We had a lot of conversation around language on this trip, its nuances and differences across cultures. In particular, how often a simple word can have so many meanings depending on the context. In Latin America, they spoke a lot about eggs. Your balls were tus huevos. In Mexico, “hell yeah” is “A huevo!”. To encourage someone, you send them eggs. Over the course of the trip, “come on” had become our equivalent in English. When we were on the volcano, and unsure whether to walk up the second one, a simple “Come on” was enough to convince. It expresses encouragement, annoyance, incredulity, excitement or euphoria, simply based on context and intonation. Come on.
The thinking behind the hotel near the airport was that it would be easier to catch our connecting flight the following day. Unfortunately, we hadn’t realised that our connecting flight was from the other Panama City airport. As a consequence, we found ourselves at a bus stop waiting for a bus that never came. We hailed a taxi and set off for the airport. Our driver had a friendly demeanour, and dropped a couple reggae tunes on his Spotify. “You like reggae” we asked, “yeh man” he responded as we all sang along. “Sabes Sizzla?” I asked him “Sizzla Kalonji!?” he exclaimed. He then proceeded to drop a procession of Sizzla bangers. Woman I Need You, Dry Cry, Give me a Try. The rest of the drive was like a greatest hits compilation. Come on.
Our airport experience was straightforward and chilled, and the flight, while on a small plane, saw none of the turbulence and apparent free falling of our flight to Guatemala. I took the opportunity to write a couple of Guatemala entries while fresh in my mind. We disembarked, and as we waited for our bags, a man with a guitar approaches the group and welcomes us to Bocas del Toro. He then proceeds to strum his guitar and serenades us with Bob Morley’s Three Little Birds. Come on.
We grabbed a cab to the airport and arrived at our base for the week. It had a pool, bar, 3 restaurants, ping pong tables and private beach backing onto the turquoise carribean sea. We dropped our bags in our rooms and made ourselves comfortable by the bar. There was a strange pirate theme running through the place; it was callled Skully’s, had skulls, crossbones, hooks and pirate wheels adorning the place. When I met the owner it all made sense. An old American man named Steve, he wore his hair in a bandana, had a long plaited grey beard and one leg. He was strange, brash at first, apparently convinced he was reincarnated from a serviceman at pearl harbour, and repeatedly mentioned the war, but after a bit of chatting he relaxed. I found out he had been heavily into base jumping, and had lost his leg in an accident. He had a few fingers in a few different pies across the island. He bought us shots, as he did for lots of people, and I was left with the sense that, despite seemingly having it all on the island, he was still looking for something. Come on.
We headed out for the night, and soon discovered that Bocas was party central. Clubs overflowed to the streets, and people were on a mad one. There was a good mix of people, locals and tourists, and despite seeming similar to the islands of Belize in many ways, it felt very different here. More coherent in a way. We bounced around clubs, but the best vibe by far was at an open air bar, playing dancehall all night long. As we looked around, David pointed out that this was a gay bar, everyone shocking out to Jamaican dancehall. The irony was not lost on me, as we watched a load of gay dudes have the time of their life dancing to some overtly homophobic music. Maybe they were reclaiming the music in their way, maybe they just didn’t understand the lyrics. I guess at the end of the day, your vibe is where you’re at at a given moment, and ignorance is often bliss. Come on?