My route to the Canal

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The worst part of these long haul expeditions is getting to that part of the world that's to be the focus of attention for the next six weeks. I know that I'll experience some trauma or disappointments, major or minor, while I am here but they're unpredictable and come with the territory. These setbacks will be more than compensated by unexpected positive encounters. But what's more predicable than the Heathrow hassle, and a lot of paranoid officiousness and a certain amount of chaos at Newark International in New York which resulted in a delay of nearly four hours? I knew I would be physically and mentally knackered by the time arrived at my hostel at 1.30 am (8.30 am UK time.)

Actually the flight from New York to Panama City was quite eventful. While flying over the area popularly known as The Bermuda Triangle I thought of Ben when he was younger who had a fascination for the mysterious disappearances in this vicinity. I raised the porthole shutter after a doze in the dark to witness an amazing electrical storm. A gathering of two dimensional dormant clouds were suddenly given three dimensional life by an injection of venomous electrical energy that lit them up across the sky every few seconds like huge light bulbs with the arcing fork lightening acting as the giant filament. There was no sound and I thought that this spectacular deserved a score specially written. While we were experiencing the spectacle the fire alarm went off in the plane. After a bit of concern by the attendants (and us of course) we were informed by the captain that the continuing din was due to the electronics which had been affected by the storm. This was far from reassuring as we were about to land. Anyway we landed safely although the airfield spookily just had a few old Dakota turbo props and at the corner of the airfield I thought I spotted a flying boat with Spruce Goose written on the side. What was really peculiar was walking through Arrivals and spotting a calendar on the wall showing 1937.

When I arrived at the hostel Lunas Castle at 1.30 a.m. I found a group of young people totally rat-arsed. I enquired about the whereabouts of reception and staff and they informed after a fashion that they were the staff. Eventually one of them roused himself shuffled to the computer and attempted to key in my details. As both our brains were like melted cheese for different reasons there was a breakdown in communication. He reminded me of a young hirsute Eliot Gould: thick black hair covered everything but his eyes which were almost totally closed. His slurred speech made communication almost impossible. I was so tired that I just agreed with everything I almost heard him say. So to those at the Lunas Castle and its environs I'm known as Derek H. Crockett. If this is what they're like on Mondays what's Saturday like? In their defence I discovered it was a party for a special occasion.

The following morning still feeling a bit jet lagged and suffering from sleep deprivation I wandered around Casco Viejo, and what a tonic it proved to be. Casco Veijo is a squared jawed peninsular jutting out into the the Bay of Panama. It was a glorious day and the area has been described as being similar to old Havana with cobbled stoned streets and crumbling Spanish colonial architecture. The locals I passed all wished me "buenos dias" and as I was thinking I should get a hat to protect my head from the beating sun I ambled passed a bloke selling, amongst other things, Panama hats. So resplendent in my new acquisition I strolled on. I stopped off at a street cafe for liquid refreshment conversing with some difficulty with some locals and then moved on. As I turned towards the direction of Lunas Castle down a narrow street one of the locals whistled to me then shook his head and drew his finger across his throat and suggested I stick the the wider main drag. So it seems that my state of well being and sense of security was false and that you have to keep your wits about you at all times.

The following day I went to the Minaflores Locks just outside Panama City to see the Panama Canal. Much of the travelling I do now is inspired by my boyhood and teenage imagination. In St. David's Primary I collected chewing gum cards of national flags including basic information about each country and Panama and its Canal struck my imagination and was placed unconsciously on the back burner for fifty years. The Canal is one of the great modern man made wonders of the world and a heavy human price was paid to complete it. There is a very impressive four story visitors' centre with an elevated viewing gantry, film show, and an excellent museum. In the blazing heat I watched several container ships pass through which became hypnotic as each time I went to leave to visit the museum I kept thinking "just one more ship and then I'm off.

Ben and Jo would love the Lunas Castle Hostel. It's located in huge crumbling colonial building with cavernous rooms. Last night I was talking to a Turkish bloke now living in the US and was the only person who wasn't at least three decades younger than me. It has a hippy atmosphere (bandannas are very popular) where scores of young backpackers pass through after spending a few days chilling as part of their various Central and South American itineraries. Most are just about to go to or have just been to Bocas del Toro on the Caribbean coast where there are great beaches and to dive pirated wrecks. There is a large kitchen where we cook pancakes in the morning before plonking ourselves down on a long wooden table ladened with fresh bananas. The chill out rooms are very large with lots of settees and soft furnishing and where travellers crash out if all the beds are taken. Last night there was a great jam session. The resident guitars were plucked from the wall, a pair of maracas appeared from somewhere, and an ancient organ which I previously assumed was part of the way-out decor was skillfully put to use. It wasn't a thrash but a gentle unplugged interpretation of the songs we all know and love. Before chatting to my Turkish|American friend I sat with a beer on the long balcony which overlooks the Bay of Panama with its bobbing fishing boats with the backdrop of the silhouetted uptown Panama City across the bay looking like a scaled down Manhattan.

After being surrounded by youthful physical beauty and athleticism which was countered by their inability to string a sentence together, "Holy shit I've run out of beer man" was average articulation followed by "awesome man" when the said beer arrives, it was a heavy relief to chat with my Turkish mate. He is a software person who looked bookish and was a bit of an intellectual. We discussed the religious divides across the globe, Byzantine art, the rise and fall of the Ottoman Empire, alternate energy sources until exhausted I tried to lighten the proceeding by extending the question "Britney or Kylie,.....another beer man?"

I've experienced two already of what I hope will be many firm handshakes on this trip. The first was at Newark International while waiting an inordinate time for our baggage. I had quite a long chat with a bloke of about my age from New Jersey and then Tim a young tree surgeon from Porthcawl who'd been travelling for six months around CA with his girl friend. Tim convinced me to change my itinerary by swapping Honduras for southern Mexico.

Tonight I fly to Guatemala City.

Am I too yellow for banana republics?

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My blog site as laid relatively dormant in recent times. This is due largely to the fact that I expect Thunderclap Newman has had more hits than me, so why bother. However it's that time of year for my unlikely expedition and it's an efficient way of informing family and friends of my progress.

My destination is Central America. Those that have seen the latest Indiana Jones film may recognise the Mayan culture on offer although they decided to locate it in Peru instead of Guatemala. It's obvious that the intrepid Professor Jones bottled it when it came to entering what is regarded as one of the most dangerous places on the planet. If the hurricanes and earthquakes don't get you still have to survive malaria, and dengue fever as apparently Guatemala is a hot spot for both. Then there is the fact that there is on average 5,000 murders a year many of which are in the capital Guatemala City. When I booked my flights several months ago I dismissed such dangers as a mere bagatelle now my arse is twitching somewhat as I count down the few days left.

My first destination is Panama City. I've booked several days in a hostel called Lunas Castle which seems to be highly recommended. The main attraction is its location in an area called Casco Viejo which apparently has all the charm of old Havana and overlooks the Gulf of Panama. A good place to start especially with a trip through the Panama Canal on offer.

Hasta Luago

Habits not to be sniffed at

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There is increasing confusion and mixed messages from the great and the good along with the news media regarding drink and drugs. At the beginning of the news Dermot Murningham or Sophie Rayworth will postulate on the evil of drugs and binge drinking or site a success of a drugs bust that has netted the recovery of a multi-million pound haul of cocaine. With furrowed brow they will instil the amount of units of alcohol that we are permitted per week. Then in a later item they will, adopting a relaxed and jocular mode thereby conveying a level of acceptance and legitimacy, inform us of Freddie Flintoff’s excessive celebrations or mingle with the thousands of binge drinking rugby supporters each carrying a pint or can at 10.00am in the Parisienne morning. They will interview ruddy faced rotund middle aged members of CAMERA in a lighthearted manner knowing that they consume twice their weekly allowance in a day. When an item is located in pub or bar because the tax on beer has increased or similar we witness the infantile scripted mock envious banter of the studio newscasters to the lucky outside broadcaster who’s about to drink lots of yummy beer. It’s accepted in the light-hearted and universally accepted vein that drink, pubs and partying is a part of a lifestyle of a well rounded balanced person yet it’s an affliction from Beelzebub as a serious news item or government diktat. Drink is legal drugs are not. We are warned of the dangers of not consuming in moderation which is about half a pint a day. The illegal drug industry is definitely a hugely crime generating scourge on the supply side, and arguably a massive social problem on the demand side.

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nuffink to this acting lark

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Spellbound by the magic box in the corner of the front room flickering black and white images from the 14" screen programme content was not a contentious issue during the burgeoning medium of TV in the '50's. We were just enthralled by the very phenomenon. Perhaps that's why we as both kids and the adults watched Tom Brown School Days, Wacko and Billy Bunter unquestioningly. The fact that these and other school based programmes were situated almost exclusively in Public schools didn't seem to matter. Apart from the strange plummy accents the language and expressions such as rotter, beastly, horrid and dare I say it, welshing. were also alien. The plethora of public schools appearing in our working class terraced houses despite representing only about 5% of the educational system spoke volumes of the type of people running the BBC. The chaps at Beeb seem to live in a different world to the rest of us.

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Burma in retrospect

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Looking at the tragic events unfolding on the same streets of Rangoon I was walking only a few weeks earlier seemed unreal. While I was there small demonstrations against the 100% fuel hike and huge food price increases took place but there wasn’t any indication of the outpouring of anger and a popular revolt, images of which were exported around the horrified world.

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"Please come" ---- The Burmese people

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About a month ago in Luang Prabang I was chatting to a middle-aged Australian couple about my impending trip to Burma. She was keen to go but he said he didn't want to go to a place where the army periodically shot homeless people in the street to send the fear of God into the rest. I was a bit sceptical about his claims but my first day or so in Rangoon it seemed that there was some evidence. As I wandered around getting my bearings I noticed faded blood-stains on the pavement where someone seemed to have staggered along bleeding profusely, and further along a wall was splattered in faded burgundy like the crime-scene of the St. Valentine's Day massacre. Then I twigged. Most of the older and quite a few of the younger men had what we would describe as a disgusting habit, that of spitting betel juice. They shove green betel leaves into their gobs and masticate with the intensity of Alex Ferguson at a penalty shoot-out which converts them into a swilling mouthful of scarlet saliva which they then unleash on the general public.

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