Panama

Panamá

April 16—May 5, 2012

            After a five-day passage from Jamaica, San Miguel arrived at Shelter Bay, near the city of Colon. The marina there is a hub for sailors waiting to transit the Panama Canal. After the boat was measured (apparently official vessel specifications are not adequate for canal authorities) and assigned a transit date of April 28, we set off for the San Blas island chain, which begins about 70 nm northeast of Colon.

            The San Blas archipelago is comprised of around 400 islands stretching from the Panamanian city of Portobelo to the Colombian border. The islands all appear almost identical; they’re low and flat, made of white coral sand and are covered with coconut palms and shrubs. The entire chain is part of a comarca—a semiautonomous reservation—for the Kuna (or Tule) natives. The Kuna, with a population of 62000, are one of a number of indigenous peoples that live on different comarcas throughout Panama. They have taken advantage of tourism, selling their textiles and hand-woven jewelry with strikingly bright colors.

            I met Edgar and his family on the island of Chichime where they had moved a few months earlier. Their home consisted of three huts with palm-leaf roofs, hammocks for sleeping, and a fire ring for cooking. They mainly lived on coconuts and fish, but sometimes bought bread and produce from the mainland. Edgar, his cousin and I set out with some other sailors to fish on the reef on the opposite side of the island. Edgar and his cousin caught some big spider crabs with their bare hands and I managed to shoot a large jack, part of which I exchanged for one of the crabs.

            Once we arrived back in Shelter Bay we began preparing to transit the canal. Opened in 1914, the Panama Canal was one of the greatest engineering feats of its time. An estimated 25000 people died during its construction, mainly from malaria, typhoid fever, and yellow fever[1]. The United States controlled the Canal Zone until the end of 1999 when it was handed over to Panama. Today on each side of the canal, an additional set of locks, adjacent to the first, are being constructed to allow a higher volume of shipping traffic, to be completed in 2013. It costs about US $1500 for a 50-ft yacht to transit the canal, and up to $500k for container vessels. According to our canal agent, canal business accounts for 8% of Panamanian gross domestic product (its third largest contributor, behind sales in the duty-free zone and tourism).

            The canal authorities require that each private yacht have a captain and at least four others to serve as line-handlers. For this reason many of the sailors waiting to transit with their own boat will go through with other boats beforehand, aiding the skipper and scouting out the process before taking part themselves. Serving as a line-handler is also popular among travelers who want to experience the canal. Line-handlers are a hot commodity; all a prospective crewmember has to do is walk down the dock and inquire with a few boats or put a sign up on the marina message board.

            In this way Francois and I helped a Dutch family transit the canal on their 47-foot Beneteau Boomerang. At 4 pm we arrived with the boat near the entrance of Gatun locks, and awaited the arrival of our advisor, who would stay onboard and guide us through the entire canal. We rafted up with two other sailboats, using old tires as a buffer between them, and stayed this way until we had passed all three ascending locks, which we shared with a container vessel and a tugboat. Upon entering the first lock men on both sides of the raft threw us monkey’s fists on lines to which we attached our own heavy lines. They hauled up our lines and attached them to the top of the side walls. The large steel doors closed and water was allowed to flow from the succeeding uphill lock through large pipes, creating strong currents and vortices. As the water level rose, the two boats on the sides of the three-boat raft quickly took up the slack forming in the lines attaching us to the side walls. Doing this job poorly is what causes most incidents. After the water level rose to the level of the second lock, the doors opened and we were allowed to move forward.

            The Panama Canal covers close to 50 miles of waterways. At the Caribbean end there are three consecutive locks (Gatun Locks) ascending to Lake Gatun. At the Southern end of this lake stands the Pedro Miguel Lock, which descends to the level of Lake Miraflores. At the end of this lake the two locks at Miraflores descend to the level of the Pacific Ocean[2]. Like most canal systems, the locks in the Panama Canal function by gravity alone, such that water flows downhill from Gatun and Miraflores lakes and into the ocean, requiring no active water pumping. In fact, the system harnesses this massive flow of water to generate hydroelectric power. The lakes were created artificially by damming several rivers, most notably the River Chagres, which continually supply the lakes with water such that they rarely become low.

            In two weeks I passed through the canal on three different boats. The bus from Panama City on the Pacific side back to Colon costs around $2.00 US.

After later transiting with San Miguel I returned to Shelter Bay to meet with the crew of Allegra II, who were delivering this boat from Italy to Australia. They were seeking crew and agreed to take me along into the Pacific. Allegra II is a 50-ft Lagoon catamaran built in France in 2007. She is powered by a mainsail and genoa (1100 and 800 ft² respectively), two 75-hp Yanmar diesel engines (each consuming approximately 1.3 l h^-1) and a diesel generator. She has a gennaker (1400 ft²) that draws best between apparent wind angles of 90° and 150°. She has four staterooms, five heads, two refrigerators and two freezers. Needless to say life onboard is comfortable.

           

                                                                                                 Immigration

Everyone has a story about dealing with the bureaucratic system in a foreign country and this one is mine. Before arriving I had heard conflicting stories about the immigration procedure for Panama. Some spoke of a new law requiring a $110 visa. Some said that the visa was not necessary. Some said that the visa was required but they in particular had not been asked to pay. Some said the visa was technically required, but if you planned to simply pass the canal, you would not be asked for it. Some said if you check into the country in Panama City the fee is only $10. More disturbing is that the people relating these requirements were not only foreign sailors, but also professional government agents. When I signed onto the crew of Allegra II, the agent dealing with our customs and immigration told me I had not obtained a visa when I entered the country and it was imperative that I get a visa before being “stamped out” of the country.

The first immigration office I arrived at was the wrong one. I was told to go to 11^th St. There I found an unmarked building with a staircase leading up to several offices. I told the woman at the desk my situation: I had entered the country as crew on a sailboat two weeks earlier, I was not aware that I needed a visa and I now planned to get on another boat to exit the country. Nope. It was impossible that I get the visa without copies of the former boat’s registration, crew list, cruising permit, a letter from the captain, two personal ID pictures, and two copies of my passport and entry stamp. Well. That was going to be impossible, since San Miguel was in a different city. Next try. After passing through the canal with Allegra II I met with Francois and obtained copies of San Miguel’s documents. Next morning. Immigration official at the marina: you don’t need a visa, we’ll just stamp you out of the country tomorrow. Interesting. In any case the agent we are using says that’s impossible and the captain wants it done right. Next try. $20 taxi ride to the immigration office in Panama City. Woman at the desk: “I guess I can give you a visa if you really want one, it’s going to cost $100.” Done.

If Panama is going to institute a new law and require $100 visas, they should make the process clear to everyone, including their own government officials.

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[1] Parker, M (2007). Panama fever. Anchor Books, New York. 1^st ed.

[2] Friar W. Panama. Moon Handbooks.

A crocodile in the canal near Pedro Miguel Lock

The fort at San Lorenzo on the Caribbean side of Panama

Canal workers pulling up our side lines

Jamaica

Jamaica

March 28—April 11, 2012

           

Port Antonio is a small harbor town near the northeast corner of Jamaica. Our motive for stopping there was to replace the rudder bearings (which we assumed to be the cause of our shaky helm) and to paint the bottom. We hauled the boat out into the local yard and began the work, scraping the old paint off and pulling at the rudder bearings that refused to budge.

               I set out to find an adventure and ran into Winston on the next point east of the port. He had sailed to Jamaica a year and a half ago, not finding any reason to leave. Winston had developed an interest in permaculture[1], and showed me his endeavors in creating a sustainable, locally-producible protein supplement for livestock. He grows “soldier flies” using waste products such as cow manure, with the intent of eventually harvesting the flies’ larvae for feed. The incentive for such a product arises from the rising cost of commercially-produced feed. As the founder of UrbanFeedCo[2], he is refining the growing process and hoping to market it to local farmers. Apparently there is also interest in using these insects to create bio-diesel.

Soldier fly larvae

            A few days later I set out with some new friends Pedro and Sophie, and we met John on the street. John is from New York but has lived in Jamaica for the last 20 years, and has run a few restaurant-bar businesses on the island. The house he rents is in the country a 40-minute drive east of Port Antonio on a grassy lot that overlooks the rough coast below. From the house John keeps a bar and restaurant serving excellent food. He probably has the most diverse menu around; Jamaicans like Jerk chicken, rice and festival (a fried white bread). John served us some home-fermented banana- and apple wines, and five of us headed off for a drive down the coast.

John Maire at work

            Upon reaching Boston Bay we met several surfers that lived in tents on the beach, some of which ran a surfboard-rental business out of a rickety shack. Apparently the bay brings some of the best swell in all of Jamaica. Our next stop was at Blue Lagoon, an indentation in the coast where freshwater inputs from streams and create a 4-inch layer of fresh water atop 150 feet of seawater. We swung from a rope and the numerous overhanding tree branches and dove in. After collecting some small oysters we headed back to Port Antonio.

Blue Lagoon

            Work progressed slowly on San Miguel but after scraping the remaining antifouling paint off we applied three new coats, had a broken metal piece holding the rudder shaft in place re-welded, removed the old rudder bearings and installed the new ones, reassembled the rudder system and lifted the boat back into the water. Shortly after leaving the autopilot system failed, and later that night while motoring during light winds, the water pump on our diesel engine did something like explode. The housing of the pump had corroded from the inside out creating a gaping hole and causing coolant to spray out over the engine compartment. That was when we turned around and sailed for Kingston; our adventures in Jamaica were not over yet.

            I had wanted to visit Kingston ever since arriving in Jamaica a couple weeks before. As a reggae music enthusiast I had hoped to hear live roots reggae. Francois and I had the impression that the city had reggae bursting out of its ears; the city minted more records than any other in the world, Jamaicans had so much reggae to choose from that they were only satisfied with one artist for a few weeks, and the streets were positively churning with live concerts. But our findings were slightly different from our expectations.

I spoke with quite a few locals in Port Antonio about Kingston: almost everyone was horrified and implored me not to go. Apparently the city was extremely poor, people would surround me and ask for money, beat me up, or even kidnap me. Of course then I heard from other more open-minded Jamaicans and foreigners who recommended the trip. In any case I was happy for our unexpected stop in the city.

The marina we landed in was across the bay from Kingston and the first thing I did was visit Port Royal, apparently the wealthiest city in the world until 11:40 AM on June 7, 1692 when a catastrophic earthquake destroyed the city and left it partially submerged underwater:

“Once called ‘the richest and wickedest city in the world,’ Port Royal was also the virtual capital of Jamaica. To it came men of all races, treasures of silks, doubloons and gold from Spanish ships, looted on the high seas by the notorious ‘Brethren of the Coast’ as the pirates were called. From here sailed the fleets of Henry Morgan, later lieutenant-governor of Jamaica, for the sacking of Camaguey, Maracaibo, and Panama—and died here, despite the ministrations of his Jamaican folk-doctor. Admirals Lord Nelson and Benbow, the chilling Edward ‘Blackbeard’ Teach, were among its inhabitants. The town flourished for 32 years until at 20 minutes to noon, June 7, 1692, it was partially buried in the sea by an earthquake.”

Original Tuff Gong Recording Studio

Despite being advised against it, we took the public bus (which apparently harbored the worst sort of gangsters—sounds familiar, right?) to visit Kingston and locate coolant and some other parts we needed. The city is a sprawling concrete jungle, has some dangerous ghettos in Trenchtown and Spanishtown, and an uptown wealthy area including “New Kingston.” We visited the downtown city square where goods were laid out for sale everywhere and some rather unfortuante homeless were posted, then took a taxi to New Kingston. This area holds the Bob Marley Museum, consisting of one of Marley’s homes and a formerTuff Gong recording studio. At this point I saw ads for several reggae festivals that we had unfortunately missed or were scheduled for future dates. Anyone in a private car will pick you up if you stand at the bus stop and negotiate a price, so we rode back to downtown where we saw a sort of music parade sponsored by the giant cellular network, Digicel.

Anderson works with a student at the Caribbean Maritime Institute

How we repaired the water pump on San Miguel’s engine was indirect and coincidental. I had met Fritz, the Executive Director of the [3]Caribbean Maritime Institute while hitchhiking down the road toward Port Royal a few days before. After hearing of our problem, he generously offered to help (or at least to put off the problem to some of his staff). The institute was just next door to the marina, and when we arrived several of the staff immediately got to work on it. We rode into Kingston to get the proper electrode for their arc welder, and then a man named Anderson did the welding. We cut new gaskets out of some questionable paper material and then later also applied a silicone gasket maker to ensure a proper seal. We installed the pump, and after some initial alarming noises from the engine it began running as usual. On April 11, for the last time we hoped, we set sail for Panama.

[1] The development of agricultural ecosystems intended to be sustainable and self-sufficient.

[2] See www.urbanfeedco.com

[3] See www.cmi.edu.jm/

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Machine shop at the Caribbean Maritime Institute

Downtown Kingston

Boston Bay

Haiti (March 21—March 28, 2012)

Haiti

March 21—March 28, 2012

Francois, Lole, and Elizabeth in the Dominican Republic

            San Miguel is a 47-foot Jeanneau Sun Odyssey. She is powered by a mainsail and genoa (48 and 68 m² respectively) and has a Volvo 60 hp diesel. Two solar panels charge the five batteries except when hooked to shore power or when motoring. She has two heads, two aft cabins and two forward cabins, although one of the forward cabins is used for food storage. She holds 160 gallons of fresh water and is also equipped with a foot-powered seawater pump for the galley sink. A natural gas tank powers the stove, and there are two refrigerated compartments underneath the galley counter. Electronics include a global positioning system (GPS), an automated identification system (AIS)—this tracks the positions of other vessels equipped with the same device—, a VHF, a satellite phone for emergencies and a computer loaded with electronic charts.

            Sailing and doing everything you can yourself rather than paying others to do things for you is the best way to travel. To make the trip affordable and sustainable one must be frugal. In order to avoid running the motor to charge the batteries, we conserve electricity (most lights are LEDs) and don’t use the inverter to plug in our devices. We can wash dishes in about ½ gallon of seawater and ½ gallon of fresh water. Our meals are determined by what items will perish first.

Partially-homemade fishing lure we used with hand lines. No luck yet.

            We set sail March 15 and stopped at a three anchorages in the Dominican Republic along our first passage. We found a pristine coastline near Cabo Ojo and explored the beach and small caverns formed by rocks on the shoreline. During the offshore sailing we fished constantly but had no luck. Our fishing gear is rather rudimentary (one lure has a “lucky” plastic bag tied around it), and we use mainly heavy hand lines, although we do have one rod and reel. I can’t wait for some fresh Dorado to make sashimi and ceviche. Elizabeth makes excellent meals for us and is very resourceful with the limited provisions we carry.

            On March 21 we arrived at Ile la Vache, an island off the southern coast of Haiti. Upon entering the small bay anchorage, men in about five dug-out canoes hastened out to meet us and clung onto the side of the sailboat until we had made anchor. They were unpretentious, respectful, and wanted to make friends. They all spoke French and Creole, some spoke a little English, and none spoke Spanish. It was well that we could communicate since the Bibals are French. All of these men were looking for work, and we were able to provide a little for each of them (some brought us home-made dinner or fresh fruit and others acted as our guides through the island).

Ile la Vache

The lake in the center of the island

A typical canoe dug out of a mango tree and paddled with palm fronds

            Soon after I got off the boat I started out on a [*]walkabout to see the land and people. “Auel” and his friend, both about ten years old, came with me as I walked from the north side to the south side of the island. There are no cars on Ile la Vache, and small dirt footpaths wind throughout. There are a few “villages” with a concentration of homes, but many are interspersed among forest and farmland. Goats and cows are tied up to trees everywhere, where they can graze. Farming mainly consists of small plots of tilled land alongside forest. The majority of the land, however, isn’t used for anything. There is no electricity grid or plumbing system on the island, although well water is available to the public. Some buildings are powered by gasoline generators at times. There are about four hotels on the island, some large, some very small.

Footpath next to some tilled land

Two young men walked with me across the island.

Small fish and eels at the market

The bi-weekly market in the town of Madame Bernard

            The following day we walked for 1 ½ hours to the town of Madame Bernard, quite more developed than Caye Coq, where we were anchored. The only market on the island was held there Mondays and Thursdays. Vendors carried their goods to town on mules and set up on tables under small shade structures, or just on the ground.

One of the elementary schools on the island

            Sister Flora, originally from France, runs an orphanage and helps the school system on Ile la Vache. I visited the orphanage, where several foreign volunteers were working for periods of a few weeks. They take in local children who are abandoned or whose parents are incapable of caring for them. The volunteers told me about plans for a medical center on the island, which would be created that summer by Haitian doctors and dentists who had emigrated to the United States, and would be funded by an organization called the [†]Foundation for a Hope for Human Health in Haiti (FHHH).

The waiting room at the local hospital

The laboratory at the local hospital

            After meeting three Italian architectural students working and studying in the Capital, Port-Au-Prince, we walked west down the beach to the northwest corner of the island. There we met Ellie and his wife Hellene, two Haitians who had both moved to New York as kids. They had bought a large beachfront property in 2004 and had built a large house and an adjacent building with guest rooms. They planned to build additional apartments to rent out to visitors. It turned out that they were involved in the project to build the medical center funded by the FHHH and had recently housed 15 doctors, dentists, and volunteers in their guesthouse. Earlier they had conducted a kind of preliminary assessment of the medical needs of the islanders, and found that the most common ailments were skin or urinary infections, which could both could be prevented by improved hygiene. Thus education would be a primary goal for the organization.

The city of Les Cayes

            The Bibals and I visited Les Cayes, a city on the mainland a couple days later. The city of course had electricity, plumbing, cars, motorcycles, and a developed business district. My favorite part of the trip was visiting a kind of flea market, enclosed by walls and partially covered by a cement ceiling. This market was much more crowded (in terms of vendors) than the first one I visited. Men were grinding and pounding pork for what looked like sausage and raw meat was laid out upon tables and covered in flies. Small passageways wound through the dim place.

            The next few days I spent mainly with the local people. Smoy, a 21-year-old led me to a party at the fenced-in arena where cock fights were held. After the fights, a “discoteq” was held, using large speakers powered by gasoline generators. Women sat at small tables at near knee height and lit by candles selling drinks and snacks. It was an interesting experience although I couldn’t well communicate with anyone. All ages attended and there was a table in the corner where middle-aged men played dice, presumably gambling away their hard-earned money.

The next day I met Osney at the boat, and we paddled out to the fishing grounds outside Caye Coq. We accompanied a middle-aged man, Jean-Pierre who was spearing fish and baiting his traps (for lobster, crab and eel). He speared about ten 4-inch fish (those were the biggest ones we saw), and found an eel in one of his traps. I’m not sure what the fish and shellfish stocks are like on the rest of the island, but near the village they must be extremely over-exploited. The diving was however interesting and I saw many coral heads and extravagant sponges. There were also huge bushy gorgonian-like animals.

            After hearing much talk about the lack of work on the island, I realized that perhaps the very reason the place is paradise is because of the lack of development. Few buildings, no electricity, winding footpaths through the forest and countryside. But no doubt this lack of development that makes the place so special is mainly what causes the unemployment. There is little industry on the island except small-scale fishing and agriculture and the four hotels. Is it possible for such a great place to exist while keeping its people employed, healthy, and happy?

We set out for Jamaica on March 26.

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[*] See “Walkabout” on One Hot Minute by The Red Hot Chili Peppers

[†] www.fhhh.org and http://www.facebook.com/HaitiHealthOrg

Fishing camp at Salinas, Dominican Republic

Despite the lack of electricity, almost everyone has a mobile phone and charges them on these communal 12V solar-powered devices.

The boats almost every mariner uses to get around in Haiti.

Republica Dominicana (March 3—March 14, 2012)

República Dominicana

March 3—March 14, 2012

The Aeropuerto Internacional las Americas is near Boca Chica where I planned to meet the Bibals. Being out of contact with them for several days, I had not heard where they would be landing with the boat. We had agreed on meeting in Santo Domingo, where I flew in, but downtown Santo Domingo is actually around 20 miles away from the airport. I knew that the only private marinas in the area were near Boca Chica, so I checked into a hotel room there. The next day I learned that in fact Francois had been there to meet me at the airport, but we missed each other, and that the boat, San Miguel, was moored at Marina Zarpar a few miles away. I walked there, despite the hotel’s dire recommendation that I take a taxi.

The Bibals had been at the Carnival celebration in downtown Santo Domingo all day, and we met that night. They are friendly people with open minds. Lole, their daughter, is 10 and has a positive attitude despite being removed from all her friends in France.

Marina Zarpar is situated inside a protected bay. It was built by an American expatriate named Frank Virgintino, who has lived in the Dominican Republic for 26 years. The marina caters to other cruisers who have stopped in port for repairs or to see the country. There are also many boats owned by wealthy locals, which must come out of the water every summer for the hurricane season.

Some of the first people I met at the marina were five young men from Norway, who were sailing the world together in a 35-foot steel sailboat. The quarters were incredibly cramped, and they had no toilet onboard; that is, they used to have one but converted the head into a closet to house their musical instruments and circus props. For the last two years they sailed together from Greece through the Mediterranean, to Morocco, across the Atlantic, and immediately to the Dominican Republic, performing their circus act all the way. Sometimes they performed for free, as they would do at a school in Haiti later on.

One of these fellows, Manuel, and I set out on a trip to the North of the country a few days later. We rode the public bus, and in around 3 hours arrived in Sanchez, near the peninsula in the northeast corner of the country. This city was different from Boca Chica. We didn’t spot a single foreigner there and there were minimal “tourist venues”. Walking through the town we observed how the people lived. In some areas there was no plumbing or electricity, while in others there were both. Down near the beach, where many fishermen lived, houses were constructed from pieces of corrugated metal randomly nailed together. We entered on a small muddy foot path which wound down into a dense neighborhood near a dirty river. At first I was hesitant at entering such a neighborhood. Everyone of course stared at us, but after we offered an “hola” they smiled and treated us well. After seeing so many similar neighborhoods with friendly people I no longer have any qualms about safety. We took a beer and stopped to watch a small gathering around a cock fight. Apparenty it was just a practice run; the cocks’ talons were wrapped in fabric. After hitching a ride on “motoconchos,” motorcycle taxis, we arrived at a small hotel which cost us DR $500 (US $13) for a room.

Later we met a man named Amable, the pastor of a Methodist Church in town that also hosted a school. He explained that the school is not expensive to attend but children at other schools do not receive such a good education. They had a modest set of biology and chemistry equipment, and a set of computers that were out of service.

Our main goal in traveling North was to see “El Parque Nacional los Haitses,” a huge national park near Sanchez. We planned to hike around on our own, but everyone we spoke with told us the only way to enter the park was by boat from the North end through expensive tour services. When we asked about where we could enter on foot, everyone shook their head and just said “No.” Somewhat grudgingly we decided to explore the mountains behind Sanchez instead. Again, when we asked about trails and roads through the mountains, everyone just replied “No.” The next day we set out on foot up the main road through the mountains, despite everyone recommending that we take “la guagua,” a small bus. After a couple steep miles we found a small trail leading off the road near the crest of the first mountain and immediately veered off onto it.

At this point I realized that it often takes some work to discover what you want to find in a new place. I wanted to get away from the main tourist areas, where when you walk by all people see are dollar signs. And I realized that if you want to find something, you usually can if you look hard enough. 

The forest was dense, and after a while we ran into a farmer on a very small plot of untamed land on the hillside. After another half hour we saw a couple more. It appeared that they hauled their crop out through the trail on mules. The last tract we came to was larger, where farmers were growing yucca, yams, mangoes, bananas, coconuts, and other fruits. One man was alarmed that we had found our way back there, wondering if some tourist service had planned a tour through their land. We explained that we had only wanted to see their work, and he became friendly. He offered to lead us out through a different route that led back to the main road. Along the way he explained that many believed the Dominican government was one of the most corrupt in the Americas. It did nothing to help the poor.

Back on the main road we took the bus to Las Terrenas, a more developed town on the North coast of the peninsula. The white-sand beaches were striking. A surprising number of Haitians lived here and a number of people were speaking French. We stayed the night there and took the bus back to Boca Chica the next day.

            Manuel, Igor, and Jacob from Momo had been invited to lunch at the house of Shimen, a local woman who sold fruits from a cart. She lived on the outskirts of town in one of those houses with scraps of corrugated metal nailed to the side, which also served as the community church. She was extremely nice, and made us a fine lunch of rice, beans, a bit of chicken, and a fresh mango drink. One of these plates was served on a Frisbee (how resourceful). I noticed there were big nail holes covering the entire roof, and she explained how water got in during the rains, even into their beds. I wish I could have gone back with some epoxy to fill them in. Her daughter, granddaughter, and a few other kids from the area stayed with us while we sat and ate in the church.

            After spending time with other sailors and marina staff Elizabeth, Francois, Lole, and I set off to sail West down the coast of the Dominican Republic towards Haiti.