The War on Passivity

Strange how great friendships work. I've seen my friend Chuck only a handful of times in the past few years. Since 2004, we've gone to Jordan and Panama together, and it seems that our paths cross only when one or both of us is traveling.

Building up men is the keystone of Chuck's ministry. When I was in Panama for business in May, he was coincidentally there to lead a men's retreat. I met with him in a small Panamanian church, where a small circle of men had gathered to pray for the weekend event. He humbly asked God to work in spite of his weakness, and he specifically requested that God shake the men of the church from passivity and awaken them into the fierce battle for which they were called. The prayer was refreshing for a variety of reasons. For one, it was in English and I could understand it. Also, as I listened, it touched me with its candor and relevance. Men, including myself, too often allow the tides of the world to carry them and lose the dominion and life that God offers through that strange combination he requires: personal fortitude and reliance on him.

Chuck despises the idea of passivity and does his best to live by design, insomuch as his plans fit into what he believes are God's purposes for him. Usually, his thought process yields some dangerous adventure that make you want to thank God for safety and pack your bags at the same time. Last week, for example, Chuck passed through Atlanta en route to Dubai, where he'd catch a rickety plane bound for war-torn Afghanistan. He's reporting on the war effort, and gathering material for CBN features and possibly another book with Oliver North. North's first book with Chuck as editor, "American Heroes in the Fight Against Radical Islam," recently hit stores to great success.

I caught up with Chuck for a meal during his layover. While asking blessing for the food, he asked God to remove every semblance of passivity from my life. He prayed that God would allow me to lead my family with the strength he provides. Chuck's words are often powerful. He makes his living through speeches, articles and books. But he'll be the first to tell you that they're nothing without the influence of the Holy Spirit. For me, his short prayer was a whisper from God, calling me back into the adventure he's mapped out.

To check out the one God has mapped for Chuck in Afghanistan, visit his blog here. Check out his "Boots on the Ground" CBN news blog for the most recent updates.

Panama Wrap-up

I just have to get it out of my system. I've been procrastinating long enough, and now it's time to wrap up the Panama II narrative with a few last thoughts and pieces of travel advice. To make this quick and painless, food will be mixed in with sights and sounds.

I mentioned in an earlier post that I stayed at the Country Inn & Suites Amador, a nice little hotel that sits on the Panama Canal. Location is the main attraction. I paid $125 a night for a suite with a view of the canal. As I said before, the rooms were far from glamorous, but watching the sun set behind the iconic Bridge of the Americas was memorable, and the pool was a great respite from the humidity that had me sweating all day.

A TGI Friday's is attached to the hotel. I've never been that tourist who eats at the hotel restaurant, but fried calamari and Balboa beer hit the spot when we arrived late our first night. At least the dish was a little exotic; we don't normally do squid at the Friday's in Atlanta.

The next day, we headed down to Casco Viejo, or Casco Antiguo, depending on which specific part of the old city you're talking about. For me, one of the highlights of the colorful UNESCO World Heritage site is the Plaza de la Independencia, dominated by the 300-year-old Catedral de Nuestra Señora de la Asunción.

The church is a rustic brown and has two blistering white towers flanking its entrance. You can see them all the way across the bay from Punta Paitilla, a developed section of the new city. Across the plaza sits the classic Hotel Central, a dilapidated yellow building on the verge of restoration. Leading away from the plaza to the north is Avenida Central, a bustling market street. On one side of the square is the Panama Interoceanic Canal Museum ($7 for adults), where we saw Spanish exhibitions about the history of the canal. On the top floor, we were led to a dark room and treated with a wonderful surprise: etchings by Rembrandt.

We asked the curator how she was able to get such high-profile pieces on a loan from Europe. "I can be a pain," she said.

Casco Viejo, as its name suggests, is old, but that's its charm. The government as well as private investors have long recognized that "old" doesn't need to equal "tired." Real estate signs were up everywhere. Workmen gutted old buildings, leaving their historic facades while providing a new steel skeleton on which to build new studios, offices and condos. The warm breeze coming off the bay carried the odor of wet paint and the sound of jackhammers. As was the case last time I visited, tourist police patrolled the area, and steely-eyed soldiers guarded diplomatic buildings to keep ignorant tourists from wandering down the wrong brick streets.

We stopped for lunch at a polished red building in Plaza de Simon Bolivar with "Hotel Colombia" written on its facade. Casablanca, the restaurant on the bottom floor, seemed attractive enough. The inside was stuffy - the waitress explained that the A/C didn't reach the back room where we sat. But its decor was cheery and refreshing: lime, almost neon, green pillars and rafters, orange pillows and deep brown wood furniture. A fish tank filled with oscars separated us from the rest of the dining room. My hamburger turned out to be extremely delicious and filling.

Next stop was Granclement, an gelato shop we stumbled upon before lunch. The flavor selection would've made Mr. Baskin and Mr. Robbins jealous, especially considering all were homemade according to the "traditional methods of the best French artesans." I opted for a $2.50 single scoop of the vanilla, a pretty good price. I've paid more in Atlanta. And the beans speckled throughout the ivory cream told me that this glop of goodness was worth the money.

Lastly, I visited two restaurants on the Amador Causeway, a narrow strip of land connecting the mainland with two small islands in the Amador area. The furthest one out serves as a landing pad for huge yachts. With those in view and the Panama City skyline in the background, we ate at Alberto's, a tasty Italian place. Earlier in the week, my boss and I had a simple dinner at La Parillada, a steakhouse back toward the city.

Here's a summary of GlobalAtlanta articles I've written for the work side of the trip:

-On a pending Panama free trade agreement
-On the Colon Free Zone
-Our interview with Ambassador William Eaton - Story - VIDEO
-On Georgia Tech's interest in starting logistics programs there. Another Tech story here.

Andy's Journey

My most recent trip to Panama was spent in business mode. Traveling with a trade delegation from Kansas City, I visited the Panama Canal, ports on both sides of the isthmus, logistics outfits, diplomats and U.S. companies. It was interesting to see what makes Panama tick on a commercial level, but it wasn't my idea of an ideal trip.

Before I joined the workforce in July of last year, my international trips were focused almost exclusively on building God's kingdom through missions. Crazy adventures marked with whimsical itineraries were part of the territory, especially on journeys to China. In 2006, I visited Panama with a different agenda, though the elements of danger and stupidity were still present.

Our mission was much simpler than in China. Instead of bringing souls into saving faith, our goal was to save ourselves from all that can go wrong on a tropical island known for its role as a former penal colony and covered with virgin triple-canopy jungle. Not a mission trip per se, but during the expedition I learned a lot about preparation and how it pertains to my faith. It also deepened my hunger for international travel, a desire I feel is God-birthed.

This year, I thought I'd leave Panama without any kind of spiritual experience. I did visit a cathedral, but it was cold and empty. I did pray a few times, but up until the last night, work had sucked much of the life and energy out of the journey.

But a window of free time opened up, and I spent it with a friend who coincidentally had flown in from the U.S. to speak at a men's retreat. He had recently lived in Panama City for six months and had just moved back home to the States. The day I found out I was going to Panama was the day he moved back. I was sad, but then I found out that the retreat would bring him back at the same time as my trip.

When his plane touched down, he invited me to hang out, but only if I was "up for a little praying." Bone-dry spiritually, I took him up on the offer and hopped a cab to a small church.

We gathered around a table, three white guys and five Hispanics, all men save the one woman who had come with her husband. They started in Spanish. By the fourth prayer, I was understanding about a third of what was going on. I was last, and I thanked God (in English, of course) for the privilege of being around people that wanted so desperately to see his kingdom come. I also asked for him to give my friend strength as he spoke to the more than 100 men registered for the retreat.

Afterward, on the way to a restaurant, my friend and I rode with Andy, one of the men administering the retreat. In what was an affirmation for me that the bond of Christian brotherhood is vastly different and stronger than any other fraternity, he shared his testimony with utter transparency.

Andy's father had lived a double-life for more than 20 years, visiting another each week while his wife and kids thought he was teaching night classes at the college where he was a professor. When Andy's family caught wind of the rumor, they followed their dad and found him coming out of the woman's apartment.

A sick feeling still rips at Andy's gut every time that image comes to mind. His mother's pain was similar. Confronted, begged for her to let him stay, claiming that he didn't love the other woman. Andy's mother consented, but the wounds persisted. Heartbroken, they decided to get him help for what was nothing less than an addiction. They tried everything in the realm of superstition. When nothing worked, they gave a Christian pastor a chance.

That was the turning point. Andy's mother accepted Christ and forgave her husband. He eventually followed suit. He mailed his mistress a Bible. In it, he highlighted the verses that God had used to deliver him from her grasp. That was his last contact with her.

All this time, Andy was still an unbeliever, working his way up the corporate ladder, showing little regard for spiritual things. He found a beautiful wife and earned plenty of money. But there was unease, and his father's legacy began to creep up on him. Around the time the whole family moved to Panama from Colombia, Andy began thinking that an affair of his own wouldn't be too bad of a deal. He traveled often for business, and a lot of the men he knew had engaged in similar flings.

Soon, his wife began, ironically, going to church with his parents. She drew him there, and he stubbornly came along. He became a believer before ever acting on his adulterous thoughts, and now his whole family knows and serves Jesus.

"We must remember," he told me, "when we are ministering to men, we are not ministering just to men. We are ministering to whole families. Tomorrow, we will be ministering to 100 families at our retreat."

Andy knows firsthand the devastating impact a man has when he shirks his fatherly and husbandly responsibilities. I do too, having come from a somewhat broken home.

I shared my testimony with Andy as he drove me back to the hotel. He told me that he is planning to quit his high-paying job to become a missionary to a West African country. His co-workers will think he's crazy, but he prays that it will be an opportunity for him to share the Gospel.

I realized that he had touched on the theme of both of our stories. As in our lives, God's plan often looks ridiculous. But with him, broken families and illogical career choices are chances for unworldly forgiveness, power and sacrifice to be made known. With a God who writes the rules, impossible circumstances become prime opportunities.

The Art of Diplomacy

Thomas Jefferson's face is upside-down, but he doesn't seem to mind. And the smiling man on the other side of the doorway? His cheesy grin shows he's carefree too. Around another corner, a weathered old coal miner scowls, but the tired wrinkles on his face belie the relief he must feel to be on tropical vacation from his hard life in Virginia.

Panama is an unlikely setting for this summit of characters from Virginia, but they're here, hanging on the walls of the U.S. ambassador's residence in Panama City. And rather than the jungle scenes that mark this country's geography, depictions of Appalachia surround them, adorning the foyer and multiple living areas on the bottom floor of this diplomatic dwelling.

I met Ambassador William Eaton during a recent trip to Panama, where my boss and I interviewed him for a video to include in various articles in GlobalAtlanta, our international business news Web site. Mr. Eaton has been stationed there for more than three years, and his tour ends in August. A career diplomat, the ambassador has enjoyed tours in Guyana, Italy, Russia and Turkey. He speaks English, Spanish, Italian, Dutch, Russian and Turkish.

Our camera equipment cleared earlier in the day by security officials, we arrived at the residence early. A commercial officer started us on a tour while we waited for Mr. Eaton, and we noticed that the decor reflected the variety of cultures he's lived in. Along with photos of himself posed with Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice and former Secretary Colin Powell, Mr. Eaton displays a hookah pipe, an Asian coffee table and a smattering of pieces from his travels.

As we ducked through a doorway into yet another sitting area, the ambassador appeared unannounced, emerging as if from an unseen passageway. After introductions, he resumed the tour, giving us the inside story on the art he personally selected to hang in his temporary home.

The State Department allows ambassadors to select the theme of their residential decor and pays for the shipment of art to their residence. With his blank canvas, Mr. Eaton chose to give a nod to his homeland. A native of Winchester, Va., Mr. Eaton's ties to the Shenandoah Valley show through in all his selections. The obvious depictions of bubbling streams and verdant mountains hang alongside more unorthodox works created by artists from the region.

The result is a hodge-podge exhibition that lends itself to conversation, a characteristic Mr. Eaton said comes in handy during diplomatic meetings there.

Take Thomas Jefferson, for example. The aforementioned depiction of the drafter of the Declaration of Independence and third U.S. president is one of Mr. Eaton's favorites. His face is upside-down, while everything else about the picture remains in normal configuration. Mr. Eaton found the piece at a Virginia gallery. As he stared at it curiously, he felt someone walk up behind him.

"What are you thinking?" a voice asked.

"I'm thinking, 'What the hell was the artist thinking when he painted this?'" Mr. Eaton replied.

Turns out, the questioner was the artist. He explained that the piece was meant to pay tribute to Thomas Jefferson's ability to see the world differently than most people of his day. A graduate of the University of Virginia, where Jefferson is practically canonized, Mr. Eaton enjoyed that explanation and purchased the piece.

But it's more than a painting to him. It's a tool. He has used it to show Panamanian business and political leaders that they, like Jefferson, can look beyond the bounds of today's political climate. They can choose to let go of the corruption and instability that has plagued Panama's past and gird themselves for a better future.

The other two pieces mentioned above were less groundbreaking. The smiling man was a work called "Say Cheese!" in which a girl had painted her shirtless boyfriend laughing. Behind him are chunks of cheddar.

The coal miner is done in color pencil specially for Mr. Eaton's residence by a woman he worked with in the U.S. Embassy in Russia.

Other fun facts about the ambassador's residence:

-The library where we conducted the interview was the site of a summit of Latin American heads of state hosted by President Eisenhower in the 1950s. I'm no historian, but an embassy public affairs officer who's also an expert in the history of the region told us stories about all the infamous dictators that had been present in the very room where we stood. A gold plaque on the wallpaid tribute to that meeting.

-The site for the residence was selected by FDR and wasn't completed until after WWII. Because metals went to the war effort, brass for the handrails on the staircase had to be locally produced in Panama. The ship carrying bathroom fixtures for the residence was sunk by a German submarine, and they had to be ordered again.

-The 48 congruent wood panels in the library represent the 48 states the U.S. had at the time.

-Mr. Eaton invited the artists for a special exhibition at his residence. Five paid their own way to come.

Country Inn and Suites - Amador

Looking for an immaculate room with aesthetic upgrades on your trip to Panama City, Panama? Then don't stop here.

But if location, service and price are your main concerns, the Country Inn and Suites at Amador is the place to be.

The rooms aren't much to look at, and they're not near as posh as what you'll get at the Marriott. No Ralph Lauren linens or Sleep Number beds await weary travelers after their flight.

But the rooms are amply sized for the price. I paid $125 per night for a springy king bed, sleeper sofa and - count 'em - two TVs. Wireless Internet was free, albeit a bit slow, and the minibar was well stocked. Breakfast was much better than the average continental fare in American budget hotels, and the coffee was tasty and fresh. The room interior was generally on par or a little better than what you get at the average hotel in America. Despite its unremarkable inside, intangibles are where this place shines.

The hotel is situated at the mouth of the Panama Canal, where it runs into the Pacific Ocean. A walking trail runs just outside the fenced pool area behind the hotel grounds, offering great views of the picturesque landscape. Jump the fence and you can walk all the way out on the Amador Causeway, a narrow strip of land constructed by piles of dredged earth from the Canal excavation 100 years ago. The Causeway links the mainland with two islands and tourists with their choice of a variety of restaurants. If you're in the mood to covet, go to the end of the strip and watch the yachts come in.

The Puente de Las Americas (Bridge of the Americas) is in full view from balconies of rooms with a canal view, and boats traverse the Canal day and night on the way through the locks and to and from the Port of Balboa. This is particularly interesting to watch after the sun sets, as giant barges inch their way into the darkness, floating silently like blimps on the water, their little guide lamps the only sign of their formidable presence.

A TGI Friday's is attached to the hotel, and if you don't talk too much to the wait staff, you could really pretend you're in America. To avoid the tourist trap at dinner time, go to the Causeway, or take a cab east toward the center of town. If you do happen to hit the TGI Friday's, go local with the fried calamari appetizer washed down with a Balboa beer. The waitress says Balboa is stronger than Panama Cerveza, the country's flagship brew.

Service is one of this Country Inn's best qualities. The staff speaks English very well and was very charming and willing to help tourists. Great maps of the city are available at the front desk and the drivers outside are always looking to get some business.

Tips for getting the most out of this hotel:

-Try to get a room with a canal view. I think they're priced a little bit higher, but if you're a balcony sitter, you'll think it's worth it. Can't get a view? Check out the cozy pool area and get your views from there. Use the extra money to splurge on a great meal.

-The walls are a bit thin. Sound carries through walls, and you know what that sometimes means.

-There are two types of taxi drivers in Panama - ones that have license to drive up to the entrance of the hotel, and those who don't. The CI&S is back from the main road. Ignore the drivers right outside the door that try to take you in their large white vans. Walk a few extra steps out to the street, to the smaller cabs, and you'll probably pay half of the tourist rate charged by the van guys. But utilize the van guys for scheduled trips.

-Keep in mind, the CI&S Amador is farther away from the airport than a lot of other hotels, but it's extremely quiet, a stark contrast from downtown. And the air is extremely fresh as it blows in from the water.

Photo: Bridge of the Americas at sunset from behind the hotel. Copyright Trevor Williams 2008.

Panama's Logistical Wonderland

I'm no expert on logistics, but writing about international business has required me to learn a bit more about the way goods move around the world. Strange, tangled trade routes stretch like spiderwebs across the globe, linking unlikely nations in lucrative commercial partnerships. Shipping companies, air cargo freighters and railroads coalesce in transportation lines that bring Chinese-made toys to American Christmas stockings, Peruvian asparagus to American dinner tables, and outdated and unsafe American school buses to Panama for use as public transportation.

Panama, a nation of only about 3.2 million inhabitants, sits at one of the main crossroads in worldwide trade. The narrow, east-to-west isthmus of land between Costa Rica and Colombia separates the Pacific and Atlantic oceans by only about 50 miles at its narrowest point. The Panama Canal, one of the most impressive engineering feats man ever conceived or achieved, provides a shortcut between the two, allowing ships laden with cargo to skip about four weeks of sailing around the southern tip of South America and save millions of dollars in operating costs. The canal has three sets of locks - the Miraflores, Pedro Miguel and the Gatun.

I learned on a recent trip that the Canal is the magnet that draws business through a country that doesn't have much of its own consumer market to speak of. More than 80 percent of the goods flowing through Panama will never actually touch Panamanian soil or land in the hands of a consumer there. A $5.25 billion expansion project will add a new set of locks, allowing it to handle the largest vessels in the world, known as "Post-Panamax" ships. But the Canal is not the only logistical advantage the country has to offer. As it has drawn the world's attention - and money - Panamanians, with the help of foreign investors, have learned to make a few bucks off of auxiliary logistical enterprises.

Three ports - Cristobal, Evergreen and Manzanillo International Terminal - operate on the northern - Panamanians call it the "Atlantic" - coast of the country. Cristobal is run by Hutchinson, an international ports company with operations in 22 countries. Evergreen, a massive American shipping agency, runs its own port to manage its considerable inflow of goods. Manzanill International, or MIT, is a Panamanian-owned company housed in a beautifully remodeled building that served as a high school when the American military still guarded the area. And all of these ports have the advantage of the Colon Free Zone, where $16 billion of goods are traded annually. MIT and Cristobal have expansion plans in the works.

The same is true for the Port of Balboa, the only one on Panama's southern, or Pacific, coast. Also operated by Hutchinson, Balboa is gearing up for some major additions. An inlet is being filled with imported sand and more cranes are on the way.

The Panama Canal Railroad, which is half-owned by Kansas City Southern through a joint venture with MI-Jack, links the two ports, providing a cost-effective alternative to the hefty Canal fees for ships that would have had to off-load cargo on the other side anyway. One passage through the Canal can cost from $250,000 to more than $330,000, depending on the ship's cargo capacity.

The country is improving its air service as well. Tocumen International Airport has injected millions of dollars into remodeling projects. Two years ago, the customs counter in Tocumen was a cave. Now it's airy and freshly painted. Customs officials sit at wood-veneered counters and smile at passengers as they stamp passports and visa paperwork. Copa Airlines offers regional connectivity with flights to nearly 40 destinations.

Not bad for a country with a total population smaller than the metropolitan area of Houston.

Panama: The Return

It's been two years since my feet touched Panamanian soil, and as far as I could tell from the drive from the airport to the hotel, not much has changed.   COMPARE the narrative from two years ago. 

In fact, it was quite a flashback for me to disembark from the Delta 757 that brought me here on today's only flight from Atlanta to a country that prides itself on being a crossroads for international commerce and the last bridge between Central and South America. 

As I made the short walk up a small ramp into the customs area, the smell of grilled food still hung in the air, left over from an earlier, busier time in the terminal.  Blue and yellow signs of Tocumen International Airport welcomed us to a new land, which is closer by plane from my Georgia home than some parts of the American West and definitely much more convenient than the 14-hour marathon I took to Shanghai, China, last month.

In 2006, I snapped photos of the welcome sign.  I wonder if the fact that I didn't this time means I'm maturing as a traveler or just that I'm less enamored because I've already been here before.  Maybe a trip to a less-familiar place would have rendered me trigger happy.

The customs counter was a breeze compared to America.   The people were actually nice, and they've widened and brightened the light blue and white walls of what used to be a dungeony area the last time I was here.  They've even installed a DMV-style digital numbering system that directs you to the next available attendant.  After so many uneasy trips to China, it was comforting to see foreigners all around me and to hear the familiar thud of the approval stamp thumping the counters, signaling their official access into the country. 

After baggage claim, this trip began to differ a little from the fiasco that was my last Panama arrival.  Long story short:  This time, instead of a creepy, lurking taxi driver chosen as a last resort after being jilted at the airport by a friend, we were carted away in a Mercedes Benz.  All told it was $32.50 for a half-hour trip.  Extortion?  I don't know, but the convenience was nice and the air-conditioned ride was smooth.  

As in America, billboards are prevalent here.  It's ironic that I noticed this on the cab ride, because I just overheard some people talking at the post office today about how great Europe is because it doesn't have billboards, or at least in Germany; they couldn't really agree.  I couldn't tell you a thing about Europe, but I know the the Koreans (Samsung, LG) are happy that advertising isn't passe in Latin America. 

The Multicentro is still here, as is Super 99, a popular grocery store, and the Hard Rock Cafe and Dunkin Donuts, two very important institutions.  I don't particularly like being the American who clings to recognizable brands while soaking in a different culture, but I have to admit that it's comforting to see things that remind me of the previous trip.  It gives me a sense that I know where I am, even if I couldn't get there by memory if you set me loose with a car.

I'm also reliving another Panama experience: the Country Inn and Suites near the Amador Causeway.  Last time we stayed here for a night of relative luxury before heading off into the wonderful worlds of budget lodges and outdoor camping.  This time I'll have four nights.  Speaking of cultural clinginess, I ate fried calamari and drank Panamanian beer at a TGI Friday's attached to the hotel.  

Tomorrow, work begins.  I might switch my chronicles to a GlobalAtlanta blog once the work information piles up.  If you're interested in the Panama Canal and its interplay with trade flowing through the ports in Georgia and the Southeast, stay tuned.  

COMPARE the narrative from two years ago. 

A Changing Blogscape

If you're coming to the blog for the first time in awhile, you'll probably notice that some things are different. I've added the graphic at the top to stave off the blackness that ruled the homepage before. And that header also doubles as a link that will take you back to the homepage from any post page.

I've also added buttons at the right side of the page that will soon have a chronological listing of posts from the three trips that I blogged extensively about. This will allow me to recycle some of my earlier content and will give readers the opportunity to check out in an orderly fashion some older stuff they might've missed. I'll be working on these pages throughout the week, and they should be functional by next weekend.

Also, I've moved the subscribe form closer to the top of the page, "above the fold," as it were, so you can see it more clearly. If you want fresh updates from this site, type in your email.

I realize that a lot of my content is pretty personal, so I wanted to organize the site so the few people that visit can find their way around better. I thought about switching to Wordpress because it makes it easier to separate pages, but there are a lot of features I like about Blogger, and I figured it would be more of an adventure to learn how to do more with html and CSS code than to cop out by starting afresh. Hopefully this will be the beginning of a changing blogscape that will attract more readers and give a better experience to those who visit from time to time.

Down in the Valley

We had done the posh American-style malls, the roadside stands, the army surplus stores and the supermarkets. Only one shopping venue remained on our list: an outdoor market in El Valle de Anton, a small town about 1 1/2 hours drive from Panama City.

This market was supposedly less expensive than the malls, and although it promised to be very "touristy," we figured we could find good bargains on souvenirs for all our folks back home. After finding our turn-off from the Pan-American highway, we snaked around hills and descended into the valley.

When we first pulled up, I wondered if we were in the right place. It's not that the valley was anything less than I expected; it's just that pale-skinned tourists swarmed the area. I had expected a few Americans and maybe even some Germans, but so far, white shoppers outnumbered the Panamanian vendors.

The whole town is basically one street with shops lining both sides. There's a grocery store on the way in, and as far as I could tell, only one small place to eat indoors. After we had waded through the many of the booths, we pulled up a stool at a roadside food stand. We ordered hamburgers and batidos (fruit shakes), and we splurged for the 25-cent cup of Pepsi that came with the burger. For some reason, Panamanians false advertise with their burgers. When Americans think of a hamburger, beef is the first thing that comes to mind. Not so here. Apparently a hamburger in Panama means "any patty that will fit on a hamburger bun." Without fail, every time we ate at a Panamanian burger joint, we received what I like to call "polloburguesas," or "chickenburgers."

Sadly, the market was less diverse and indigenous than I expected it to be. Most of the products seemed mass-produced, and a lot of them were way overpriced. I guess if you get thousands of old, rich Americans coming through here every year, you have no real incentive to lower prices. People start to get flippant with their money when they're looking at something they can't get back home. I know the feeling all too well, putting myself in debt to go on this trip, an experience I definitely couldn't have had in Georgia.

I came away with a few bracelets for my mom and Katy as well as a sweet hand-carved wooden guitar keychain. There wasn't much else that interested me. I can't stand stuff that has Panama stamped all over it, and the colorful get-ups made by the Cuna indians have yet to grow on me. I don't know whether the styles of the goods or their high prices turned me off more. I guess when you're used to Chinese prices, it's easier to consider things expensive.

On the way out of town, we stopped at a place on the side of the road where for $1, you could view and handle snakes found in Panama. We stopped to take a look, and ended up getting tangled up in there for about 30 minutes. Brad made quick friends with a boa constrictor, and we viewed our nemesis, the infamous fer-de-lance, through the glass. It's freaky enough seeing and touching these little guys in a closed environment where you know they're harmless. I can't tell you how glad I was not to wake up with a slithery hammock.

Back in the city, we once again lounged around at Euro Hotel. With the adventure coming to a close, we were all (especially Chuck, who had been in Panama for 3 weeks at that point) ready to get home. For our farewell dinner, we opted for the Hard Rock Cafe. If we couldn't be in America, we were going to get close. Besides, it wouldn't be too bad to listen to some good ole rock 'n roll instead of the repetitive latino stuff that had been pounding my ear drums for a week and a half. I think Panama has a "national beat," and it's required to play in every radio single.

Like Coiba rising in the mist, I could see the shadow of the mundane life beginning to form on the horizon. I didn't want to return to school to face the debts and demands of the real world, but our job here was finished. All in all, our trip to Panama was a success, which is a relative term. No, we didn't make it across Coiba, but we learned valuable lessons about who we are, and we got to experience a culture different from our own. The company was good, and the older guys consistently imparted wisdom to Brad and I. Even if we hadn't gone to Coiba, it was worth the trip's considerably high price tag to meet Kevin and to develop my friendships with Chuck and Brad. Who knows? Maybe one day we'll return to conquer the island. Next time, we'll at least know what to expect.

Coiba Video

If you can deal with the Spanish, check out this video of Coiba. If for no other reason, watch it for the great shot of the guacamayas in flight about midway through the video. This video had me salivating before we left America. Strange how it can look so inviting and then become so brutal when you're actually there.

The Canal

Saturday, March 18

With all our preparation for the island, we still hadn't visited Panama's most popular tourist attraction: the Canal. We had driven near and across the Canal countless times as we zigzagged all over the city and down to Santa Catalina, but we hadn't made it to Miraflores Locks and the Canal Museum, the tourist trap that charges you money and tells you official information about the construction of the Canal.

I won't get into the details and about how the Canal actually functions. One, because I don't know all that much about it. Two, because I don't have a mathematical mind; I marvel at the sheer magnitude of the task, but it never gets into numbers or nuts and bolts. Three, because information about the Canal is widely disseminated across the internet.

But I will say that the Canal is a fascinating feat of engineering and that it's worth the $8 to visit the museum and find out more about it. I don't think it's worth coming to Panama just to visit the Canal. The weather is amazing. Why waste daylight watching ships going up and down when you could explore an island or visit an outdoor market? If you're here, plan a day for the Canal, but please don't limit yourself to it.

The museum is built vertically, boasting four floors of exhibits about the Canal and Panama. After each section, you go up another escalator to the next level until finally, you reach an observation deck on the highest level. From there, we checked out the locks and took pictures of the countryside and more inclusive views of the Canal.

There, we met a group of college students from Texas A&M who had come to do mission work near David, a city in the western part of Panama. They came with a missions organization called Global Missions Fellowship (although I think they're in the process of changing their name). This ministry focuses mainly on church-planting among the unreached. According to the team leader, mission teams come in not to do work that will deteriorate as soon as they leave, but to train and inspire the native people of the region to reach their own with the Gospel of Christ.

In an era where performance-based Christianity is all too common, many American churches gauge the success of mission trips by the number of decisions for Christ. While it's amazing to see someone come to know Jesus, I think too much emphasis is put on the Americans doing the witnessing and how well they were able to round up new converts. Sometimes it seems like we have a quota to meet, like we want to hear people pray a prayer so that we can feel good about ourselves, not so their lives can be changed. We want to make statistics, not disciples. It's refreshing to see a missions organization that understands that the best thing a short-term team can do is contribute to the work God's already doing in an area and then trust him to bring a harvest from their seed through the workers on who permanently live among the people they're trying to reach.

Most of the college students on this trip are part of a ministry at Texas A&M called Breakaway. A few of them asked us about Coiba, mostly wanting to know how we were crazy enough to go on this expedition. We just blamed it on Chuck.

After the Canal, we hit up Quizno's subs for dinner. I felt like I was betraying Blimpie (my current employer), but I didn't feel too guilty. There's only one Blimpie left in my hometown Columbus, Ga., so how can I expect to find one in Panama?

This was Kevin's last day on the trip. He was set to fly out at 8:30 a.m., so we returned to the hotel early to give him time to pack and rest. Chuck, Brad, and I made plans to head out to El Valle de Anton after Chuck took Kevin to the airport in the morning.

Back to Panama City

Friday, March 17

The Blue Zone might as well have been the Ritz-Carlton as far as we were concerned. The hostel was quaint, but it was also new and well-furnished. And they gave us towels in our rooms, which is more than I can say for the Oasis. There's no hot water in the showers, but hair this long can only take so much dirt and salt water without washing. Just getting the sand off my body was enough to make me give the place rave reviews.

The outside was even better than the inside. Just past the office, a hut with hammocks sits on the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean. Outside my window there was a lime tree and a great view of the mountains. There's even a little porch where you can lounge around after catching some killer waves in the morning. For $7.50 a night per person in a 2-person room, you can't expect much more than this place offers.

We had decided that driving was going to be our big activity for the day. We had a 5-hour trek (without stops) back to Panama City, and with nothing to do, we were going to take our time. our first big stop was at a city called Penonome where we had bought some great supplies at a hardware store on the way down. The place had machetes and accessories, so we had basically cleaned our their stock of leather sheaths. On our way back, Chuck and Kevin decided they wanted a few more, but the place hadn't restocked.

While we were there, Chuck showed us a prison where he had done an easy mission during his time in Panama. It now serves as the headquarters for the National Police in Penonome.

According to Chuck, his commanding officer called the commander of the prison the day of the attack and said, "We're coming to take over your prison at 5:00. Have your men standing out front ready to surrender or we'll kill every one of you."

"He did what?" Chuck reacted. He thought his commander was insane to give up the element of surprise. Now the PDF (Panamanian Defense Force) soldiers would set up an ambush. To him, this was a suicide mission.

But sure enough, when the Rangers arrived, all the PDF soldiers were standing out front with their hands up saying, "No mas! No mas!" Not a shot was fired.

Our second stop was in a town called Santiago. We were all hungry, so we scoped out the lunch scene. As we walked, we stumbled upon a woman grilling some chicken that smelled amazing. So we stopped there and ate a half chicken each for a measly $2.

We made it back to Euro Hotel (the hotel formerly known as Hotel Europa) in time to check into a room that wasn't on the street side. By then it was almost time for dinner.

While doing more unnecessary shopping before we'd left for Coiba, Chuck met a guy who was from the Dallas/Ft. Worth area. Mr. Flores used to be in the car business, but had seized an opportunity to escape to Panama. Now he owns a classy restaurant on the Amador Causeway, and he says he doesn't really miss anything from the States. After some searching, we finally found his restaurant and sat down to eat. The head honcho Mr. Flores himself came and sat with us for awhile. Chuck told him stories about his role in the invasion, and they traded stories about the Dallas/Ft. Worth area. Small world indeed.

Back at the hotel, we had an exciting night of blogging, emailing, and packing. Saturday was Kevin's last full day, so we figured we'd make the obligatory visit to the canal museum at Miraflores Locks. Everything else in Panama we wanted to see was too far away from the city for the time that we had. Darn, I guess we'll have to come back.

Rescued

Thursday, March 16

A small fire built near the camp took off the edge of the brisk morning cold. After breakfast, Chuck made some calls on the sat-phone, trying once again to reach Rolo. We still hadn't received email confirmation that Rolo had gotten our message, but we decided to be ready and waiting at our extraction point in case he somehow made it today.

We hiked from Hotel Sand Dollar (our camp) to the volcanic rocks where the welcome sign stands. Kevin and Chuck hiked about a half-mile back into the jungle to get more water from a stream we had seen on our way out. The water we had gotten from the croc's river was brackish, suitable for cooking but too salty to drink.

Brad and I hung out on the beach. We journaled and talked about how weird it was to be stranded, but how glad we were that we are adventurers. Both of us doubted Rolo would come today, so we started conditioning our minds to that fact. We liked being on Coiba, but with nothing left to do on the island, we really wanted a bed and some good food. We were starting our third day on Coiba, but it felt like we'd been stranded for a hundred years.

While we waited, both for the waterboys and Rolo, Brad and I started reading some quotes from his journal. One of them struck me hard:

"Life is either a daring adventure or nothing."

Amen to that. It seems strange that something so inspiring could come from Helen Keller, who was both blind and deaf. But if you really understand the concept of adventure, it gets a little easier to see how someone with such a difficult life could look at her existence that way. According to a little sticker on my journal, adventure is "a daring, hazardous undertaking" or "an unusual, exciting, often suspenseful experience."

Keller's life was full of adversity. To overcome it, she had to show stubborn perseverance, even when she literally couldn't see the end results. When she learned to communicate, she passed her life's test. She had dared to dream and, despite the hazards, learned that she had what it takes.

If that's not life--or faith--I don't know what is.

The guys returned with water, and we wasted the day away lounging in hammocks at a new camp we'd set up nearer to the extraction point. At about 5:30, hunger set in, and we had resigned ourselves to the fact that we'd be sleeping on Coiba again. Chuck set up the stove, and we voted on what to eat for dinner. As we were about to open the spam and potatoes, we heard a noise that no animal could make.

Bzzzzzrrhhh.....

We all traded glances, each of us thinking the same thing. We all bolted, but Brad was the first to make it to the beach. Sure enough, it was Rolo with a new boat and driver, coming to rescue us. We whooped like we'd been stranded for a year, and packed up camp with in a whirlwind of excitement. What had taken us half an hour to pack before took less than 10 minutes.

At 5:40, we were back out on the blue ocean listening to the pleasant hum of the 80-hp outboard motor (twice the power of our last one). We turned around to say our goodbyes to Isla Coiba. It seemed much nicer from a distance. The dense jungle looked inviting rather than torturous, and the sunset wrapped the green mountains in rainbow colors. From this view it was hard to imagine being glad to leave.

Back on tierra firme in Santa Catalina, we ate at the Jamming pizza restaurant. It will suffice to say that Pepsi was our nectar and pizza our ambrosia, and we slept very comfortably at a surfers' hostel called the Blue Zone.

Coiba's Critters

Before we left our home at 34-degrees N latitude for the scorching sun of the equator, Chuck did his best to both amaze and terrify us with stories about the wide range of fauna found on Isla Coiba. While most of the national park's biodiversity is found beneath the ocean waters, we landlubbers did get to see some creatures that we wouldn't have laid eyes on if we'd stayed in the north Georgia mountains.

About a mile into our first day's hike, we ran upon a crab that looked like it came straight from the circus. Its body and pincers were a deep plum purple, and its legs were traffic-cone orange. I'm not sure if the species is endemic to Coiba, but go too far away from the equator and specimens like this become much less common.

Sadly, we didn't get to see any monkeys, although we did hear them howling as soon as darkness started to set in. Their cries sounded like hound dogs baying, not the typical audio effect you expect from a monkey. I'm guessing the hound-type noises were produced by howler monkeys. If I knew what a spider monkey sounded like (or if they made noise at all) I'd tell you whether or not I heard one.

The worst of the unseen noisemakers was what Kevin called a cicada, a nasty locust that also plagues other areas of the globe as well as Isla Coiba. Their loud screeching songs made my nights last way too long.

The only animal that we wanted to see and didn't was the saltwater crocodile. But we were able to see his tracks, which probably left us better off than if we'd tromped through the grassland next to the river where he made his home. A $2.95 machete can only do so much against an 8-10 foot beast like that.

While we missed out on the croc, we did see a few big lizards. They were like iguanas but looked more primitive, like something out of the "dinosaurs" chapter of a geology textbook.

I'd have to say that the most rewarding experience was seeing the two groups of guacamayas that flew over our heads as we lounged on the beach. We had seen them from a helicopter's view on a video about Coiba, but to see their vibrant colors in real life was amazing. At first, we couldn't get a great view of them because of the position of the sun. But they alighted on a high tree branch just long enough to show off and then they flew squawking over the beach. This instance was especially significant to me, because I had prayed that God would allow us to see some of these red birds that can only be found on Coiba.

In the water, we saw porpoises, flying fish, and a school of red snapper, each one as long as from my forearm to my fingertips. No whales or great whites, but again, I can't say I'm disappointed about staying away from those guys.

I've been about 2 miles into Coiba's jungle, and that definitely does not make me an expert. But I do know this: If you're a sucker for beauty and diversity, come to Coiba. Make sure to bring some fins and and all your scuba or snorkeling gear.

Deserted, Not Forsaken

Wednesday, March 15

We were up with the sun again, and I was glad to be out of my hammock. The two trees I was using as braces were much too close together, so I was sleeping in a "U" shape. This uncomfortable position--and the fact that I was wrapped up in an emergency blanket that felt like aluminum foil--made me feel like a stale hot dog.

Only 10 miles away from the other side of the island, we decided to give it another try. If we did 4-5 miles per day while staying away from the hills and near a water source, we´d reach the other side in time for Rolo to pick us up at the penal colony.

After breakfast, we sat down for a quick devotional and prayer. Chuck told us that he´d been thinking about going into combat, how soldiers tend to ask for protection from a higher power. But, he said, most people are basically asking God for permission to impose their will (for their safety) rather than asking God to do what he wants to. Our prayer was a petition to find out where God was working on this expedition, either in us, between us or through us.

"Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail."

The Emerson quote taunted me as we hacked through high grass, only have each path cut off by swamp. We were leaving a trail, but it ultimately wasn´t getting us anywhere. Our plan was to hike a few miles south toward the river, and then follow the valley across the island. An hour later, we sat down in the grass, tired and hungry. It became evident that we might not achieve our goal of making it across the island in 3 days. After one and a half hours of chopping our way through almost impassible terrain, we´d made it less than a half horizontal mile.

As tough as it was to admit defeat, there was only one choice. Rather than get stuck in the center of the island and not make our boatride on the other side, we´d have to return to the drop-off point and call on the satellite phone for Rolo to come get us.

Reluctantly, we turned back and hiked through back through the airfield toward the beach. On our way back through, we discovered more abandoned buildings from the 1980s. One of them was another prison that we hadn´t had time to explore on the way in. The other was a concrete building painted camoflauge. The rusted military helmets and bed frames inside hinted that it may have served as barracks for military trainees. Writing on the walls and newspaper clips on the ground revealed that people had been there as recently as last year.

Back to the beach, we set up a camp Kevin dubbed the Sand Dollar Hotel. It was a great spot among 3 palms, just inland of the high water mark and next to an almond tree whose shade served as our living room.

Next, we went to find a fresh water source. A river emptied into the ocean about a mile up the beach, so we packed our bottles and tried to beat the high tide to the fresh water. Next to the river, we saw the unmistakable tracks of an 8-10 foot saltwater croc. We wasted no time getting water. And we had someone armed with a machete guarding on both sides those who were filling the bottles.

Chuck called and left messages for Rolo with the sat phone and we had a good time relaxing on the beach. The sunset was more beautiful than usual. It was the kind that convinces you no matter what´s going on that you´re in the right place at the right time.

As soon as the first hint of darkness appeared, the flying teeth came out. To escape, I took a long walk on the beach and had a great time alone with the God. He´s blessed us in many ways on this trip, giving us the discernment to turn back even though our pride wanted to continue. We were stranded, yes. But stranded on the beach is much better than stranded in triple- canopy jungle with no boatride back to what the locals call "tierra firme" (the mainland).

Flying Teeth

The worst thing about the Coiba´s jungle isn´t the symphony of scary noises that you hear when you´re trying to sleep or the thought of waking up with a tarantula on your face or a fer-de-lance in your pants. It´s the flying teeth.

Up till the time we set up camp, we hadn´t seen any mosquitoes at all. I thought that was a good sign, especially since I was going to be sleeping without a bug net. But there were these gnats--called "chitras" by locals--that began to eat us alive.

The strange thing is that they only seem to come out at dusk, like microscopic vampires hell-bent to suck as much blood as possible before the sun goes down. It seems like the only purpose for their existence is to bite things, particularly succulent gringos that aren´t used to sleeping in the jungle.

Because of this, Chuck´s boy scout troop used to call them "flying teeth." The name has stuck. It´s amazing how something so tiny can terrorize sophisticated beings like us. By our second night in the jungle, we were saying things like, "Let´s cook dinner before the teeth come out," and the guys were jumping in their jungle hammocks as soon as the sun disappeared over the ocean. Without a bug net, I wrapped up in my emergency blanket and t-shirt and hoped for the best.

Coiba -The Dream Comes True

Tuesday, March 14

With all the obstacles we had faced, we were excited to be up at first light Tuesday and wading through murky water to Rolo´s boat. This trip to Coiba--which had up to this point been a really shaky dream--was now blossoming into a reality.

With the sun rising at our backs, Rolo and Chambon revved up the 40-hp outboard motor and we started our trek across 36 miles of open ocean. From what we had heard, the trip would take about three hours in total, a small price to pay to visit a deserted island that not many people have ever had the chance to explore.

About a fourth of the way to the ANAM ranger station (the place where we had to go to validate our permit) the motor puttered to a stop. We were afraid for a moment, but Rolo kept us calm. It was just a problem with the propellor. He had brought along a brand new one just in case. While we floated, I looked over the side of the boat. A school of red snapper was hanging out 10-20 feet below the surface. I couldn't believe how clear and blue the water was. I haven´t even been to the Caribbean before, so to me, it looked like something out of a movie or a travel brochure. Maybe God purposely stopped the boat so we´d get to marvel a little more at his creation.

Traveling an average of less than 18 km per hour, we had a lot of time on the boat to rest and look at the scenery. A few times, flying fish zipped out of the water, flapping their fins and hovering about 3 feet off the surface for a good distance.

Soon, Coiba rose out of the mist, tantalizing us from afar. The island is so massive that we felt like we were almost there even though we still hadn't made it halfway. Slowly but surely we inched closer. Before we reached the ANAM station we marveled at Granito de Oro, Coibita, and other small islands northeast of Coiba.

We were overjoyed to reach the ANAM station, an ocean oasis of a visitor center. Most people who come to the island are content never to leave here. They have cabins for rent and a 14-foot pet crocodile named Tito. There are bathrooms and an exhibition of preserved forms of many of the species of animals found in and around Coiba. Other than ANAM and the penal colony--which closed down completely in 2004--there isn´t much else on the island that attracts visitors. That's exactly why we were headed into the wilderness.

We dropped $10 a piece for permits to enter the park and had Rolo drop us on the other western side of the island at Playa Hermosa ("Beautiful Beach" in English). The bow-shaped beach is over 2 miles long, nested with palm trees at its back and jungle-clad cliffs jutting out on both sides to form a secluded bay. The sand is darker than the white sands you read about in resort advertisements, and the fact that it naturally occurred that way somehow made it more beautiful. Carbon-colored volcanic rocks embossed with coral fossils burst from the sand at our drop-off point. On top of the largest one was the sign: ¡Bienvenidos a Playa Hermosa!

Bubbling with enthusiasm at this point, we organized and hiked briskly from the beach into the jungle. The first place we walked was an old airstrip possibly constructed by the CIA in the 1980s. Chuck´s writing a book on Coiba, so I´ll let him explain the details. Just know the airstrip, while a little overgrown, gave us a flat path with little resistance for the first leg of the hike.

About a mile in we noticed some abandoned buildings that looked like ancient ruins. Upon further explanation, the rusty iron cells and window bars told us that the place had been used as a prison. Chuck theorizes that the CIA had a training camp here for contras fighting a civil war in El Salvador and that the prisoners were kept on this side of the island to help maintain the camp (More speculation as to the significance of these buildings in a later post). Bats had taken over the prison, so we only explored one side. There was graffiti all over the walls, much of it referring to God. Brad later commented that he liked how the graffiti shows that the prisoners were stripped of hope, and God was all they had to rely on. We stopped for lunch under a shade tree that allowed us to escape the ruthless sun and thick humidity.

After refreshment, we continued our hike out of the flat, grass-covered airstrip and into the dense triple-canopy jungle. To make a long story short, our revised plan was to climb the highest peak on Coiba and continue across the island from east to west, visiting the penal colony before heading back up to the ANAM station.

We had ascended about 400 feet, almost to the summit of Hill 164 (on our map) when I about gave out. Not only was the climb steep, but we had to hack our way up through dense vegetation. And to make matters worse, black palms were everywhere, making it more difficult for us to brace ourselves and avoid falling down the hill. The heat was more than I could bear, and dizziness had set in. I plopped down on the hill, totally defeated, and we were only a few hours in. More than once, I got so disoriented that I thought, Lord, are you gonna let me die up on this hill?

Chuck went to the top of the peak and looked at what we had on our plate. He decided that we weren´t going to be able to bag Cerro Torre at the rate we were going. It rises about 1400 feet in altitude. And 400 had taken all of our strength. The only place left to go was down, so we set up camp by a water source and decided to try a new route across the island in the morning.

Lying exhausted in my wool hammock, beneath the stars and next to a running stream, I let the screeching cicadas, the fluttering bats and the howling monkeys sing me to sleep.

New Addiction

We thought we´d lose weight coming to Panama, seeing as we were set to spend almost an entire week hacking our way through virgin triple-canopy jungle. But there´s a little shop in every mall in Panama City that has thwarted our plans to trim our waistlines.

Gelarti, an ice cream shop found in the Albrook Mall, the Multicentro and the Amador Causeway offers an array of tantalizing treats that varies with each location. On one of our many shopping trips, Chuck introduced us to the crepe wrapped quesadilla style, filled with nutella and fruit and topped with a heaping scoop of ice cream and chocolate syrup. It´s enough to feed two people, definitely worth the $3 price tag and the increase in cholesterol.

We indoctrinated Kevin the first night he came into the country, and he´s been hooked ever since. But even more than the crepe, he loves their mochaccinos. Every time we´ve stopped at the mall, some unexplanable gravitational force has pulled us there. So, even though we suffered on the island, don´t expect us to return to the U.S. looking all emaciated and weak. With all the sweets we consumed, we´ll be lucky if we haven´t gained weight!

We´re a go

Monday, March 13

We had some housekeeping issues to take care of Monday morning before we could leave for Coiba. For one, we still hadn´t found our guide, Mali Mali. Chuck had called all his contacts, and we got a hint that if we went by Panama´s environmental authority office, we´d find someone with Mali´s cell phone number.

After a scavenger hunt of phone calls, we finally got ahold of him. He said that he´d been waiting for our call for the entire weekend, but since he hadn´t heard anything, he had taken other work. Without Mali, who works for the ANAM station at Coiba National Park, we knew we´d have to go through the Panamanian bureaucracy to get a permit to be on the island. So we headed to the ANAM office. Chuck used his social skills to pull some strings, and we soon had paperwork verifying the authenticity of our expedition.

So we headed off in our Toyota rental car to Santa Catalina, a surfers´ haven in the southwest coast of the Panama isthmus. Until sometime last year, you needed a 4-wheel-drive vehicle just to pass the road down to the small fishing village. The road has since been paved, and the village has burgeoned into a small town where you can do some great scuba diving, catch some good waves, and more importantly, launch an expedition to Isla Coiba.

On the way down, Chuck played "miss the pothole" and the rest of us soaked up the great scenery. Brahma bulls littered the pastures on either side of the road. The countryside boasted rolling hills clothed in vibrant shades of green. The drive down there is no Sunday cruise, but the going gets easier when you hit the newly paved segment leading into Santa Catalina.

Our first order of business in SC was to find our boat captain, a guy named Casey whom Chuck had met on his last trip to Panama. Casey was expecting to take us to Coiba today, but our permitting problems had pushed our expedition back a day. We hoped he´d still be able to lead us out to Coiba Tuesday.

Chuck strolled up to Casey´s house, a 2-minute walk from Scuba Coiba. Casey´s wife told us that he had found other work because we had been late. Sound familiar?

So we got to work finding another boat captain. It´s interesting to see how God worked this out. Chuck had been in Santa Catalina a week or two ago shooting a story about a internationally known Panamanian body surfer who got saved in SC and is now a strong believer. While shooting the story, Chuck met a young guy called Chambon, a friend of the body surfer and also a brother in the faith. Chuck found Chambon, who hooked us up with a guy named Rolo, an entrepreneur in the area who owns some popular cabanas and a boat. After a lot of explaining and planning, Rolo agreed to be our captain, and we were set to leave in the morning.

For our last meal we went Bianca´s, one of the two nice restaurants in Santa Catalina. With outdoor dining complete with reggae background music, hammocks, and great lighting, the place has a great ambiance and some pretty good food. I´m of the breed that believes you should experience another country if you´ve spent your money to go there, so we tried the octopus ceviche as an appetizer. Chuck enjoyed it, but if your taste buds are American, I´d say try it at your own risk.

While waiting for our food, we plotted our course across the island. The conversation was dripping with bravado. We talked about sleeping under the jungle canopy while programming our GPSs and looking at the topographical map Chuck had gotten for us.

After our meal, we checked in at the Oasis (better link to come later), a quaint hostel situated directly on the beach. The rooms were small and far from luxurious, but the view was amazing. We had spent too many nights in the city. Out here, every star twinkles, and they look so close that I could blow them out like a candle. After packing my gear for the expedition, I sat in a lawn chair on the beach and read my Bible under the light of the full moon. Every so often, thunder swept up over the deep, roaring like a jet engine taking off.

All this blessing, I thought, and this isn´t even what we came for. We´d jumped through a lot of hoops, and the mission was finally a go. It´s great to serve a God who knows our needs before we ask.

Driving with the Devils on Sunday

This morning, we had a devotional time during which we read some Psalms, sang some songs, and prayed for God to show himself powerful by helping us find our guide, the elusive Mali Mali. I find myself in a new country, but God´s teaching me the same old lessons about dependence and desperation that he taught me in China. Without Mali, this trip can´t take place, and without faith, we can do nothing but worry. As I said before, I´m glad that we serve a Sovereign God.

Today we checked into the Hotel Europa, or "Euro Hotel," as it says on the sign. Sadly, our free stay at the Country Inn and Suites has come to a close, and we´ve moved into a noisy streetside room with four twin beds and a barely functional air conditioning unit. But the internet is pumpin´good, and this should be our last night in the city (fingers crossed).

After settling in, we went and bought more groceries for the trip. We´ll definitely be the most nourished adventurers ever to come through Coiba. We have enough food to feed all of Central America!

Other than riding "diablos rojos" (red devils) for the first time today, nothing extremely exciting happened. Like every other day, Chuck pulled off some crazy driving maneuvers and we rode through dangerous neighborhoods for no apparent reason. Living here for a few days, "danger" and "risk" have become relative terms.

But there is no ambiguity in the word "dormir." I mean...sleep. Darn Spanish. I need some rest. I hope to post again before we leave for Santa Catalina. But if not, I´ll have a lot to blab about if and when I return from the Coiba.