A Mongolian Tale: Finding a better place

August 4, 2006, Ulaan Bataar, Republic of Mongolia

Morning.

I awake in the capital of Mongolia, Ulaan Bataar, which in Mongolian means Red Hero. It might be pertinent at this juncture to note that one will find the city’s name spelt many different ways. Sometimes it is presented as one word, others as two, and the amount of A’s that make up all but one of its vowels varies from a minimum of three to a maximum of six. In rare circumstances the last one or two A’s are replaced by an O. For future reference, this is the most common form: Ulaan Bataar.

To continue, I am in my $40 a night room at the Jiguur Grand Hotel. The following points summarize our stay in this establishment, which lasted less than 24 hours.

• One should not expect air conditioning of any kind. Open a window.
• A sign displaying “English Spoken” should read: English Spoken… not here.
• When they tell you they accept credit cards they actually mean they want cash.
• A local phone call from the room costs an unannounced 600 Tugriks or 50 cents per minute. This is 500% more than using a street phone.
• The advertised Internet and business center was still under “construction.”
• I didn’t bother to look for the spa, but don’t expect one.

Anyways I meet up with Andy and Lili, who had arrived just last night from a six-week stint as a tour guide in the Mongolian countryside with a group of teenagers. Noon is approaching and we check out just in time so as not to be charged an extra $40. We leave with a gracious but discontented demeanor as the hotel personnel wave us goodbye bearing smiles. Smiles that almost seem to speak softly, “suckers.”

Andy and I go about to look for an alternate hotel while Lili hangs out with her tour group to begin saying their goodbyes. In our search for a new hospice we stumble upon two places that are moderately priced, but fully occupied. On our third attempt we round the corner from the State Department Store (SDS), unofficially the center of the city, and spot the sign of a hostel, “Chingis Backpackers” hung over a four story apartment building. Entering the cool and damp building takes me back about fifty years, in my imagination since I’m only half that age, when the mechanism of communism helped modernize the country. Now these strong buildings are showing signs of aging and neglect. I suspect no hot water here and foresee a great disappointment.

Andy and I enter the reception/living room of one of the apartments. Greeting us in soft-spoken English is the owner of the hostel who has one apartment available. We need not one apartment, just one or two rooms for a total of three people, but we humor her in showing us the apartment anyways. Located on the first floor of the building, we enter an apartment that includes a spacious room with two pairs of bunk beds and one king size bed, a kitchen with stove and fridge, and a complete bathroom. Well this is obviously too much, but we ask how much? Excuse me? Twenty dollars a night? Per person!? For the whole apartment?! Includes towels and sheets?! No phone, no spa, no business center, no credit cards, no air conditioning, no misleading. We take out a crisp twenty and hand it to the lady. Our first night has been paid for.

Please note: As in most countries with weak currency the US dollar is acceptable at most establishments in Mongolia.

After getting comfy in our economically priced flat we walk across the street to the SDS to begin exploring the city. Half of Mongolia’s two million populace live in the capital within low apartments, houses, and gers that paint the outskirts. Most of the architecture is made up of monotone communist-era buildings, but some new construction projects are propping up. The streets are in dismal shape not to mention the sidewalks, which remind me of Panama; an endless obstacle course for anyone commuting more than a few blocks on foot. The only decent and wide sidewalks are on the main Peace Avenue. But among the city that time forgot are one of the most sophisticated looking people around. They are chatting on the latest cell phones and sporting the newest trends in fashion. Amazingly, women wear heels to tread among the un-walkable streets. Just goes to show what a free market economy can do for individuals.

For dinner we meet up with the father of an old friend who has been living in Mongolia for three years. Lili is having a goodbye dinner with her group. He takes us out to a fine Korean dinner at one of his favorite restaurants. Korean in Mongolia?! Yes. In fact, Mongolians feel a close tie to the Korean nation and vice versa. This is due to their classic genetic links. All through out Ulaan Bataar we see advertisements for Korean products and phrases like “Korea loves Mongolia.” And it showed in this establishment’s food. I cannot recall the name of the place, but if you’re in town just ask for the best Korean food and you can’t miss. Afterward, we returned home. It sure felt like home to have a whole apartment. In preparation for sleep I approached the sink to wash my face and brush my teeth. I turned the knob and out flowed hot burning water! The building’s way of scolding me for my previous doubts. Maybe its true… They don’t make ‘em like the communists used to.

Fireman Tales: Torch March

I participated in my first Torch March on the evening of November 27th. This night falls on the eve of the Panamanian Fire Department's birthday. This year the institution celebrates 119 years of existence.

A Mongolian Tale: Dust, it’s everywhere

August 3, 2006, Dornogovi Province, Republic of Mongolia

Morning.

The sun’s rays wake me at 6:00 AM, and I feel very thirsty. I pick my self out of bed and look to the bunk above me. Andy is fast asleep. I look out the window and pause in awe at the sight before me. All I can see, for as far as I can see, is a terrain covered with bright orange sand. The sand is everywhere. In fact, it is inside the train cabins and in my nose as well. That would explain the dehydration. I remember someone telling me this would be the case. It was probably Michael during one of our Extrarefreshments.

The #3 Express is running two and half hours late as a result of our border crossing delay. This doesn’t affect me as I stand in the hall admiring the outdoors through the windows. I don’t recall how much time goes by until Andy wakes up, but he interrupts my daze and we continue to the bar car for breakfast. A newly decorated car has been exchanged for the previous one. It has fantastic carved wooden panels with swords and arrows hanging on the walls. A nice Mongolian welcome. Andy and I sit and order the only thing on the menu: Fried eggs, toast and a glass of tea. This is the most expensive meal we will ever have on the trip.

Shortly after breakfast the train stops at a small town in the middle of the Gobi. We step out and are greeted by dozens of children selling cookies and bottled water. I imagine that every time a train stops the whole town comes to the station to make a little spare change. Andy buys one bottle and verbally struggles for his change as I wander off to take some pictures. There are probably up to 30 houses in my view, and beyond that pure golden desert. How must it be to live here? I won’t find out. The conductor calls out and we hop back on the train. The train idles onward towards the north.

I have been traveling by train for over 24 hours. It surely beats any amount of time on a plane, but I will happily say goodbye to the #3 before sundown. I cannot fathom staying on the train for the entire trip to Moscow. Some of my fellow passengers are doing just that and will only experience Ulaan Baatar for about 15 minutes and no more. This will be true for all the stops they shall make until reaching the Russian capital. I await a warm shower and a comfortable bed.

It is 4:00 PM and the train is curving through rolling hills. The topography has changed to a darker tanned soil speckled with green bushes. We must be getting near. I can just picture Ulaan Baatar appearing over one of these hills. And it does, after about 20 of them. It is a large city spread over a vast valley. There are no tall buildings or structures but I can make out the tall cooling towers from one of its four coal power plants: Power Plant #3. Nearing the city I notice that the city is composed not only of fixed concrete buildings but also of portable canvas gers that sprinkle the outskirts. I begin to get that anxious feeling to get off the train and begin exploring.

The train halts at the station. Andy and I gather all of our belongings and step off the train for one last time. The day is sunny but the air is cool and dry, and it should be at 1600 meters above sea level. We try to find our friend Michael who was stepping out with his group for a weekend in Ulaan Baatar before catching a different train onwards, but they get lost in the hoard of people awaiting relatives and shipments. Andy and I continue to the exit to find our friend’s driver, which should be waiting near the “Big TV.”

Sure enough, there is a big screen at the entrance to the station and I catch a glimpse of a man holding up a sign with our names on it. I greet him and he helps us place our belongings in the car. I approach the right side of the car, thinking I would sit in the front passenger side, but I find the driver beats me to it. He opens the door and I discover a steering wheel. I look across to the left side and find none. This confuses me since people are driving on the right side of the road, but I find out later that a lot of cars come from Japan. So you have a city where drivers drive on the right side of the road but can opt to ride on the left or right of their cars. Brilliant! Maybe…

Communication with the driver is nonexistent as my Mongolian is as good as his English. He drives to a hotel near the station that has been arranged for us. The Jiguur Grand Hotel on Chinggis Khann ave. appears very decent, with advertised Internet and spa. This is a lot more than we needed at a price that was a little above our budget. We decide to stay the night but scout other options downtown. We leave our belongings and the driver takes us to meet our friend and an interpreter to negotiate prices for our trip. This would be the first of several meetings with several people. Our adventure had just begun.

Panama Project Tales: Day 3

June 28, 2006, Corozal Farm, Cocle

A rooster wakes me up at around 4:00 AM and the sun is nowhere in sight. Surely, this rooster is blind. I try to sleep some more until the sun actually decides to rise at around 5:45 AM. It was probably awoken by the rooster as well, but managed to hold out a little longer than me. I get up and start to notice the pain and cramps that the inclined sleep on hard soil provoked. Walking over to the dinning area I notice some people are still asleep, most of them in carefully placed hammocks. I have never been able to sleep on those death traps, so I’ll take the painful floor any day.

The community has been wide-awake cooking breakfast for us. Today’s meal is boiled yucca and eggs. “Yucca?” Asks Nicole from the small state of Connecticut in the United States. I imagine most of the group will be tasting new flavors on this trip. Yucca is a tough root that can be eaten boiled or fried or mashed. It’s fairly starchy and a good source of carbohydrates. Everyone tastes their breakfast and seem content with the meal. I gather the group enjoys the yucca, so far.

After breakfast, we are divided into several groups to take on different tasks. One Spanish speaker will be placed in each group to translate for the rest of the members. The translators included myself, Michael, Annie, and Marta, a Spanish speaker from Spain. I don’t recall exactly what the other groups are arranged to do, but it includes cleaning brush and collecting wood around the farm. My group is composed of Polly, Matt, Whitney, and Zoë. Whitney hails from Connecticut and I would find out her work ethic includes chatting and singing to keep energetic. It’s curious, since Panamanian farmers use a series of yelps to animate their work for the same purpose. Zoë comes from England and her work ethic involves a witty humor bursting with sarcasm. We are set to clean the banana plantation of dead and sick leaves. And so we climb down the muddy hill with machetes in hand.

The Bananas trees are sad and dirty. Their leaves are brown with a fungus and the ground overridden with weeds. Our job is to clean up this scene. The weeds must be cut up or pulled from the ground and collected, while dead or sick banana leaves must be cut and collected. Nicolas explains that leaves that are partially sick can be cut at just that point to prevent spreading the fungus. Almost like amputating a gangrenous limb. We divvy up the jobs in such a manner that while one cuts the other collects the organic waste. I put on my fingerless gloves and grab a machete.

I cut my finger while wearing fingerless gloves. It is not a deep wound, almost like a nasty paper cut, but it is bleeding. I forfeit the machete and realize that fingerless gloves are useless in this scenario. Also it seems much safer to gather stuff that has already been cut. I take a break to go back up the hill to wash out my minor wound. Nicolas had foreseen such instances and brought with him a first aid kit. Thankfully, so had I and a few other group members. I protect the cut with a bandage and feel fit to get back to work. I return and happily proceed to pick up organic trash.

It’s lunchtime. We are exhausted and welcome rest. At the top of the hill we are served yucca with egg and onions this time. To most, it seems like the same meal we had for breakfast, but no, this one includes onions. That’s half an extra ingredient! Desert includes fresh papaya and sweet mango. We take a relaxing and quite break. But we suddenly realize that only half the day has gone by and that’s when Nicolas calls us back to work.

This time we rotate our shifts and are set to fortify the walls of a fishpond. The job seems simple enough, take dirt from the inside and reinforce the walls on the perimeter. Of course, no one takes into the account the backbreaking job that is digging and the amount of earth it takes. We do the job happily yelping away with the local kids, some of who are a third my age and can work much better than me. Most of them begin helping on the farm as young as 4 years old! They don’t have good access to a formal education. Otherwise, their parents tell me, they would be in school instead of the fields. They tell me that the Ministry of Education isn’t doing its job out here and it seems it doesn’t really care.

Jubencio, Treasurer of the farm, tells me that they have a small shack that operates as the school for the entire community up to grade six. Education is compulsory in the Republic of Panama, but one cannot go to a school that has no teacher. Apparently, the teacher is not from the community and she arrives and goes as she pleases even though she has accommodations. Jubencio explains that on a particular week that the teacher actually chooses to show up, she only teaches on three days; Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. I ask him if they have petitioned the authorities. He describes their ordeal, which included several appeals to the Ministry. The community’s appeals are futile, as the teacher is connected with members in the Ministry, therefore she is untouchable. Such is life in the tropics.

It is 4:00 PM and Nicolas whistles us to stop working. We sort our tools and head for the river. It is cold, but very refreshing. Most take this opportunity not only to relax, but also to wash themselves and their clothes. In a short moment, rain begins to pour. That could have helped during the working hours, I think to myself. We leave the river as dusk begins to creep in. At the top of the hill we change into almost-dry clothes and hang our wet ones. In this humidity nothing is ever really dry. We gather at the table and stare at the white stalks of yucca on the plates. It’s dinnertime.

A Mongolian Tale: Training to the border

August 2, 2006, Hebei Province, People’s Republic of China

Afternoon.

I wake up as the train approaches a station. It isn’t the first stop, but it is the first one I desire to get off at for some fresh air. The train eases to a smooth stop. The conductor opens the door and lowers the steps. A soft drizzle catches me as I get off. It is a small station with few people except for vendors selling everything from cookies to water to soups to beer. I approach one of the carts and buy two bottles of water. I look around at the green mountains surrounding the station and breath in the cool air. The conductor motions me to get on the train. I gather we are leaving soon. I get on the train and reach my cabin. Andy is sitting there as if waiting for the bottle of water. I hand it over and the train shoves forward.

The tracks wind between steep mountains and at times through them by means of tunnels. Rounding one of the bends we get a glimpse of a section of the Great Wall of China. Tourist busses line the road leading up to the Wall. The Wall ingeniously snakes its way over the tops of the mountains. It is an amazing sight especially when one thinks of the history behind it and the time and resources spent to construct it. In fact, at one time, its purpose was to keep back Chinggis Khan’s advancing forces. It failed in most places, although I am told that one section of the Wall was very resilient and withstood attack. A Chinese General who placed an insurmountable amount of resources into the section constructed it. He was beheaded for his misallocation of resources, but was later pardoned when his wall succeeded. I won’t have a chance to walk on the centuries old wall; that would have to be for another trip. My focus at the moment is reaching Mongolia.

The thick green mountains soon give way to hilly plains. We have entered into Inner Mongolia. At one point it was part of the Mongolian Empire, but now occupies the northern-most Chinese province that borders the Republic of Mongolia. The land is arid and there are no farms in sight. This is what Mongolia will look like, I think to myself. I leave my cabin to stretch a bit and mingle with my fellow passengers.

The Australian crowd has gathered in the hallway. I manage to sway into the conversation and learn they are traveling in a small tour group that operates out of Sydney. Their guide is a young chap by the name of Michael who hands me an Extrarefreshing Beer. This is written in caps because it is the name of the Chinese brew with the description: “Fresh, tasty, smooth, for the real drinkers. For your drinking pleasure!” It’s not the best beer I’ve had, but I believe the writing on the label helps. The more sophisticated members of his group are drinking whiskey neat. I invite Andy over and another beer is offered.

We reach the border at night. Michael, who has made this journey several times, informs me that we should get off the train and get a brew. My original plan was to stay on board and watch how the car’s wheels are changed. The thing is, Mongolia uses Soviet era train tracks, which are of a different gauge than those in China. In fact, the Mongolian railway system is still under Russian management. Instead of changing trains they have devised a procedure whereby the train cars are lifted up from the Chinese track, the undercarriages are changed and the train is placed on the Mongolian track. The process takes about two hours. Michael says its nothing special and that its better to be having a brew at the station than sitting on the train for two hours.

Our passports and exit papers are taken and we get off the train. The train moves forward into a shed and we proceed to the station mini-mart. We are restricted to the station since our documents are being handled by immigration. We buy some Extrareshreshments and sit down. Sure enough, almost two hours later the train rolls back to the station on its new wheels. We get on and wait for our documents to be returned. The documents travel from Chinese immigration to Mongolian immigration and afterwards are returned to us. The wait is extensive and by this time I feel so Extrarefreshed that I decide to fall asleep. Andy awakes me briefly so that I can receive my documents and the train begins to pull from the station. We cross into Mongolia and I lay down to sleep again with the hopes that I’ll wake up refreshed in the morning.

Panama Project Tales: Day 2

June 27, 2006, Rio Mar

I am awoken at 5:30 AM by the sounds of nature and a diesel engine. The engine is powering a Coaster bus that will transport us all to La Pintada, Penonome. I get dressed and eat a small breakfast of fruit as fast as I can. I get my belongings together and notice that no one else is. They are all on the bus. I hurry outside and say goodbye to Cameron and Jajawi before getting on the bus. I won’t be left behind, although some of my belongings will. In my hurry, I forgot to bring my water pack, which I will miss dearly on the 5-hour hike. I also forget my swimming trunks, which aren’t necessary but would be practical for river relaxation time. Lastly, I forget my flip-flops that would have given my feet some down time from the hiking boots. Oh well… Off we go! I sit in the front of the bus on one of the few vacant seats left. The two and half-hour drive gives me some time to present some more of the team members.

Sitting next to me is Venetia, an Irish funny-lady who amuses people and kids with the thumb trick. Except, in her version, she actually is missing half a thumb! Behind us sit Matt from Wales and Polly from England. Polly is a habitual writer and lyricist who breaks out in song or rhyme at any given moment. Matt is the self-proclaimed “wild” guy of the group and an articulate conversationalist. These two have managed to sneak aboard a tub of gourmet ice cream. I am offered some and cannot place the flavor but it is quite good. Opposite us sits Nicolas. He is our group and farm coordinator from the Patronato de Nutricion. He is a native of Cocle and has worked for the Patronato for the last eight years after receiving his degree in Agricultural Engineering.

The Patronato de Nutricion, a non-profit organization, was started 16 years ago by a group of concerned private investors. They noticed the problem of malnutrition in Panama stemmed from improper education and organization of the people who were most affected. The Patronato’s mission is to educate rural communities to organize themselves into farm cooperatives, thus becoming nutritionally and economically sustainable. The Patronato is run with the help of private donations, volunteers, and until recently a government subsidy. This one was overturned after the government change of 2004.

Farm sponsors will place about 10 thousand of the 40 to 45 thousand dollars needed to start the farm. The community benefiting from the farm must take care of it and organize a board of directors. The farmland is owned by the Patronato at first and remains so until the community passes inspection after a period of probation. This period can last up to three years. After this time the land title is turn over to the board of directors of the farm, thus becoming the community’s farm and not just one person’s. At the present moment there are 326 farms under the auspices of the Patronato de Nutricion.

I awake from a small nap as we pass Penonome, the provincial capital of Cocle, and meet up with two pickups from the Patronato de Nutricion. We follow them north on the final 30-minute trip to La Pintada. Here the bus stops and we unload our gear while we await a third pickup truck. Once it arrives we are divided into three groups one for each pickup. Now we continue the trek north on a bumpy dirt road, if it can be called a road. An hour later my bum is numb and we arrive at Cascajal. From here on out nothing, but our feet, will carry us forward.

We meet some local guides that will help us with directions and certainly some of our wieght. So with our heavy packs on our backs and our rugged boots on our feet we begin our walk. By this time the sun is high in the sky time and its menacing rays fall upon our heads. Down we go, left, over a stream, my feet are wet already, up, rest, and down. It continues this way, hill after hill. They all look the same and have the same brook dividing them. The answer to, “Are we there yet?” is always, “After that next hill.” Remember that water pack I left? Thanks to Michael I am refreshed by his water pack. Green grassed hills passed by for what seems like days until we reach a thick jungle of trees. “We must be near,” I think to myself. Not yet. It is only after five hours that we arrive to the farm. Wet, exhausted, cramped, and hungry we are greeted with a nice hot Sancocho soup.

That hit the spot. I start to pitch my tent and a hoard of children take positions around me. Are they preparing to attack? I don’t think so. They seem very interested in what I am constructing. “Is that your house?” They ask. I answer and ask them if they want to help me build it. They dig right in, almost knowing exactly what to do. I just have to hint at what goes where. Sooner than later my shelter is up and we all cheer. I step inside with my gear and notice that it’s on a slant. Of course, in my great knowledge I had to choose the side of a hill to pitch my tent, but there was no flat and dry place elsewhere. I try to lie down comfortably to no avail as I feel myself being dragged by gravity. I am too tired to reconsider my location and fall asleep hoping I don’t wake up in the stream 150 feet below.

A Mongolian Tale: Leaving Beijing

August 2, 2006, Beijing, People’s Republic of China

Early morning.

We are exiting Beijing en-route to Ulaan Baatar on the #3 Trans-Mongolian Express. It departed from the Beijing Railway Station right on time at 7:40 AM. Our leg of the trip will take approximately 33 hours, after which the train continues on to Moscow on a five-day journey through Siberia. Our comfy cabin sleeps two and has a large window and a washbasin connected to the neighboring berth. I sit by the window with my camera admiring the passing scenes of a metropolis that is home to over 15 million people. The sights are diverse as we pass construction projects and high-rise condominiums squeezed between the familiar narrow-alleyed hutongs. Soon, as in some parts of the city, all the hutongs will likely capitulate to modern architecture. In the distance I can count up to 14 cranes in one area of the city. Numerous more pass by the window before we reach the outlying farmland of the Beijing suburbs an hour later.

There are no tall buildings here, just miles of farmland. I can distinguish rice and corn among the crops. People are working the fields and momentarily stop at the sound of the train rushing by them. Occasionally, we pass a large and smoky factory polluting the surrounding air. Dust and grime from the smoke stacks blankets the immediate area. Then the train crosses a road where a uniformed person stands waving a red flag to caution pedestrians and drivers. I take a break from the window and stand to explore the rest of the train while Andy takes a nap on the top bunk.

I stroll by the other cabins and hear well-spoken English. Sounds I didn’t expect to hear on my journey. They seem to be an assortment of Australian and British accents. Indeed, I run into a couple of Londoners staring out at the landscape. The husband and wife are enjoying their two-week vacation by traveling the full distance to Moscow on the Express and continuing through Europe on local trains. I continue down the hall and greet our conductor who travels to and from Moscow twice a month. He hands me a pair of complimentary food tickets for lunch and dinner. I thank him in mandarin, “Xiexie!” and continue along to the next car.

The doors dividing the cars are strong and heavy, an indication of its sturdy Chinese construction. They also manage to keep out the thundering noises of the metal cars rasping against each other and the steel wheels clanking on the rails. The sound is an absolute raucous between the cars. I jet on to the next car and close the door leaving the deafening noises behind. In this car, passengers travel four to a cabin since tickets are relatively less expensive. I hear a lot more of the local tongue being spoken here and the smell of fresh brewed tea fills the air. Andy and I are probably the only ones to not bring a thermos and tea on board to enjoy the complimentary hot water. I curse myself and continue.

I reach the bar car, which probably seats 35 to 40 people. Having complimentary hot water, I imagine most people heat up dry noodle soups instead of purchasing the pricey foods here. But I have two complimentary tickets. Looking at my watch, and more importantly the sounds of my stomach, it is almost lunchtime. I redeem my tickets and receive two paper boxes and two pairs of chopsticks. I’m going to be thirsty. I take a chance of asking for two complimentary bottles of water, which are probably not included with the tickets. The language barrier becomes an ally as I make a perplexed face while pointing at the bottles. As if to get rid of me quickly, the attendant hands me the two bottles and ushers me away. “Xiexie!” I say promptly and retreat to my cabin.

Andy is awake. I hand him his box, water, and chopsticks. We sit and open our boxes. The meal: Meatballs with rice and celery. It is tasty and scrumptious; much better, in my opinion, than food served on Amtrak. Let me take this moment to give praise to chopsticks. They are such a smart way to eat. Everything is all cut up, so there is no need for a knife. The eater can consume continuously without have to change utensils, thus saving much time. Efficient as it may be, it is not without its consequences. Small bits of food usually escape the chopsticks’ grasp at the most inopportune moment. There for, at the end of every meal one will be able to find about %5 of the cuisine is neither in the plate nor in one’s stomach.

The meal sinks in. In combination with the clickidy clack of the rails I sense sleep taking over. I lay down to take a short nap.

Panama Project Tales: Day 1

June 26, 2006, Rio Mar

I arrive to Michael’s house in Rio Mar and find the porch littered with backpacks of all sorts and sizes. I must be in the right place. I unload my belongings and prepare to meet the team that makes up Panama Project. I greet Michael and his sister Annie who has also tagged along with the group to make it an even 18 people. Adding myself, 19. Although, I quickly find out that 19 will turn into 18 for the trip to the farm.

Cameron is a red-haired native of Wales. He is a jolly chap with a hearty appetite and an aversion to using doors. I meet him sitting quite glumly on a chair reading a book. His leg adorned with 14 stitches he had acquired at a nearby clinic. Without having to ask, I am told he was attempting to exit the household through a window. He was unsuccessful, to say the least, and gashed his shin on the frame. He would not be going to the farm. He would have to stay behind and comfort himself with a 15-day dose of painkillers and antibiotics. Fortunately, he would not be left alone.

A fellow by the name of Jahawi would be his companion at the beach. A native of Kenya, he was one of the first to arrive in Panama along with Cameron. Jahawi shall not be going to the farm either. In fact, he is not even part of Panama Project. He came all the way from AC for a single purpose: To surf the Pacific Ocean. That is his passion and that is his project; the Jahawi Surf Project. And although Cameron will be unable to surf, Jahawi will keep him company when the swell is down.

I meet and greet the rest of the team (who will be introduced along the way) and we have dinner. Day 2 will begin at 6:00 AM so we try to rest up for the night.

A Bloody Tale

After nine months and eight exams I was informed I needed to donate one pint of blood to the Firefighter Corps’ account before becoming a full-fledged firefighter. Great! I’ve learned not to fear fire. One must respect it. Now, needles are a different matter. I’m rather not fond of them and must be forced to respect them, especially when they are stuck in my veins. But hey it’s for a good cause and it’s always good to try something new. You get a free blood test too! My sleeves are rolled up. Pick one.

1:00 PM
I arrive to Santo Tomas Hospital right after a nice lunch. I had heard it is important to eat a good meal before one donates blood. I approach the front desk at the blood bank. They take down my information and ask me to wait. And so I wait. I take this time to look around at my surroundings. Everything looks clean and hygienic. I am the only one in line to donate. It must be a slow day at the bank. In fact, I found out later that only about 5% of eligible donors actually make a deposit. Also most people contribute at times when family members need it for surgery.

1:15 PM
A group of three people walk into the bank. To me, it seems like a daughter and her two parents. She goes to the register with her father who, I overheard, needed blood for an operation. They are told to wait. Sitting down next to me the three start conversing. The daughter says, “Most people are cowards when it comes to donating blood. The last time I donated blood there was a guy next to me shaking and turning red like a shrimp.” The father responds, “Well you know its because the needle is much larger than a regular needle.” What did I just hear? It’s a fairly large room, but it is empty and I’m not deaf. Don’t they know this is my first time? I bet they do and they just want to torment me further. I decide to take a picture while I wait.

1:25 PM
I am finally called. This is it. I'm ready. I follow the nurse and she proceeds to weigh me and check my temperature. Standard procedure I imagine. Then she grabs my finger and pricks it with a small steel blade. What the hell?! My finger is bleeding!!! Damn… Now she takes a little straw sucks up some of the blood. Then two plates of glass are pressed against my bloodied finger. A cotton swab is placed on the cut. Is this my donation? It doesn’t look like one pint, but man does my finger sting. The nurse informs me to wait outside.

1:35 PM
That was just for test purposes. Apparently you can’t just go in and donate any old blood. It has to be healthy and clean and what not. So I sit back down. I look at the clock to gauge how long I have been in the “waiting” room. 7:22. Figures. Of course they don’t want someone to know what time it really is. I look at my cell phone watch. 1:37. I wait some more. They call the other lady to get her test, but she, as I before her, thinks it’s going to be the actual donation. She returns disappointed. A new donor walks in, registers, and is asked to wait.

1:50 PM
It’s my turn again! I’m directed to an office of some sort. There are no needles in sight. I prepare myself to be disappointed again. The woman in the lab coat begins to ask me questions about my health, allergies, and any medications I’m taking. It’s an interview test. She tells me to wait outside. I sit down and look at the clock. 7:22? Not only is it the wrong time, this clock is in a perpetual universe where the time is always 7:22! I take a picture and wait some more. After some minutes the two other donors pass through their interviews.

2:10 PM
I am called again. Now, I’m sure they must need a hair sample or some sort of x-ray. But no. This is it! And not only do they call me, they call all of us! They take us to a small room with very comfy chairs, kind of like industrial lazy boys. We all sit down and they proceed to prep us, starting with me. My arm is washed in a combination of three fluids one of which I'm sure is alcohol based. I look to my right and find the plastic bag, which will be filled with my blood in the near future. Attached to it is a tube that I follow with my eyes to its end. There, I find a needle covered in a plastic cap and plastic wrap. It looks new and antiseptic.

2:12 PM
The nurse secures my upper right arm with a strap and places a red rubber ball in my right hand. Now he prepares the needle and I look straight ahead. My eyes are not prepared to witness the needle pierce my flesh down to and into my vein. What was that? I think in my head. It is a strange sensation, not painful, but uncomfortable. Like you have just been connected to some sort of machine. The nurse says to start squeezing and relaxing my hand on the red ball. This action is necessary as you are physically pumping the blood into the bag. So it begins.

2:16 PM
I have been looking at the same point for long enough. I decide to take a gander at my arm. Good lord! That’s not a needle; it’s a freakin nail! Now, my eyes can’t move away from this spectacle, when just seconds ago they would refuse to even sneak a peak. I found myself thinking too hard about the gruesome process-taking place under my skin. I knew that if my mind continued on that thought I would certainly faint. I looked at the bag. 450mL. That’s how much a pint is?! In Ireland maybe, I thought. The bag wasn’t even half full of a dark red liquid resembling a 1998 Rioja. I concentrated on squeezing the red ball.

2:22 PM
The red ball thing becomes exhausting. I look at the bag. It’s almost full! I ask the nurse if I’m done. Answer: No. I wait and squeeze. But I know I’m close. The machine under the bag makes a beep. Now I’m done. The nurse takes a pair of scissors and a clamp. Clamps the tube near my arm and cuts it on the opposite side closer to the bag. The bag is taken away. “Hey I still have a freakin needle in my arm!”, I say very loudly in my mind. The nurse returns and places the remaining blood in my part of the tube in two vials. Probably for more testing, I think. Now the needle is taken out of my arm and a cotton swab goes in its place. The nurse tells me to hold my arm up. I get a good look at the needle now that it is free from my arm. I really think they build homes or bridges with “nails” like these.

2:28 PM
I am told to place my arm down. The nurse puts one of those small round bandages on my wound. He asks, “Do you feel ok?” I say yes. I am told to fold my arm and hold it for 10 minutes. I get a hearty thanks, my deposit receipt, and get rushed out to the waiting room. I had heard that after a donation, the blood bank should offer you orange juice and a cookie to replenish your strength. No cookie. No juice. I leave Santo Tomas parting with 8 to 10% of my blood, but with an added sense of a good deed done. I enter my car with unbridled enthusiasm, which slowly fades when I realize I won’t be able to drive for another 10 minutes.

Go to www.givelife.org to find out more about donating blood.

Panama Project Tales: A Project? Here?

A group of 17 young students, between the ages of 16 and 18, from The United World College of the Atlantic assembled at a beach in The Republic of Panama. They had traveled across a vast ocean from the nation of Wales in the United Kingdom to spend a summer in this tropical isthmus. For most of them, this would be their last summer together before they went off to pursue careers or university degrees. Led by their fearless and outspoken leader, Michael, they volunteered to work with the Patronato de Nutricion for their 2006 summer project.

Summer projects are a standing tradition at the Atlantic College, known among students as AC, by where teams of students offer their services to communities around the world. The projects are not affiliated with AC and are mostly funded with donations raised by students and at times their own funds. Students also design their own projects and coordinate for them accordingly. Other groups this summer had gone to China, Thailand, and South Africa just to name a few. This was to be Project Panama. Their mission: Help build two rural farms, in two remote locations, in 20 days. A much heftier challenge than probably all the other AC projects put together.

Shortly before the project officially commenced I went to Tocumen International Airport to pick up the last team member to arrive in Panama and one of the first I would meet. Olivier, the only French national in Panama Project, arrived right on time and I took him to meet the group at Rio Mar. He seemed smart and enthusiastic, this being the first time he set foot on the New World let alone the small Isthmus of Panama. If this lad was to be any indication of the sort of characters in Project Panama then I wanted to participate as well. And not merely as a driver, I wanted to be an active contributor! At the same time I didn’t want to intrude on their project. I was an outsider, my only link being to the Panamanian group leader, Michael. I needed to acquire a clever motive for my inclusion in the group.

And so I happened to be invited, or rather had myself be invited, to accompany the group as their official photographer on the first farm.
Note: There is no such thing as traveling light for a photographer. In almost all circumstances your camera equipment will weigh more than all the other stuff you take.

My Inventory
The necessary!

• Clothes… 2 pairs pants, 3 shirts, 6 pairs socks, 5 boxer shorts, 1 hat, extra boots.
• Toiletries, first aid kit, GPS receiver
• Tent, sleeping bag, small towel, flash light

The essential!

• 1 Tripod
• 2 SLRs
• 4 Lenses
• 1 Flash
• Several Batteries
• Assorted filters
• Cleaning supplies
• Remote trigger
• Field vest (all those pockets really come in handy)
• 13 rolls of film

Located in a remote area of the Cocle province, the Corozal Farm in the town, no the village, better yet, the community of Sardinia would prove a tough challenge to get to. To reach 08°44.136’N by 80°33.967’W the group chartered a bus that first took them to the most treacherous part of the trek. Rio Mar! A quaint beach community and surf spot located an hour out of Panama City. A relaxing place where Michael enjoys a humble and peaceful abode where the group would benefit from a host of amenities: A good nights rest under a solid roof, a flushing toilet, warm bath water, and a variety of hearty foods and nutritious drinks. The last of its kind they would see for almost a fortnight, well ten days actually. This is where I met the rest of the team.

more later...