We leave the Panamericana for a few hundred kilometres towards the Caribbean. The route takes us a good 200 kilometres over the mist-shrouded rainforest mountains of the Reserva forestal de fortuna, which are up to 2,200 metres high, down to the Bocas del toro. The boat takes us a few kilometres further to the island of Colon. Every backpacker between Alaska and Tierra del Fuego stops here.
We reach the Rastafarian smurf house at sunset. It smells of money, grass and hibiscus. The wooden houses are endlessly colourful, some in ruins, some in need of renovation and form a wonderfully uniform whole. Bukowski would have loved our hotel room: dark, musty-sweet, but unbeatably cheap and in the centre of dozens of bars.
After the eight-hour journey here, Hamburg is lost in the first night and for the whole night. I fall asleep with my laptop on my knees, writing my blog.
The next morning, I try to whisk a beach cruiser away to its natural habitat. Fortunately, the chain on the first Chinese bike breaks after just 300 metres. Unfortunately, the chain on the second bike only jumps off the sprocket every 200 metres after five kilometres of asphalt on a rough coral-sand track, which is an excellent distraction from the fact that my backside feels like it’s dragging on the ground 10 cm below the bottom bracket. I reach wonderfully deserted beaches, but on my return to Bocas City shortly before midday, after 20 kilometres I look worse than a plantain fried in too much oil.
Hamburg wakes up. We move to the north side of the island. The beaches are Robinson Crusoe with starfish. Palm trees sway in the gentle breeze over mirror-smooth blue water.
A night to celebrate. People stay colourful from sunset to dawn. Live music by American expat alkies in the first bar, mega-jenga with sailors in the second. The bar behind it is wooden with bookshelves in front of a table tennis table. There are ashtrays on the table under the canopy. We are smoking when a Policia Nacional task force appears out of nowhere and steals $500 from the owner – immediately and in cash.
Panamenos are the purest smoking Nazis. I walked for kilometres through gigantic shopping centres in Panama City for Hamburg’s first tobacco equipment. Outside the capital, you can only buy tobacco every two to three hundred kilometres. Smoking tobacco is even more difficult: it is generally prohibited in front of public buildings and in every hotel, restaurant or bar including outdoor seating. Alcohol consumption is also prohibited on public roads. Bouncing back and forth between drinks and fags from kerb to porch, we realise that smoking weed is not considered drug use here, but rather a tried and tested method of escaping the madness of Americanised anti-smoking legislation.
For the third time, I meet some funny travellers from Vancouver without prior arrangement. We indulge in architectural pipe dreams just before the world record, philosophise about Shortbus and share with colourful people in blue places. Late at night, a snotty excommunicated man accosts me outside the disco: “Want coke?”. Five metres further on, a paramilitary with a bulletproof vest and baton waves me through the entrance. Schlaubi-Schlumpf was probably drowned in alcohol years ago. The evil Smurf has somehow come to terms with Gargamel. Smurfette makes the puppets dance. Papa Smurf doesn’t have to understand everything. But he is honoured to be able to write about it.
Frank Woelky, born in 1973. Kitesurfer since 1998. Since 2006, I have been combining kitesurfing and web design on trips lasting several months off the beaten track.