Alive and Well in Panamá

When we arrived in Panamá two weeks ago, we lost the Internet as Google Fi stopped working at the border and the San Blas Islands do not have connections to the Internet. A week ago, we were able to purchase a SIM card on the island of Nargana and we now have the ability to connect to the outside world through Digicel if we happen to be in range of a cell tower, but most of the time we have been anchored near remote islands. Today we have a signal, although it is not strong, so photos to accompany this text will be posted later.

Sunrise as we sail to Panamá

From Isla Fuerte in Colombia, we sailed and motorsailed across the top of the Gulf of Urabá, setting off on the evening of Friday, Sept 6, and traveling through the night under clear skies with light winds, to arrive in Puerto Obaldía, Panamá, in the early afternoon. (We decided to bypass Sapurro.) The bay is large, surrounded by green hills. A beach spans the southern end of the water and it would be lovely except for the abundance of trash piled high along the high tide line. We thought how sad it was that this picturesque bay has become a dumping ground for the world's flotsam and jetsam. As we traveled westward along the Caribbean coast of Panamá, we came to realize that the unsightly trash thoughout the indigenous province of the San Blas is, for the most part, a self-created eyesore of the native people.

Non-motorized transportation along the trash lined shore

In the placid bay, the only other boat, a somewhat decrepit craft perhaps used for tranporting goods, seemed to be permenantly anchored. A couple of local canoes and the boats that brought people and supplies to and from Obaldía came and went. There are paths but no roads into Obaldía, and there are no internal combustion vehicles (although we did see one nicely maintained electric motorcycle) in the small town. Everyone walks. The streets, which themselves were clean, are packed dirt that become giant shallow puddles with rain. The houses, made of concrete blocks or wood, are small and painted in various colors. (The directions we received in town always had references to the color of the house that was a landmark.) There is a central plaza with brightly colored benches and fences and playground equipment. On one side is a regulation sized basketball court made of concrete and covered with a high corregated metal roof. Another side is bordered by three traditional phone booths which seem to be maintained but are approaching obsolescence as most people seem to have cell phones.

Phone booths in the plaza of Obaldía

Since Obaldía was our port of entry, we had to clear in. There is a high government dock with no ladders, making it somewhat inaccessible although the crew on the local supply boats seemed to use suspended tires to clamber up and down from their boats. We had to disembark at the same place as the taxi boats, on a rocky shore with crumbling concrete and rebar to negotiate. After tying up our dinghy, we checked in with the police on the dock, who then directed us to Immigration and Customs, two separate offices. The police had notified Immigration of our arrival, so an agent showed up and escorted us to his (hallelujah! air-conditioned) office and expeditiously took our fingerprints electronically and stamped our passports. He then told us that we would need copies of our passports, ship's registration and clearance papers out of Colombia to give to Customs. (He kept our only copies of our passports.) Luckily, the pink house where copies could be made was only a few doors down. Three copies of all our documents (15 copies all together, I think) cost $3, but the woman did not have change for a 20 dollar bill. She told us we could pay her with the change we would receive at Customs. (One very convenient thing about Panamá for us gringos is the US dollar is the official currency, although the country does mint its own coins in addition to circulating US coins.)

Down the block and around the corner was the Customs office, painted bright white and looking brand new. The door was locked and no one responded to our knocking; just as we were departing to ask the Immigration officer about this, a man with a polo shirt and cap indicating his official capacity came hurrying up to let us in. Unfortunately, particularly because the process was more time-consuming, his office was not air-conditioned although he turned on a small fan and directed the air flow toward himself. While Immigration has computers and modern technology, Customs has not caught up to the late 20th century. Multiple forms had to be filled in by hand. (The man had very nice hand-writing; maybe this is an employment requirement.) Two of them had to completed in septuplicate! For another, he had to extract carbon paper from a drawer of his wooden desk and staple it between pages. Then he had to carefully separate all the copies and make piles to be filed or sent to various places. About 45 minutes later, while sweat streamed down my back and my skin itched with the salt of prespiration, after giving us a bit of change (enough to pay for the copies plus a bit more) from the $200 we had thought to bring to shore, he told us that we would need to get copies of our copies of the forms to give to the police at the dock. We wondered to ourselves why copies for the police were not included in the stacks of forms he had created!

After we paid the woman in the pink house for the first set of copies, we did not have enough money for more to be made. So, we returned to the police on the dock and told them that we needed to return to our boat for more cash in order to make copies for them. Peter dinghied out and returned, and we walked to the pink house, which was locked up. Back at the police bunker, we explained our dilemma, and they directed us to another location. We went the wrong way the first attempt. Then we asked two children, who gave us directions. Still, in this small town, we couldn't find it. We returned to the center of town (a block away) to ask at the cafe advertising Internet service, and they sent us to Señorita Frannie. We retraced our steps, turned down a street we hadn't tried before and found two soldiers having sodas on a porch. When we asked for their assistance, they told us we had reached our destination, which looked exactly like someone's house and not a place of business. Indeed, it is, but Señorita Frannie's humble home is also the Kinko's of Obaldía. A few moments later, we had our copies for the sum of $1.25. Then I noticed helado (ice cream) advertised by the front door. Sadly, none was available that hot day.

We stayed another day in Obaldía in hopes of finding Internet service. After all, there is an open air cafe advertising Internet in large yellow block letters above the door. (Imagine a red concrete building with unpainted concrete floor with a few mismatched plastic tables and chairs and a small counter with a kitchen somewhere in the back, not a sophisticated Parisian-style establishment.) As I suspected, Internet service was not available that day or probably any day since there seemed to be no electronic equipment whatsoever. However, the two nice women there who had sent us to Señorita Frannie's the previous day came outside and pointed in the direction of a yellow house on the other side of the plaza and a field. Dodging muddy puddles, we crossed the field and asked for clarification at a little store. A soldier buying a beer directed us down the street. We walked that way, eyes alert for  any sign of Internet service. Fortunately, the soldier had watched our progress and yelled to us that we had passed it. Once again, there were only houses around us, but another person pointed to an open window. There was signage at all, but this was the place. For a dollar an hour, we could sign on to their Internet service and even buy a soda but, not, alas, a Coca Cola sin alzúcar (Diet Coke). This was a disappointment since my supply on the boat had all been consumed! So, we had Internet service but no place to sit. When I asked if a chair was available, the man passed one of the  ubiquitous plastic chairs, held together with zip ties, through the window. They try! Peter and I took turns sitting over the next hour.

On the morning of Sept. 8, we hauled anchor and set off to visit the San Blas Islands. This 100-mile long archipelago of 365 islands, of which about 50 are inhabited, stretches west from Obaldía to the Guna capital of El Porvenir. Since the 1920s, these islands and the coastal strip of the mainland have enjoyed autonomous rule within the republic of Panamá. This is one of the last places in the world where the indigenous people have retained their right to self-governance. Although still denotated as the San Blas Islands, a name bestowed on them by the Spanish conquerors (who never really successfully conquererd them), on maps and charts, the Guna prefer their province to be called Guna Yala, the land of the Guna. They zealously protect their own customs and use their own language (although most also speak Spanish). In order to maintain their ethnic identity, they do not allow marriage with non-Guna people. Of course, this has limited the gene pool diversification, and about ten percent of the Guna are albinos. This is not apparent when we visit their villages and towns because those with this genetic variance must stay indoors to avoid the intense tropical sun; so far in our travels, we have only seen two. Non-native people cannot settle in Guna Yala, buy land or make investments.

Our first anchorage (on Sept. 9) was just south of the 300 foot high island of Suledup, which we chose because most nights and sometimes during the day there are rainstorms with thunder and lightning, and the lightning would be more likely to ground on Suledup than on our mast 65 feet above water level. At this time of year, sunshine is intermittent; it is usually sunny in the mornings and into the early afternoons, but there is often rain, sometimes quite heavy in the evenings and at night. We are collecting the rain and keeping our two 200-gallon tanks full easily.

Suledup

We were surrounded by sand and coral islands and cays populated by palms and ringed with starkly white sand beach. On these islands, the coconut palms grow up to 30 to 50 feet high, stretching vertical to the sun except at the edges, where they lean out over the water in graceful curves. We snorkeled to the nearest cay across an nice little reef and walked the perimeter. The only other people around were men, couples and families out in their ulus (dug-out canoes), enjoying the afternoon and catching some fish. The Guna use their ulus to get from island to island and to and from the mainland. In the early mornings, the men set out in the canoes to fish along the reefs or in deeper water or paddle to the coast of the mainland or up the rivers to tend to their crops of coconuts, bananas, pineapples and other tropical fruit and to cut wood for building and for fires and collect palm leaves for thatch. They return to their home islands by mid-afternoon. "Hectic" is probably not in the vocabulary of the Guna language. The pace of life is slow and idleness does not seem to carry any stigma.

Guna man hauling wood from the forest

The next day, we put the kayak in the water and paddled to a nearby inhabited island, Caledonia. There is no apparent dinghy dock. We approached one with a half dozen children playing on it, but when we got close, they cautiously backed away, so we continued around the island. Near the one concrete dock where three mail and supply boats were docked, we found a small wooden dock where a man took our line. We asked permission to walk around and directions to the congreso; each village and town has a traditional community building large enough to hold the entire population, and most evenings, everyone gathers there. These sessions are presided over by each town's three chiefs or sailas, who swing in their hammocks encircled by first the women and children and then the men behind them. Here, people can discuss issues, lodge complaints and make suggestions. The congress is where the plans and punishments are made, the core of the community.

Congreso in Caledonia

The congreso is just a larger version of the traditional homes. They are built of stripped cane poles woven together with vines, or, more recently some manufactured material. The most traditional buildings have no sharp corners. The small vertical spaces between the poles allows ventilation and allows some light in. There are no windows, only one or two doors. The thatch roofs keep out the rain and the sun, so the interiors are dry and dimly lit during the day. The floors are packed dirt, as are the streets, which, unlike the waterfronts, are well-maintained.

Two houses in Caledonia

There was one school made of cement blocks. In other places, the children in the classes with the doors and windows wide open might have been distracted by two white people walking by, but the students in this school seemed to stay on task and focus on the teacher. Perhaps this a result of extremely good discipline or maybe attention deficit disorder is not in their genes.

Some houses and the school in Caledonia

There is no electrical system on Caledonia, but there were a few solar panels. Like all the other islands, water is brought in from the mainland via PVC pipe which rests on the mud and sand. (The charts show these areas so boats do not destroy them with anchors.) in some places (as can be seen by the houses in the photo above) the piping has been exposed by foot traffic. Obviously, trenches for the pipes could not have been dug more than a few inches into the solid coral base of the islands. None of the islands have facilities or infrastructure for sanitation.

On all the islands, individual families collect their trash in bags, buckets or drums and then take it in their dug-out canoes to the mangroves to dump or burn it. This system probably worked well when everything they used was made of local, natural materials and either decomposed quickly or burned to fine ash. However, like the more developed world did after WWII, the Guna have recently embraced plastic for packaging, furniture, everyday household items and toys without considering the ecological implications. We talked to several Guna people on various islands who seemed sanguine about the problem; a couple even almost boasted about having their own separate mangrove islands for trash disposal.

As deplorable as the system of trash disposal is, the treatment (or lack thereof) of human waste is even more appalling. Ingeniously, the Guna build outhouses, some with actual porcelain toilets but no running water, over the sea, creating a less than appealing waterfront environment. Yes, they urinate and deficate directly into the same water where they swim and procure fish for their daily diets. As if this were not bad enough, on some of the islands, they very cleverly situate their pig sties over the water also so they do not have to bother with cleaning them out!

So, while we found some aspects of Guna culture less than agreeable, we did like the people themselves and their system of self-governance. We were invited into a couple of the houses by women who wanted to sell us molas, the traditional hand-sewn, colorful decorative pieces of layered cloth that the women make for themselves to wear around their midriffs. The first house was one large room, very sparsely furnished. At the far end of the structure, which was about 20 feet in length, a pot of stew boiled over what we would consider a campfire. The floor was very uneven, following the contours on the underlying coral. This woman only had one mola to show us, and it was not finished, so we did not buy it.

As we were heading toward our kayak, another woman beckoned to us to her home, which was at the time occupied by herself, another relative, her daughter and her tiny baby granddaughter. She had a treadle sewing machine. It was interesting to talk with them and we bought a couple of pieces before departing.

It is getting late, so I need to stop writing. I am being entertained as I sit on deck with my laptop by the loud and sudden and frequent splashes of rays cavorting around our boat in the dark. I wish I could see them!

Islas Tintipán and Santa Cruz de Islote

Wednesday, Sept. 4, was great for sailing from the Rosarios to Islas San Bernardo. Peter had planned to anchor in the bay behind Punta San Bernardo, but I thought that anchoring by the islands offshore seemed more enticing, so we altered course. The San Bernardo islands in the Gulf of Morrosquillo are part of the Rosarios national park, and we were happy to find the park's large (and free) yellow mooring balls on the south side of Isla Tintipán. As soon as we settled in, we put the new kayak in the water and paddled in mildly choppy water along the mangrove lined shore of the island and across a little channel to reach the tiny Isla Santa Cruz de Islote. 

Approaching Isla Santa Cruz de Islote

Virgin del Carmen

Kids playing in the street

Soccer practice

Mural

Waterfront homes

Fishing boat

Peter on the island

This island is one of the most densely populated in the world. There are about 1300 people on about 130,000 square feet of land at sea level. (This is about the size of two soccer fields.) The place was created a few centuries ago by men dumping coral debris and shells until they created a small island. Founded in 1700, the island town supports a population of 20 to 40 families (depending on how you define relations) living in about 100 houses, most of which have openings for windows but no glass or other covering. There are a few small general stores and a couple bars/restaurants, one school (through 10th greade) with one teacher, and one church that we saw. Most of the buildings are ramshackle structures, but we noticed a couple that seemed out of place, with finished exterior walls and shiny glass. 

According to reports, there is no violent crime, and the people seem content, but life is not necessarily easy.  Fishing supplies some food, but all other food and supplies must be shipped in. There is no source of freshwater other than rain, which is collected in tanks of various sizes. There may or may not be toilets, but there is no sewage system, so, I guess, human waste goes directly into the surrounding seawater. There are receptacles for trash and recycling, but it all has to be shipped off the island, as do all deceased community members, because there is no room for a cemetery. There is limited electricity supplied by solar panels, but no Internet or cell phone service. While fishing supplies some employment, most of the adults take ferries to nearby islands developed for tourists and work in service jobs. 

When we visited, we noticed that most doors were wide open and many of the people seemed to be outside. Glances into the small homes showed them to be sparsely furnished. Children played in the streets and in the water (which, is some cases, was in the streets), and small groups of women and groups of men sat idly in front of buildings. Perhaps they were chatting before we came upon them and became quiet as we approached, but it appeared that they were just sitting. Certainly, no one was doing anything with their hands such as sewing or weaving or carving, and no one was reading. There was one table of men engrossed in a game, perhaps dominoes. I think I would get terribly bored, but they seemed to be content. Certainly it is a contrast (as is much of life in the Caribbean) to modern, Western life, where being busy and spending time productively is a virtue,  and our hours and days are packed with activities and responsibilities. 

When I asked a man why people chose to live there, he told me that it is because there are no insects; there are no mangroves and no beaches for breeding. This may have been the initial impetus for settlement, but I suspect that the sense of it being home is what keeps most people there now. Surprisingly, the population demographic skews toward youth, so many young people are still opting for island life over the lures of the mainland.

After our cultural adventure in the kayak, we settled onto the boat for the night. I slaved away in the galley again; despite the outside temperature and breeze, in the tropics I always get hot while cooking down below, so after dinner and washing up, I took a shower on the swim deck, with the darkness obscured my nakedness. 

Swells became more pronounced as the night progressed, and the entire eastern sky was punctuated with flashes of light outlining large cumulus clouds. In the distance, thunder roared and boomed. We watched as over a period of hours the storm approached, finally reaching us in the middle of the night. Rain poured from the skies and washed the decks of the city grime of Cartagena. Jagged bolts of lightning shot down toward the earth but grounded on the nearby island rather than striking Mantra. (We had taken the precaution of putting the navigation computer in the oven, which acts as a Faraday cage.) 

The next morning, the rolling had diminished and the rainstorms were over, although the skies remained cloudy. After breakfast, we set off for Isla Fuerte. The wind was not favorable, so we had to motor most of the way. When we approached the island looking for a good place to drop the anchor, as usual in the islands, we were greeted by two men who paddled out to us. They directed us to a little bay that was smoother than the place Peter had chosen. Then, like the fishermen at all the other islands, they offered to sell us crab, lobster or fish or even fruit. I explained that I am a vegetarian and that we had plenty of fruit on board. Peter gave them a small tip for helping us to anchor, and they were off. 

After dinner and a couple of games of cards and checkers, we retired for the night. This morning, we woke up to mostly clear skies. The local fishermen were out in their narrow, small, colorful boats casting their nets. When we snorkeled a bit later, we found that they must be successful (or perhaps not, if it is already over-fished), for there were no large fish and not even many small ones despite outcroppings of healthy coral. Peter spotted a ray and I surprised a dark eel, who swam away. The most interesting thing was a patch of coral from which crystal clear bubbles percolated to the surface. We have no idea what causes this, but it is lovely to watch the streams of various size bubbles rise through the water and disappear on the surface.

Fishermen, Isla Fuerte

Peter after his haircut, with his curls gone!

After our snorkel, I cut Peter's hair (and I think I did a pretty good job). We plan to leave about 6 p.m. this evening when it is predicted that the wind will pick up and be blowing so that we can sail on a beam reach to our last stop in Colombia, Sapzurro, where we expect to arrive on Saturday afternoon. 

Escape to the Islands

We cast off from Club de Pesca at 9 a.m. Tuesday morning. After exiting the bay through Boca Grande, we were able to have a really pleasant sail to Isla Grande in the Rosarios. It was wonderful to  escape the heat and humidity of the city.

After we picked up a mooring ball on the south side of Isla Grande, we went for a snorkel in the warm tropical water. The evening was lovely, with a cool breeze. I decided to cook in the galley, lentils with vegetables and rice as well as a black bean soup for a later day. It is amazing how quickly it gets hot in the galley. Sweat was pouring off me. I cooled down after dinner, however, and the temperature in our cabin was so nice that we didn't even need the fans.

The sun has been up for three hours now, and it is blazing hot again. The intensity of the sun at 10 degrees latitude is fierce. Peter spent an hour in the water scraping barnacles off the hull. I generously cooked breakfast, and now it is time to hop in the water to cool off before we take off for Punta San Bernardo. No one around--time for skinny dipping!

Peter sailing in the Rosarios

Sweat from my wrist after five minutes of typing!

We leave tomorrow

Last night (Sunday, Sept. 1), we walked over to Getsamaní in search of a restaurant, encounting many wonderful murals along back streets. We finally settled on Chachara Restaurante, which had a nice ambience. The food was unexceptional, but we thoroughly enjoyed the musical entertainment that began as we were eating. The violinist had a fascinating non-wooden instrument and was a great performer.

mural in Getsemaní

musician with unique violin

This morning, our agent brought a customs official to our boat. The official made a cursory inspection, and we and our agent went to the immigration office, where our passports were, finally, stamped for exit. We had planned to leave by early afternoon, but there were (and still are) storms on the horizon, so we have delayed our departure until Tuesday morning. We are excited to move on to new adventures.

Sunset in stormy weather at Club de Pesca

Captive in Cartagena

Although we are ready to leave, we cannot. We are being held captive in Cartagena by inane bureaucracy. For some unfathomable reason, cruisers cannot deal directly with customs and immigrations officials but must work through agents. You just have to hope that they are actually working to facilitate your arrival and departure from the country of Colombia, but it seems like a fairly disfunctional system. Yesterday morning, we told our agent that we wanted to leave on Sunday. She agreed to come by to pick up our passports that afternoon, and she came at 2:00. At 5:30, after offices had closed for the day, she returned to say that she had not had our passports stamped because the boat had to be cleared out by customs officials also before our departure, so there is nothing she can do until Monday afternoon when the official is expected to return to his office. (Why didn't she think of this earlier in the day???) Apparently, despite this being a major port, the customs office is not open on the weekends! So, we are stuck here at this marina until at least Tuesday, paying $60 a day for the privilege of waiting for the wheels of bureaucacy slowly to turn.

Needless to say, I am not very happy right now.

The Blog is Back from Hibernation

There was less down time while Rob, Susan, Immie and Miguel were on the boat with us, and the oppressive humidity and heat sap so much energy so that doing anything extra, even writing or downloading photos, is just too much. I can feel my energy being drained from my body even as I sit here in a light breeze with every pore oozing moisture, my cotton clothing adhering to my body with a sticky layer of sweat. Sweat pools below my keyboard where I rest my wrists on my laptop, and I have to stop typing to wipe it off. Yesterday evening, we turned the air conditioning on for a few hours since we needed to run the generator for the refrigerator, which is now fixed. It was heavenly. I pouted when Peter turned it off.

So, I will start back at the Islas del Rosario, where the six of us stayed for a few days. We spent the first couple of days on the south side of Isla Grande. On the Monday before last (Aug. 19), while most of us were snorkeling, swimming or reading, Peter and Rob amused themselves repairing (once again) the smaller of the two dinghy motors. Rob, Susan, Immie and Rob took the dinghy out for a spin afterwards and found a place for dinner on shore. Luckily, the restaurant had a water taxi, because the engine failed before they returned and they had to be towed back to Mantra! Other than a half a dozen young backpackers staying at the eco-resort, we were the only customers there. The food was good, but the highlight of the evening out was the ride over to the restaurant; bioluminescent jellies flashed blazing blue light just below the surface as we skimmed past them.

Peter and Rob tinkering

That night, there was a wonderful thunderstorm, which briefly made things cooler. The thunder and lightning were dramatic for a few hours but the lightning did not get close enough to be a concern.

On Tuesday, Aug. 20, after bailing out the dinghy and getting ready, we sailed around some of the islands in the archipelago to the north side of Isla Grande, which has more reefs, anchoring for a couple of days by ourselves in a lovely bay. The snorkeling was better there. One time, I hung out with a group of nine squid; they always are lined up and facing the same direction, moving as a unit, and I am fascinated by them. In the early morning, I spotted a green moray eel fully out of the crannies of the reef. I also swam above a lesser electric ray cruising over the sand and grass. On the reef, there are the usual colorful tropical fish, with larger ones further out from on the land. In more shallow water and near the mangroves, we swam within schools of inch-long glittering fish, thousands of them. 

Immie 

Susan and Miguel 

Peter and Rob

Immie enjoying the floating chair on the north side of Isla Grande

Peter snorkeling

Immie is irrepressible and managed get us involved in games and a diving/photo contest in the afternoon. The goal was not only to make the most spectacular dive or jump off the boat but to have it captured in the best photograph. It was a lot of fun, but there was no clear winner. (Competition was not really the point anyway.)

Susan taking the first leap

Rob diving from the pilot house roof

Miguel

Peter

Early morning rainbow over Isla Grande on Wednesday

On our second day there (Wednesday, Aug. 21), using Google Maps, Rob found that there was a large pueblo on the interior of the island. We took the dinghy to shore and persuaded the staff at the Hotel Isla del Sol, which caters mostly to day trippers from Cartagena, to allow us to tie up, although we were told we could not use the facilities, but we could buy drinks. (You can never drink too much here.) After our refreshments, we asked if we could leave our dinghy and walk to the village which is invisible from the water, hidden by the mangroves. 

Exiting the well-maintained hotel property, we entered directly into the village or Orika, where there are small stores and restaurants and houses, some nicer than others. The community appears to be mostly Afro-Caribbean. A man carrying a crate of crabs and lobsters stopped to talk with us, in Spanish, of course. Every place here, Immie and Miguel understand everything perfectly and fully engage, of course, and Susan and I follow along and can participate in conversations fairly well if necessary, and Peter and Rob wait for translations. The friendly man showed us to the main part of town. 

Immie, Susan, Rob, Miguel and Peter walking through town

Catch of the day

Peter--yes, we were all sweating that much from strolling

Immie, Miguel, our guide, Peter, Rob and Susan in Orika

In the Plaza Principal, there is one brightly painted monument inhabited when we were there by live goats. Children ran around although it was still morning. Immie, talking with two little kids, learned that school runs from 6 to 11 a.m., before it becomes too hot. 

Plaza Principal

Goats in Plaza Principal

An open-air restaurant on the main street 

Peter in the jungle

Pigs helping with the trash

We walked along the clean dirt streets all the way through town, passed a swamp, and finally found our destination, a backpackers retreat with an outdoor restaurant near the beach called Sol y Papaya. Like everything else on the island other than the resorts maintained for tourists, it was rustic, but the food was good.

Peter balancing at Sol y Papaya--right before a spectacular fall

On Thurdsday Aug. 22, after a brief morning rain shower and a last snorkel, we pulled up anchor and had good wind for sailing all the way into Cartagena Bay. As we approached Club de Pesca (a private club catering to local wealthy boat owners but allowing transients when there is space), we all donned our clean white matching polo shirts that Rob and Susan's older daughter Rosie had embroidered for us with the boat's name and "Cartagena 2019." We may have looked more professional than we acted, but we handled the lines the best we could, going stern-first into a dock between two large mooring posts, one of which was solid concrete with no padding.

Immie steering in the bay

The crew at work

Rob, Susan, Immie, Miguel, Peter and Sherri

Miguel and Immie

After refreshing showers in clean, modern facilities at the club, everyone but me went to Getsemaní for dinner. For some reason, I was so exhausted that it was an effort to get myself from the showers to the boat. My legs felt like lead weights. I went to sleep right after they left and by the next morning my energy had returned.

That day (Aug. 23), Peter stayed on board to replace the alternator and engine belts, and the other five of us went to the National Aviary at Barú in a rental car. The car's GPS took us through the heart of the city, so everyone got a better sense of life away from the tourist areas. After more than an hour, we made it to the aviary. Everyone was delighted by the wide array of birds. Colombia has 1957 species of birds, with 81 of them being endemic to this country. I saw some that I hadn't seen on my last visit and also enjoyed seeing many of the same birds again. So here are more bird photos!

Blue and yellow macaws grubbing for food

White-eyed parakeet

Keel-billed toucan

Blue-headed parrot

Red-throated piping guan

Great curassow, female rufus morph

Sun parakeets

Peacock and Northern Screamer

Jabiru

King vulture 

Roseate spoonbill

Black crowned night heron

Channel-billed toucan 

Yellow-throated toucan 

Double-striped thick-knee

Andean condors 

Crested crane

Crested caracara

Muscovy duck 

Peahens, Orinoco goose and black-bellied whistling ducks

For me, the highlight was early in the visit. The others had moved on from the first large enclosure, but I was patiently looking for birds in the trees. Suddenly, I felt something pinch my right shoulder. A blue-headed parrot had landed on me! Fascinated by my dangling earring, I think, it stayed perched by the side of my head. When I was finally ready to move on to the next area, I had to physically remove it from my body.

Blue-headed parrot on Sherri's shoulder

The next day, Aug. 24, all six of us went (by taxi--it was so hot we couldn't face a 10-15 minute walk) to El Centro. Our first stop was the Naval Museum. The exhibits on the first floor are arranged chronologically, starting with the native people who lived in a village called Kalamarí on the land which is now the old city before the Spanish arrived. With signs mostly in Spanish, I took longer than the rest of the family to make my way through the exhibits of conquest and piracy and naval battles, because, as everyone knows, I cannot not read the signs. The second level is dedicated to history of the navy of the Republic of Colombia, with an amazing amount of detail. The most enjoyable part was going into the various parts of ships and a submarine that simulated being out at sea on duty.

Naval Museum submarine 

Naval Museum, bridge of a warship

Naval Museum, battleship

Immie and Susan on maneuvers

After the Naval Museum, we had lunch at Cebiche, Seviche again because the ceviche is that good before exploring more of the old city. Immie started buying items to decorate her classroom (She teaches Spanish in England) at the Plaza de la Aduena. The church of Pedro Claver was open and being prepared for a wedding, so we were able to enter and appreciate the architecture.

Iglesia Pedro Claver

Thunder was rumbling in the distance. Peter elected to return to the boat, and the rest of us chose to stay and shop. I separated from them in the stalls of the vendors outside the Naval Museum, wondering aimlessly through the lovely streets. The rain began, but it was not heavy and the drops were refreshing. I managed to stay relatively dry under balconies and made my way into Getsemaní. Almost everyone had retreated inside, so I was able to get a good look at the statues commemorating Pedro Romero and the Getsamaní Lancers, community members of African descent who were leaders in the revolutionary movement in the early 19th century. While sheltering under flower-festooned balconies, I also admired the colorful murals as well as door knockers. The tradition in Cartagena was to have the knocker on your door reflect your profession. Military members had lions; fishermen had fish. Some modern designs are more whimsical.

Plaza de Trinidad

mural in Getsemaní

mural in Getsamaní

Door knocker in Getsemaní

door knocker, Getsemaní

The next day, Sunday, Aug. 25, we all visited the city's most massive fort, the Castillo de San Felipe de Barajas. Built on the hill of San Lázaro overlooking approaches by land and by sea, it was constructed between 1536 and 1657 and expanded in 1763. The most important battle occurred in 1741 during the Battle of Cartagena des Indias (part of the Battle of Jenkin's Ear).  Intent on capturing the city, British Admiral Edward Vernon brought 124 ships and nearly 25,000 military personnel, including 3600 North American colonial troops who arrived on an additional 40 ships, to Cartagena. The Spanish in Cartagena had about 6000 troops in total, led by the Governor General of Cartagena, Don Blas de Lezo, and the Viceroy of New Granada, Sebastián de Eslava. Initially, the British attacked and took outlying defensive works, including Fort San Luis and Fort San Lazara, and landed troops to fight from the ground. The Spanish colonial forces withdrew and concentrated their forces at San Felipe, where the British were soundly defeated, having already been weakened by previous losses in battle and tropical diseases. In all, over 18,000 British were dead or incapacitated, and only 300 of the North American troops survived. It was fascinating to explore the ramparts, tunnels and other parts of the fortress, and we enjoyed the informative video in the wonderfully air-conditioned room which was formerly the hospital.

Susan, Sherri, Peter, Rob, Immie and Miguel at San Felipe

After San Felipe, we stopped for brunch in Getsamaní, in a restaurant run by Australians who are training and employing young Afro-Colombians who are disadvantaged. Then we wandered around some more, walking through the Parque del Centenario, where a guide led us to a place to view the sloths. They are well-camouflaged, and we hadn't spotted them on our own the last time we visited.

Sloth

In El Centro, we shopped and just enjoyed walking along the streets and through the plazas.
Outside the church, we admired the bronze statue of Pedro Claver and a slave, with Peter noting how the metal had crystallized in some places during cooling. Somehow we had missed seeing it on our previous ambulations.

Statue of Pedro Claver and a slave

From El Centro, we walked along the walls of the city by the sea and descended into the barrio of San Diego, where at the Plaza Fernandez de Madrid we came upon a street vendor making arepas in boiling hot oil. I enjoyed an arepa con huevos, a pocket of coarsely ground corn into which the raw egg is poured before being dropped into the pot. Delicious! The way to enjoy them is to consume them on the spot, adding salsa to each bite.

Immie on the wall of the old city

Arepas huevos

On Monday, Aug. 26, Immie and Miguel had to fly back to Madrid in the afternoon, but we still had time to make one more trip into the walled city before their departure for the airport. In the evening, Susan, Rob, Peter and I went back to the old city in search for a new place for dinner. While looking around, we came across a place I had read about, the KGB Bar, in Plaza Fernandez de Madrid. Bathed in glowing red light, the interior is filled with memorbalia from the USSR collectd by the owner, covering the walls and ceilings and placed throughout the rooms. Eventually, we chose El Balcon Restaurant overlooking Plaza San Diego. While we were having dinner, we could hear music and see dancing erupt spontaneously on the corners. After dinner, as we were walking along, a rooftop bar drew our attention. We went up for a drink (all of us chosing something non-alcoholic) and found ourselves among a crowd of people young enough to be our children.

KGB Bar

Plaza San Diego in the evening

Tuesday, Aug. 27, was the date of departure for Rob and Susan, but we had time to visit the Casa Museo Rafael Nuñez in the morning. The taxi driver took us to the wrong place, but we eventually found it just outside the walls of San Diego. Outside the walls, there were school children flying brightly colored kites, which seems to be a favorite past time here.

Kids flying kites outside the city walls

The casa is a lovely, airy home turned museum where Rafael Nuñez lived with his second wife. He was president of Colombia four times. At his home here, he developed the ideas that would become the basis of the largest political reform in Colombia in the 19th century, the Constitution of 1886, which was the basis of government until 1991.

Home of Rafael Nuñez

Back inside the walls, I left Rob and Susan on their own for last-minute shopping and went back to the boat, starting in on cleaning which I had neglected during their visit. By the end of the day, the inside of the boat was ship-shape again. The next day, I cleaned the cushions and other things on deck and made a couple of trips to provision. The nearby Carulla chain convenience store did not have everything I wanted, so I went to the larger store near Club Nautico. When I asked for a taxi to Club de Pesca when I finished checking out, the bag boy offered to walk the half-mile to the marina with the cart. The tip was much less expensive than a taxi, and he came right to our dock.

The refrigeration is soldered properly now. Peter has patched the small leak in the dinghy. He will always have more things to do, but I am ready to move on. We plan to leave on Sunday, stopping at a few islands in Colombia on our way to Panama. We are picking up a two-person kayak tomorrow morning from a nearby marine store, and we will be ready for more adventures.