Backdrifts

Entry by guest blogger Stanley:

Micah has always been an adventurous soul, seemingly unencumbered by the burden of any expectation that he lead a life that is "successful" by the socially popular definition of money, property, and stability. I've always admired that about him, and it's one of the reasons that he's my oldest friend. We also have, for most of our adult lives, shared a desire to see the world.  Once, (it now seems like a lifetime ago) I said something to Micah (while he was in Thailand, I think) along the lines of, "I wish I could do what you're doing." Micah, in his half-joking and half-serious way, told me, "You're still a young man, Stanley." I realized he was right, and, a short while later, I bought a one way ticket to the developing world and began my own adventure. I stopped after a year, but Micah never really has, and now that he's found a kindred spirit in Julia, I wonder if he ever will. 

It's now almost six years after Micah convinced me, with a few words, to quit my job and light out for the territories, and my life has since gathered some of the trappings of stability.  Still, I feel compelled to wander from time to time, so I decided to drop in on my friends in Panama, to see what their world looks like, and to try to reconnect with the wonders of carefully-packed backpacks, chicken buses, street food, cold showers, and all the other joys of budget travel. Armed with Vicodin and scotch, I settled into my seat at the back of the plane, content that I would wake up someplace different, and that my friends would be there.  

I found that I am out of practice at this.  I told Immigration that I didn't know where I was staying, and I was meeting friends.  She told me angrily that I'd better call them and find out and that I could not pass until I had an address, which frustrated me until I remembered that I didn't have to be honest and I told her I was staying at The Hilton.  

I found my friends and they guided me on a long bus ride then a short walk to our clean, comfortable, budget lodging. The developing world looks the same as it did in my memory.  The streets are a little dirty and there are sometimes smells that cannot be described as pleasant. The locals wear t-shirts emblazoned with slightly comical phrases.  There is extreme wealth sitting alongside abject poverty. Panama is a comparatively prosperous nation by Central American standards, which only underscores this fact, with skyscrapers, luxury cars, and Trump's gleaming hotel just a stone's throw from shacks made of cinder-block, and crowds of men and women hustling to sell trinkets to tourists.  But I still love the aroma of meat cooking over open grills on the street, and I still love the teaming hustle of life in a tropical metropolis.  A man sold us a reasonably priced mojito and we watched the Seahawks lose. We found bargain meat, rice, and lentils, then retreated to our room for drinking and cards on our hostel balcony.  

Micah knows where everything is. He never seems to take a wrong turn or look at a map.  Julia and I follow him without question.  Micah and Julia know in a deep, intuitive way that walking and waiting are a nomad's most valuable tools and they are obviously masters, and I follow their lead without complaint, but my tools are rusty from lack of use.  They know the value of a dollar and know how to stretch one man's two-month budget to five.  At home I take an Uber whenever it's convenient and now I worry I have gone soft.  We walked, waited, found the Panama Canal, took the requisite photos, and waited some more.  We walked, sweated, showered, once again found budget food, and once again ended the evening with drinks and cards. 

Yesterday we made our way to the city of Portobelo which is now deep in the throes of the festival of Christo Negro.  The locals deify a statue of Jesus that supposedly washed ashore in the 16th century.  They walk 23 miles in a pilgrimage for the festival, and many of them crawl the final mile in a state of borderline-disturbing religious ecstasy. I don't quite know what to make of this festival.  I worry that we're gawking at a freak show.  And then I worry that I'm judging devout, sincere believers by my own urban American standards. The streets are filled with music and with hundreds of vendors selling souvenirs geared towards the locals.  Periodically the sky opens up and the rain falls heavily and we all run for cover.  Supposedly the festival reaches its climax tonight, when the statue is carried into the street and there is a procession of some sort.  We'll watch and try to understand.