Highway robbery.

the outside of the Baños police station although the inside wasn't much more inspiring

Since we had arrived in South America, it was a lot harder to find good accommodation. In Colombia, the problem was that the supply couldn’t keep up with the demand. One hostel owner told me that over the last five years tourism had grown at a rate of 20% annually but this year it was growing 20% every month! Absolutely bonkers. Now combine this with something another hostel owner told me, it took him two years to get permission to open his hostel and you’ll understand why we were always so anxious to book ahead. In Ecuador, the problem was not a lack of hostels but a lack of good hostels and a whole lotta tourists. August is the highest of high seasons and Ecuador is one the most popular backpacker destinations. But despite leaving the dusty roads and low-tech of Central America, booking ahead was a big problem in (supposedly more advanced) South America. While most hostels listed an email address, it seemed none of them ever checked or replied to their emails. So here we were about to set off to the popular backpacker town of Baños without having heard from any of the places we emailed. That just meant we’d have to be sure to leave by midday so we’d have a shot at finding a good place before dark.

Luckily Baños was just over three hour ride from Quito so there was no need to get up at the crack of dawn. Instead we had breakfast and said our goodbyes to the lovable oaf that was the hostel dog and headed out to the Southern Bus Terminal. When we grabbed a taxi on the street, we were pleasantly surprised by a quote that was less than our ride in. And that pleasant surprise turned to guilt as the cab kept driving and driving and driving to get to the new terminal. It was even further out than the northern one so we gave the driver the 50 cents for the tax to enter the new terminal. I know, I know, but Ecuadorian taxi drivers were making us soft by actually being nice.

The Southern Terminal was even bigger than the one we arrived at. It looked like an airport, all shiny and clean and modern. Inside buying a ticket was made incredibly easy by the colour coded kiosks – a directory let us know which colour window we could buy our tickets at and just in case we were colour blind a station employee pointed us in the right direction. After the chaos at Colombian bus stations this was all a bit overwhelming. We had just missed one bus but there was one due in 45 minutes which gave us time to buy water and find our bus bay. Our ticket had a bay on it but as we walked towards it we were immediately turned back by security and shown to the right one. Apparently we had been walking in a restricted (i.e. still under construction) area. Oops. When we got to the right bay there was a bus waiting there but it wasn’t ours. Nope, that one didn’t leave until just before our bus pulled in.

It wasn’t the nicest looking bus but we’d seen worse. But the employees were very helpful. The ayudante insisted on helping Adrian but his bag on the overhead shelf as we settled into our seats near the front. And then we were off. The route was obviously a popular one with lots of stops in towns along the way. At each one vendors selling food and drink would also get on, ply their wares and then get off along the highway, presumably to catch a ride back to town from the next passing bus. Like all buses we’d been on in the last 5 months, this stopping and starting added a lot of time to what should have been a short trip but we were used to it.

Soon we were just outside of Baños. Adrian reached up to grab his knapsack and immediately I noticed an uncomfortable look on his face. He began searching through the pockets which was easy considering they were empty. With a look of horror on his face he told me, “It’s gone.”
Sometime in the last 3 hours from right under our noses, someone had rifled through his knapsack and removed his beloved PSP and all the games. I figured he had just packed it in his big bag and told him not to worry. No, he insisted as we pulled into the station. They were gone and that’s when he told me the rest of the bad news. The knapsack was also where he had been keeping the money belts we never wore. Inside were our backup credit cards and his British passport. What!?!

As the bus stopped we grabbed our luggage from off the bus and began a thorough search of everything. Nope. We’d been robbed somewhere along the highway. Adrian decided to ask the ayudante if he’d seen anything - of course not but he suggested it was the people that sold stuff on the bus that did it. I don’t know how they’d do it considering they were always laden down with baskets of stuff in both hands. But whoever it was didn’t matter, the stuff was gone.

The good news was we still had our main credit card, bank card and passport. So we could still travel. But that didn’t mean canceling and replacing what was gone was going to be easy. The bad news continued when we got to our first choice hostel. They were no rooms. Still in shock we headed to our second choice. They didn’t have any rooms either. But they directed us to their sister place around the corner. The room was cheap and clean and big. So we took it and began making an inventory of what was gone. And gone were Adrian’s PSP, 10 games, 4 credit cards, 1 British passport, almost $400 in traveller’s cheques, and the 6-year old digital camera which had been in a handbag inside the knapsack, meaning however stole the stuff gave Adrian’s bag a thorough going over. I did smile about the digital camera, it was on its last legs and would be a disappointment when it stopped working.

With the list in hand (as well as a Spanish dictionary and old photocopies of all our documents), we headed to the police station (photo above) to make an official report that insurance, the credit card companies and the passport folks would need. The police station really was only 3 rooms and we were directed to sit in one of them. Here we waited for 20 minutes until a police office? judge? or clerk came in took our statement. Dealing with the police was not something I had covered in any of my Spanish lessons but luckily the officer was able to understand my pidgeon Spanish and Adrian’s mime and put it together in a typed report which was then signed and stamped by a notary? lawyer? or judge? That made it official, we were the victims of crime. The next stop was an internet café to hop onto skype and cancel all those credit cards. That wasn’t fun and I’d like to state how disappointed I was in Amex’s operator and how pleasantly surprised I was by Mastercard’s. Amex didn’t seem to care and was cold and rather unhelpful. Apparently, the thief had already tried to use the Amex to get $4995 worth of goods from somewhere (in Ecuador this would by you a fleet of used cars I’m sure). The transaction hadn’t gone through because my account was dormant since I hadn’t paid the membership few in the last few months (we hadn’t used it so I forgot). But that also meant Amex wouldn’t help me with a replacement until I paid the $50 fee – she then began asking me when I was going to pay it. Suddenly my “help, I’ve just been robbed” call became a collection call. Grr. This might not have sunk in accept that I called Mastercard afterwards. They were the polar opposite: they first asked me if I was okay, if we’d been hurt; they asked me what else had been stolen and did we need help; she wanted to know if we still had access to money. And when she knew we were okay she helped us figure out how to get a replacement card. Unfortunately, (and this is true for all Canadian credit cards) we couldn’t get a replacement. Well, we could get a temporary one that would expire in 30 days but a full replacement could only be sent to a Canadian address for security reasons. For some reason I don’t understand, it’s considered safer to send the credit cards to a third party address in Canada and then have the third party courier them to us, rather than have the credit card company send them directly to us. Silly. But after 4 hours of dealing we didn’t have much fight left in us.

The adrenaline was wearing off and since we hadn’t eaten since this morning, we were starving. We walked out in a daze to find a place to eat. As we approached the main square, we saw a familiar face. It was Matt from Cartagena. We chatted on the street and excused our moods telling him our sad tale. He decided to join us for dinner and we relived our first meeting by once again having pizza and beer. Although we’d only met Matt once before, it was nice to be chatting to a friend. Not only did it help to have a sympathetic ear, he was a great distraction and by the time we finished up we were feeling a hundred times better.

What’s Spanish for brakes?

The alarm went off at stupid o’clock, unaffectionately known as 4am. Thanks to our trip to the grocery store we had some cereal for breakfast and then dragged our butts to reception carrying just our day packs with just enough stuff for our two night getaway. There was another couple waiting whom I recognized from a few days ago before they had had to relocate to a nearby hotel when they forgot to reserve their room for enough nights. There was also a group of Israelis ready to head out too. Downstairs there were two white 4x4s waiting for us one driven by a super energetic lady named Judy. She hustled Adrian and I into her jeep and then drove off with the other driver claiming that we were his.

We got about a block away when Judy got a phone call that made her do a crazy u-turn and head back to the hostel.
“I’m sorry I don’t what is going on. I’m the driver for your island but you have to go with the other guy.” She said to us via the rearview mirror, while talking in the cell phone, steering and shifting at the same time.

I was kind of glad we were going with the other driver as Judy scared me. But this didn’t bode well for the beginning of our journey (although I was too tired to care). In the new SUV I was lucky enough to get the front seat while Adrian was squeezed into the back with the gaggle of Israelis. My relief at being with a sane driver disappeared when he shot off and barreled down the dark streets of Panama then on to the expressway east in record time.

I was amazed that even at this stupid early hour there were long lineups of locals waiting for buses at the side of the road. The day really does begin and end with the sunrise and sunset for these folks. I drifted off to sleep and woke up about an hour later when we pulled up to a little fonda (no not bridget or jane, but a hole in the wall shack café on the side of the highway) for some coffee. Then it was back on the highway that soon dwindled into a pothole-ridded road. And by potholes, I mean giant pits, which our driver preferred to swerve around without slowing down. That meant a lot of flying back and forth inside the vehicle but amazingly none of us got car sick.

We turned off the highway onto a gravel road that slowly (well fastly, at the speed our driver was going) turned into a dirt road and then mud road as me headed up and over the mountains of Panama’s continental divide. The road was very twisty and treacherous but our driver’s preferred technique for handling it was going as fast as possible downhill so he could use the momentum to get up the next hill. At one point there was a truck in front of us that couldn’t make it up a hill and we almost rear-ended it. Our driver reversed at full speed to give the other driver room. It was just as scary as any roller coaster and I wished I knew how to ask “where are the brakes” in Spanish.

The road became worse the further we went. But we got to catch our breath when we stopped to pay our Kuna tax of $6 each as we entered the Kuna Yala territory. Then it was back on the death road through the jungle for another hour and half ride which even involved driving across a river. I was relieved when the road suddenly became paved only to realize we were now on a runway of a small airport that looked like it hadn’t been used in years, except perhaps by drug runners. We pulled up to the small terminal at the end of the runway where lots of other travelers were waiting all looking similarly green in the face after their ride in. The terminal apparently was now the dock for the boat transfers to the island.

As we waited for our boat to whisk us away to Iron (ee-rone), our driver told us that he had to take us to another port further in the jungle. So we reluctantly got back in the truck. The trek was a short one to the banks of a river where a few boats and about 15 other travelers were waiting including the American couple from this morning. Judy was also there yelling instructions – I don’t know what coffee she drinks in the morning, actually I do so I can avoid it. She came up to us and once again apologized for the confusion. Our boat was there but the Americans’ luggage wasn’t; it was still making the trek on another SUV. Eventually after an hour of farting about it arrived and we got on the small 12 person lancha with 10 other folks. Most got off at the stops along the way, leaving just us and the American couple who were also headed to Iron which apparently was the furthest west of all the islands.

We flew across the water, eventually slowing down as we approached a tiny palm tree covered island with a handful of huts dotted on the white sand. As the boat curved around to the other side, the Kuna family living on the island ran out to greet us. The women wore red skirts, and what looked like leg warmers until I realized that they were beaded leg wrappings. We learned that Iron was the name of the owner and the older woman greeting us was Oneida (spelling a guess)his wife. There were also countless kids and other members of the extended family who lived in the huts we had seen on the other side of the island. On this side was where they housed us visitors. There were four huts, all basic but with a comfy bed and wooden floor. Woohoo. The bathroom was a toilet in a hut that had to be flushed by pouring water down the bowl, and the shower, well the shower was something we didn’t get introduced to. No worries we changed into our bathing suits and jumped in the water just steps from our hut. From the water we got a clear view of the rest of island including another grouping of basic huts where we spotted Matt from the Canal bus stop. He told us the accommodation at that end was really basic – sand floors and no bedding. But he didn’t care it was cheap and the view (photo above) was priceless.

Soon we were called for lunch where Adrian and I met the other 4 people staying with us. The American couple were Nick and Arianne from Portland. And the two others already on the island were Britt and Gunn two girls from Norway. While chowing on our rice and fish, Ricardo introduced himself to us. He was Iron’s best friend (and brother-in-law) and looking after us while Iron was in Panama City. He also formally introduced us to our boat captain, Negro who told us he was going to take us out tomorrow on a boat tour to some other islands. We all asked for a good snorkeling place and he told us he know the best place that has a barco escondito – or sunken boat. It sounded amazing we just hoped we didn’t mean an old lancha on a sand bar.

After lunch we went back in the water but soon the weather changed and the clouds looked quite fierce so we decided to read. Well I decided to read. Adrian went nosing around the island and found out that Oneida’s daughters had two kittens in one of the hut which he immediately demanded that he play with. They were pretty darn cute and we cooed like idiots as we held them and posed for pictures with them until dinner.

At exactly 6:30 we were served dinner which was hot dogs and rice. Good thing we had a box of sangria with us. We shared it with the 4 others - it was my postponed birthday after all - and enjoyed the evening sitting at the table chatting by candlelight. Britt and Gunn had arrived the day before and assured us the food had been better. But they also warn us about the cockroaches that come out after dark. I wasn’t really bothered – unlike sand flies and mosquitos they don’t bite me. But Arianne was freaked out. To make her feel better, Nick decided to give the cockroaches a name. From now on we were to call all of them Frank. Well Frank (or one of his many children all named Frankie or Francesca) popped up on the thatch roof near the picnic table as well as in the toilets. However as it became pitch black we lost sight of Frank and every one chilled until 10pm when we decided to pack it all in for the night. After the crazy trip out here, we had finally found the brakes.