotta get on the stick. Not only that, I have to pick his brain about what people were talking with him in Nicaragua about some killer good cultural tidbits that gringoes don´t know! Needless to say, he and I both swore to take five hours sometime before we get to Peru to recompile our information.

But let´s get back to last night, our second night in Panama City. During the day we took a walking tour of the Casco Antiguo, the old section of Panama City across the bay from the modern section with the skyscrapers looking like the landscape of New York City. Casco Antiguo and Panama Viejo (Casco Antiguo is part of Old Panama City) is a place taken out of time. Walking the narrow streets of this section of the city, which is now dilapidated with the city´s poor living there, is like walking in New Orleans with buildings sporting elaborate metal balcony work, all bunched together in dark blocks, humid as a pot of steaming stew. The French were originally part of the construction of the Panama Canal and their architecture was what was left of the French mark in this country. And just as grand as French architecture is, we got a chance to see beautiful buildings in the self-same section being restored to its former glory. Old Panama is disgusting at some parts, breathlessly beautiful in others.

After our tour, we bought some textiles (Me and my damn textiles! I swear, I have a feeling customs will get me for my dollar-swatches of cloth.), got back to the hotel, and took a nap. Walt needed the nap because we decided we were going to party. I didn´t nap because I needed to work on the story I promised my editor back in the States, Chris, would be finished by last week. I successfully sent off the edits. Needless to say, I was relying on adrenaline and endorphins to keep me up. Uhm... Well... Maybe not just those chemicals.

It sucks to be the girl who can´t drink. All of the things that I need to get fucked up are illegal to even possess. I am pissed that the world shakes their head at me when they hear that I´m a writer who can´t get inebriated because of my bad genetic inheritance. Really?! Who has heard of a writer who can´t be an alcoholic!? Every tormented and brilliant writer I know had some sort of alcoholic dependency! Hemmingway (I hate his writing), Kerouac, Poe, and I´m sure countless others... Mierda!

But wait, there are so many good things out there for me to play with! Love me or hate me for the person I´ve become now but the world has no choice but to accept who I am. In my growing up, I´ve stopped caring about what people thought of the chemicals I injest. So last night, while rolling on ecstacy, we went out to party!

The woman in the restaurant we went to gave us a list of clubs para bailar (dance clubs) to go to. With confirmation from the taxi driver and some locals after we left a rather dead bar with a $7 cover each, we headed for Rock Cafe across from La Cantina (the older crowd). Rock Cafe in Panama City was jumping when we got there at midnight. By this time, the ecstacy I dropped (I took a full dose--it was a strong dose too!) kicked in at full force. We already determined that Walt couldn´t roll on a half dose so more for me and he just decided to get wasted on Rock Cafe´s open bar. Oh yeah, beautiful!

We danced to the beat of songs we´ve never heard of in Spanish with some crazy American sampling. There was a guy on the stage, a burly black man with a chain around his neck, bling-bling gold rings, sunglasses, and a matching expensive sweatsuit, rapping to the crazy Latin/Reggae/dance beats he was pumping out with the DJ. Young, lithe, scantily clad women ground their thong-or no panty-wearing tight pants against the crotches of gyrating men. The music just went through my feet and into my skull as I hitched up my skirt so it was waaaay over my knees. God! Music is so wonderful! Walt and I danced the way we always danced making ourselves stick out even more. The club had sin gringoes in it, not a one, and that´s the way we always liked it! If I wanted to hang out with gringoes, I´d go back home to Los Angeles...

But strangely enough, as uninteresting and drunken men came up to me one after another, I didn´t feel like getting hooked up. I just wanted to have fun and having fun I was. While taking a breather from the dancing outside, we began to hear voices raised. Two thin girls started having an argument outside the club. People began to mill about around them wondering what the deal was. We too rubbernecked. Then all of a sudden, the sound of girls screaming exploded into a barrage of hair grabbing. The bouncers rushed to the two girls with fingers intertwined into their long dyed-brown hair. The boys cheered! They took the fight against shiny BMW and Porsche cars parked in front of the club where they slammed each other even more on the ground, on cars, against their friends, and the bouncers, all the while their fingers like tentacles in their hair. After a few more seconds, the fight broke. The guys were smiling, loving the enraged-girl spectacle. Walt had never seen a girl/catfight before even in the States. He was totally loving it.

After a few more times of dancing and taking breathers outside and talking, we found a group of guys begin to raise their voices. A lot of shit can happen when you have open bar. Heck, that Managuan club we went to was open bar! Needless to say, a short, bald, chunky, and thugish-looking Panamanian man took a swing to the ear of this young artsy-looking curly-haired thin guy outside. The curly-haired man didn´t want to fight, seeing that the thug outweighed him. He walked away, amidst a flurry of jeers.

"Oh my God, this so Hispanic!" Walt yelled in English over the shouting outdoor crowd.

"What do you mean, Hispanic? Bar fights happen every night in the States!" I said.

"It´s that machismo and the open bar!" He explained while we walked back into the club.

"Yeah, like Nicaragua! That was open bar too!" I shrugged.

He looked at his watch. It said 3:30 AM.

"The night is young. That could still very well be us getting kicked out or getting into a fight." He laughed.

But no, it wasn´t going to be us. Despite the fact that I didn´t feel like getting hooked up, I spotted this very cute young Panamanian guy with curly hair, square shoulders from fit muscles, and a square jaw to boot. He was tanned with a smile that lit up his face and dark, almost black eyes. He was very cute! I pointed him out to Walt

"Look, he´s even wearing a conversation piece. Go do your girly thing with the eye contact and the hair flicking and talk to him about his Che Guevarra shirt!" Walt suggested.

For some odd reason, I got really shy, clutching my water bottle like a baby. But after a few minutes of self-consciousness, I told Walt to walk away as I walked to the Che Guevarra shirt guy talking with his friends.

With broken Spanish I told him that you could never find his shirt in the US. He and his friends then went into a guessing game about my ethnicity. They were wrong after five guesses. But that was enough to get them laughing and talking and after a while, one of his friends determined that I liked the Che Guevarra shirt guy. Lord! He was hot! He´s a performer, you see, doing rap. I told him that I know some underground rap folks in LA and he seemed impressed by that (Thanks Alfie!). One of his friends handed me a VIP club card for a more happening club next to the Rock Cafe. Che Guevarra shirt guy said he´d be there on Friday night (tonight) and that I should come. We exchanged email address and he even leaned over to give me a kiss on the cheek.

Oh yeah! Life is good!

Despite the fact that I´m currently functioning on three hours of sleep, I want to go out tonight. Despite the fact that we have to be at the airport tomorrow morning to catch a 6:00 AM flight on an Aaliyah-type plane to San Blas, I want to go out tonight. I only have one drop of E left and I´m saving that for Rio. Tonight, I will just go happy.

Life is so fricken good! Let´s all just party every night!

Panama City, Panama

I´m getting quite worried about my money situation here. I´m afraid I´m going to run out soon. I still have a few countries left and the country that´s going to cost me the most is Peru. Traveling alone is just as expensive, if not more, than traveling with a buddy. You certainly can´t share a poquito dumpito of a place in Cuzco. Cuzco, being a tourist town, will sure eat into my budget. I guess that means I shouldn´t buy trinkets for people. It´s a little hard to not buy anything from the colorful trinketerias (one of our made up words meaning "place that sells trinkets") that seem to line every street in Latin America.

Well, I´m glad to say that we´ve finally left the most expensive, and longest we´ve stayed in, country in this entire trip so far. Panama City isn´t much cheaper; only 25% less. The homesickness and emotional fatigue I was feeling since Nicaragua went away after spending that night in Puerto Limon, in an air conditioned room with all the American amenities including cable in English. Needless to say, watching CNN Headline News for 20 minutes reminded me why I left the US anyway. The US has way too much time, money, and food in their hands that´s why I am hearing crap on the news (except for that shuttle crash). What Americans need is a trip down some seriously poor places in the planet so that they can see that we are just the world´s overfed spoiled brats. Don´t you all know that I haven´t had a decent cup of coffee since I left LA? It´s sad as hell to see that only the coffee dregs are left for the locals to consume while the best get shipped to the US, Europe, and Japan. It´s the same way Cambodian sweatshop workers can´t afford the Nikes they make for a quarter a day. I mean, I was in Costa Rica, a place famous for coffee production, and the best brewed coffee I had was literally weak! Lord knows I´m very aware of the taste of Nescafe instant coffee now. This shit makes you want to go communist. Viva Che Guevarra!

Anyway, we´re planning to do some Panama Canal stuff tomorrow. Walt has pretty much planned the next four days out and I don´t really care. I´m just going to drift along on the schedule he planned out because honestly, there are so many little things in the world we shouldn´t worry about. I pretty much stopped caring about small shit in life. I stopped caring about the (imagined) grossness of sharing soap. I stopped caring about seeing underwear drying on makeshift clotheslines (mostly mine). I stopped caring about who owes $2 here and there. I stopped caring about who has the bigger piece of fried platano, etc, etc. Hell, backpacking sure is good therapy! However, I care very much about how this trip is going to turn into a novel. I already know my perspective is odd: a Filipino-American writer with her palanca (insider-guide) traipsing around Central and South America. From Mexico down to El Salvador I´ve been stared at like a circus freak because I´m not an ordinary chinita or an indigenia. No one can get my nationality right not to mention my tongue pierce. If Walt were peddling me like a circus freak playing "Guess the Country the Chinita is From" we would´ve earned ourselves some mighty fine Quetzales, Cordobas, Dollars, or Colones. Oh yeah, I stopped caring about being stared at too. In fact, when I get stared at, I stick out my tongue and people turn away embarrased that they were caught staring at the little chinita. However, there were quite a few chinito/asin Nicaragua (3 in 10 my young Nicaraguense tryst said), more in Costa Rica, and definitely a whole bunch here in Panama. Darned, I miss being stared at. I´m torn between wanting this trip to end so I can finally do the novel and wanting to travel for the rest of my life. Ah! Choices! Choices!

So I´m going to sign off so I can catch up on my hard copy journal. I´m still in Nicaragua on that one and I haven´t gotten to the club yet! Until next time!

Hey my lifelines! Send some money over, will ya! I´m going to be running out in Peru! (i.e: next week).

What Were You Doing This Tuesday Morning?

Okay, perhaps I judged Costa Rica too harshly. I was saying quite some nasty things about San Jose being a Little America until we decided we were going to make quite a little deviation from our itinerary: We went to Cahuita, Costa Rica. Cahuita is a cluster of tourist cabins on a little grid of dirt roads. It may only be 70 miles away but the vibe is totally different from Little Americ-- I mean, San Jose. It's certainly on the tropical side with coconut trees galore and the humidity in the upper nineties. There are African-Americans here and in Puerto Limon, where we stayed overnight, that speak English and Spanish! The vibe is much more laid back.

... We haven't hit una playa since we started this little trip. So within minutes of checking into our beachfront hotel cabin yesterday, we ran to the beach, not a small task since the beach is off a jungle trail, and soaked up some rays.

... This morning, I woke up at 6:00 AM (i.e: didn't party). I decided to take a little hike up to the nature reserve and see if I could spot some of the wildlife that I was told was abundant. Yesterday, I was totally bummed because I didn't get to see any the afternoon before. I hit paydirt just as I entered the park: I saw seven brown-furred Howler Monkeys having breakfast over a towering, broad-leafed Almond tree. I just stood there, took pictures, and watched the spectacle over my head. Then, I walked back to the hotel to wake up Walt. We were going to do our own free little nature hike into the jungle park. We werent disappointed. We saw spiders of varying, mostly large, sizes, sloths, and aquatic birds. After an hour or so of hiking, we went to the beach and took a dip into the warm Carribean currents! That was at 9:00 AM today, just as everyone in LA was driving down the 405 stuck in traffic. (I'm on Central time right now.)

So now we are off back to San Jose to do more shopping and to take the next bus to Panama City!

Until next time!

¡Ay! Dios! Nicaragua!

Amazingly enough, hitchhiking in Nicaragua was NOT the highlight of this visit to this very poor country. Chris, you will be shitting in your pants when you read the hard-copy version of the events below. Everyone else would gasp in disbelief. Just buy the book when it comes out, everyone!

Paula's Bulleted List of Nicaraguan Adventures:

• Hitchhikes for the first time in her life.


• Allows herself to get scammed on by a local scammer in a club in Managua while rolling and then some...


• Witnesses Walt getting thrown out of self-same club by one of the bouncers for almost getting into a fist fight.

Needless to say, we are now personae-non-grata at this club. There were very few gringoes in this club and trust me, we were sticking out like sore thumbs there.

Jack Kerouac would be very, indubitably, and unquestioningly proud of this little traveling girl...

Signing off, mentally and physically, exhausted from San Jose, Costa Rica. Adios!