A man, a plan, a canal, Panama

Wow! (ok, no more palindromes… well, one more since “racecar” is my favorite, sorry mom & dad & bob—no offense)…

I thought I would put my MBA to good use by doing some pro bono work for cousin Dave and his ever-expanding hostel empire in Panama. Even the best of plans sometimes go awry! I guess the MBA taught me a lot, but most importantly, “signing bonus” and “equity.” And the environs proved to be much too tempting… as backpackers are always in search of adventure, camaraderie, epiphanies, and booze. Cheesy, yes… but those hackneyed words might also be the prologue to the newest reality tv show: Hostel Takeover.

Hostel Takeover Sizzle Reel

No need to program your tivos yet since the networks still must greenlight and the boys must get comfortable with forever altering the culture of their currently cosmopolitan hostel.

I spent the first few days in Panama City with the Mondo boys. They were immersed in prepping for the launch of their next hostel in the Casco Viejo section of the city. Dave couldn’t even part with his blueprints to pose for this pic.


This historical section houses both the Panamanian President along with the penurious (and to keep the alliteration going, also the Parisians—the French embassy). Unlike most of the bordering districts in the city, Casco Viejo, with its vibrant yellows and blues and rot iron trim, possesses much charm even though entangled with the cantankerous ghetto.


The schizophrenia of Panama City is not just restricted to Casco Viejo. After a couple early nights (yeah, the Mondo boys were taking their work seriously and turning in by midnight), I rallied the energy for a seaside run. The panorama of the Pacific lining the boulevard was absolutely breathtaking… but the raw sewage stench was breath“holding” (lots of waste is deposited directly into the ocean, hence no swimmers). The concept of noise pollution apparently doesn’t exist there either; the bellicose motorists pound their horn like basketball players pumping their Nike Airs in the 90’s. I’ll try to remember this stuff next time I’m cursing a slothful traffic light back in the States.

After a couple days, we took a puddle-jumper to the Isla Colon in Bocas Del Toro. I was treated to the master suite in the sister hostel, Heike. Having the single room in the hostel with AC made me feel like royalty… it’s all about having the right reference points.


So, you ask, what is a day in the life of Bocas…well, one day, Dave and I went for a bike ride and ran into their handyman’s apprentice who was biking one-handed with a domestic beer in the other hand. Dave relayed to him that a shipment of bamboo just arrived via boat to the island which would need to be jerry-rigged up as the new wall to dull the bar noise mollifying their neighbors (at least for the indigenous residents and not for the gringo Dennis who spreads false rumors of the Mondo being a drug den). Dennis is a classic misogynist who would regularly show up unannounced to absolutely ruin moments—like stalking into the bar and turning the music off. At least most backpackers sense his bad karma and stay away.


One of my personal acmes was having the opportunity to play bartender at the Mondo bar, a definite hole in the wall which would probably be one of my favorite drinking troughs in the city. They actually have two full-time professionals, Eduardo and Genesis, but I was intent on rallying the “one for you, one for me” modus operandi. WOOHOOO!!! Well, pretty soon I was throwing fistbumps (aka, “pound dawgs”… which are this generation’s Hi-Five. To the uninitiated, two people facing one another, connect fists, combusting into a shrapnel of fingers exploding from the epicenter.) Since my spanglish isn’t that great, I didn’t know how to say “blow it up” to Eduardo. So, instead I circumlocuted “manos… y… dedos” (“hands” and “fingers” timed to the two phases). Over the next week and a half and hundreds of pound dawgs later, “manos y dedos” evolved into “puños (fists) and dedos.”

If the MonDudes ever find some spare time, they like to hit the water in their motorboat. The boat ride around the bay was an absolute treat as the weather could not have been better. The sea was in full splendor with guppies vaulting and dancing on the surface and the dolphins frolicking. We tried to jump in and swim with the dolphins… strangely they did a deep dive and ditch us. I tried to tell them that I am one of them… a Mighty Meadow Dolphin (community summer swim team) of over 10 years of service. (Or maybe a little Ace Ventura… “To train zee dolphin, you must think like the dolphin.”

The calories were starting to pile up... the food had been scrumptious and the beers were cheap. (Yelp, community reviews, says the functionality for international reviews will be forthcoming. Until then, any reference to an international location through Yelp will be captured in Orinda.)
Surprising for me, especially given the plethora of vacation-type activities, Dave and I developed a wholesome routine of afternoon runs… even in the searing humidity + heat. Not many roads are paved in Bocas; but unlike the States where our airports are protected like they’re Fort Knox, the island tarmac is repurposed in the afternoon as a playground/track. On one memorable run, we were joined by a gaggle of indigenous kids… embarrassingly the ten-year-old was setting the pace, but at least Dave and I were neck and neck.

During one of the runs, I decided to sign up for the Scuba program through a local dive shop. Although the Bocas water might not have as many underwater treasures as some other sites around the world, the certification program was an absolute steal--$175 with the hostel discount including two additional free dives. Although “safety never takes a holiday,” it definitely “slept in” during my training. My first dive was not in a pool… or in confined water… I didn’t even have the mandatory can you float for 10 minutes or swim 200 meter test. Instead, I was treated to an open water deep dive to 18 meters. (I’m a one-man rallying crew for us to switch over to the metric system… we won the language war, can’t we just accept that meters/grams/liters/ heck even Celsius makes more sense? Come on Democrats ’08… get ‘er done!)

The highlight of the trip was an adventure to Zapitillas islands on my penultimate day in Bocas. The trip was almost doomed from the start since the sneezy weather sapped the spirit from most of the hostel-goers. The trip was almost cost prohibitive, $60 in total (I laugh now as I write this considering we just spent $10 on a 3 minute subway ride in Sweden.) Fortunately, my fellow adventurer/backpacker Amandacuda galvanized 3 others to join in on the fun. These islands were a set to one of the original Survivor shows—but now are currently uninhabited, except for one nasty Park Ranger who badgers visitors for a park entrance fee, but right when they’re about to leave. Regardless, nothing could tarnish the luster of this secluded hideaway. The pounding rain, normally the bane of any beach day, was revitalizing. Walking around to the tip of the island felt like we were tiptoeing over the edge of the world.


I spent the last few days back in Panama City, carpe diem, right? And who knows when I might get back. The taxi rides to the Mira Flores locks and then through Casco Viejo and ultimately out to the causeway were wonderful opportunities to dust off the old high school Spanish; Bocas rarely affords opportunities to speak anything but English. I’ve been told though that while my vocab is acceptable, mi aggscento es teareeblay. For proof, I will reference the final night in Panama. We were treating ourselves to a latenight walk back from the bars since the weather is at its best when the sun is down and the humidity is on hold. Almost all is quiet, even on the main drag of Balboa Ave bordering the Pacific Ocean. Given the dearth of cars, the night air is actually almost crisp.

Almost back from our stroll, a police pickup truck rolled up to us. They thought it wasn’t safe for us to be cruising around and recommended that we should take a taxi back. But since there weren’t any taxis around—an extreme anomaly since there are probably more taxis in Panama City than Manhattan—the police officers recommended that we hitch a ride in the back of their truck. A few minutes later, they dropped us off at hotel… except that they thought I said “La Paraiso” not “Marparaiso.” A difference of about 8 blocks and 3 levels on the US gov’t terrorism barometer. We knifed down the center of the street, the most lit area banked by both sides of the road that felt like moats between us and the darkness of the sidewalks. We made it back safely… but you probably guessed that cause how else could you be reading this right now? Chronology never fails to ruin a potential cliffhanger.

Yelp

Chillin' in Chile

Better to be late than never, right? Well… testing that cliché, I’m finally now getting an opportunity to share the highpoints from my Chilean adventure. And for me it’s like opening up a time capsule although I guess three weeks doesn’t afford too much perspective. But hopefully my feeble memory has already subconsciously screened out any of the dull moments.

My journey to Chile was so much more than simply an opportunity to dust off my high school Spanish (but Señora Wagner would’ve been proud). I was emboldened by my spontaneous trip to Japan over winter break and I wanted to join Ricardo (a transplanted Texan) and a select handful of the more adventurous classmates to visit my first country south of the equator.

Quick geography factoid… Chile is stretches further south by latitude than any other country. The capital of Santiago is approximately the same latitude as Cape Town, South Africa and a bit below Sydney, Australia. Thus, the flight takes a long time and it typically is a red eye.

Quesito (me) getting creative or maybe just sleep deprived.

Being eager Stanford MBAs, our itinerary was to fly all the way to Punta Arenas (almost the southern tip of Chile located on the Strait of Magellan) and then rent cars to drive into Torres del Paine in Chilean Patagonia. The good news for anyone contemplating the trip here is that they have invested tons of $$$ to pave the roads into the park… the bad news, is that we had almost continuous “desvios” (detours) for the second half of the 5 hour drive. The flip side is that we could regroup, share some laughs and reenact old Toyota commercials…


Driving in the middle of nowhere, there aren’t too many salient things to share. Perhaps, the one exception is good radio stations. Chile has these in spades, airing GnR, Foreigner, Bon Jovi, INXS, and what must be their national anthem… anything by Phil Collins. The “Argentinian” stations actually are even one rung better playing a more eclectic mix of music… but they go barebones… no DJ’s… no commercials—well, the got nothing to sell. Of course, the “Argentinian” radio stations might actually be another car’s iTrip with an iPod. :)

Sorry Kristof, Rebecca and Jason for the prank, although this prank could only work if you were tailgating.

We eased into the first evening of our trek by staying at a “refugio”—which are fairly inexpensive hostiles inside the park providing a bit more than the bare necessities (bed, warm water, and option for a cooked meal). Most importantly, they have tables and chairs for some competitive card games, like hearts and spades.

Recommenation numero uno. When ordering meat, “medio” does not mean medium. “Medio” means rare and “a punto” means medium. Order “lomo a lo pobre” (which translates to the best possible meal before embarking on a weeklong trip in the wilderness; a.k.a. beef with eggs served on a bed of French fries with grilled onions) “a punto.” You will not be disappointed!

One extreme highlight was our assault on the glaciers. Perhaps, the only letdown was the liability waiver which was as sparse as the desolate drive into the park. Once armed with an ice axe and crampons, we followed our intrepid guides over the ice riddled with crevasses and false surfaces. We rocked the ice climbing, culminating with a kiss of the Carabiner (or a french kiss by Noah, fortunately he went last).

We set up camp on the shores of Lago Grey. Scooting into the sleeping bag that night was the first of many times I was extremely thankful for the top of the line equipment from Scott (supplemented by an REI shopping spree the day before I left the States).

For the uninitiated, the “W” is the most popular way to experience Torres del Paine. On the enclosed map, I’ve taken the liberty of drawing in the green “W”—we started the trek on the far left of the map, hiking from Camp Grey through Camp Pehoe (pronounced like “pay*hway”… not pronounced like a directive to a prostitute on how to take a drug test) to Camp Italiano to Camp Cuernos to Camp Chileno, ultimately exiting at the Hostería las Torres.


I believe the pictures do the best job of capturing this part of our trip. If you want to see some revealing shots of Mother Nature in her full splendor, surf to:
http://picasaweb.google.com/kevin.friedman/ChillinInChile

A few stories… Mister Chile, Ricardo (although technically he is a NewEnglander born in Boston and spending 6 years of his formative years in Texas), was absolutely right on with his recommendation that the feature of the trek would be Frenchman’s Valley. (actually, almost all his recommendations were spot on.) We did a daytrip up to the “mirador” (lookout)… and then decided that the view would only get better if we ad-libbed another 30 minutes up the mountain. And, man, we lucked out! At this plateau, we were almost overwhelmed by a stunning panorama stretching from some peaks bracing the backside of the Torres, to the depths of Lago Nordenskjold almost 3,500 feet below to some permanent glaciers in the bowl of Los Perros.

Hey, since the weather was nice and there was more altitude to climb, our curiosity insisted that we push further. At this point, the trend was:

1,200 meters in elevation = good view
1,400 meters = GREAT view
1,700+ meters = ????

Kristof (eagle scout) and I (life scout) shelved our lunch and embarked for an unnamed pass (at least on our map) nestled between the peaks of Cabeza del Indo and Escudo. We hoped for a view of the backside of the Torres to serve as a harbinger for our climactic climb to the Torres two days hence. We were making great time up a difficult terrain which was a mix of tundra and boulders until.

“cuatro estaciones sobre una hora” – the local saying is that there are four seasons in an hour. And we didn’t fully appreciate these words of wisdom until what was a 65 degree partly cloudy day transformed into sleet plus gale-force winds in a matter of 15 minutes. So much for our grand ideas of a picnic! I vaguely recall telling Kristof that I would never regret turning around before summiting… but those pictures would’ve been sweet! We raced back down to our camp and opted to postpone the next leg of our trip until 5:30 am the following morning. And we got to spend the afternoon playing hearts with Hamish, Rule Book Rebecca (aka The Book), and Jason… the first of many serious card games.

Quick hits on the remaining days in Torres del Paine:
* Most fellow trekkers speak English and sometimes Spanish. They typically do not speak Japanese or Afrikaans. (We tested by playing a game where the first person would say “Hello” followed by the second person greeting “Hola” then “Kaneecheewa” and finally “Mortar!”)
* The orange spots mark the trail. The black speckles peppering the rocks do NOT mark the more advance trail. The green circle, blue square, and black diamond designations only hold with skiing terrain.
* You can do a pre-morning hike to attempt to see the Torres right when the sun crests over the horizon. Theoretically, they will appear pink. But, don’t forget the “4 seasons in an hour” and it will tend to be winter during the all important break of dawn.

* Get the “lomo a lo pobre” as your first meal out. You need the calories!

Although the Argentinian radio station 88.7 was no longer broadcasting (Noah and his iTrip left a few days earlier), we made the return trip to Punto Arenas in record time. We made one stop off at Masay and they serve the most gargantuan sandwich ever for less than $10. Not that the cost mattered since we played a round of hearts to determine who would pick up the bill for the high stakes subgroup (Hamish, Jason, Kristof and I).

My unlikely favorite bar of Chile was down in Punto Arenas. Even though it was a Sunday night and we had a 6am flight to catch, we froggered across the street from our Hotel Isla Rey Jorge to the bar, Lunáticos. The etymology could not be more apropos, we must have been suffering from madness! The bartender had us bumping in our barstools as we were treated to a nonstop blitzkrieg of mashed up hits from the 70’s through today. Right before shutting the bar down, we were able to negotiate to buy the Classic Project 2 and the Classic Project 3 for $4. Oh, and the 25 or so beers cost less than $50. Increible!!!


We spent the next couple days in Pucon (the Lake Tahoe of Chile) with the imposing Volcano Villarrica (andale a la foto abajo). We were unable to get a good picture of the ominous smoke rising from the mouth of the active volcano, but we attempted to compensate by doing an impression of the top-down view by making a volcano face.


Although my Froto feet could not have protested another day of hiking more vociferously, they reluctantly spent one more day in their two coffins, err I mean hiking boots. But the reward was spending the evening in some natural hot springs at Thermas Geometrica and soaking out all the various injuries.

How much does it suck when you have a flight delay? How ‘bout a 5 hour flight delay? And when the airport is more like a bus stop with a tiny cafeteria??? Well, as long as we had a table, 4 chairs, and a deck of cards, we were happy. We had ratcheted up the bar in our hearts game to playing to 101 points (100 points resets back to 50). Incredibly, the delay wasn’t sufficient as we had yet to finish by the time the plane was ready. Fortunately, we found some spare moments in Santiago to wrap things up appropriately.

After an abbreviated night of sleep, we hired a driver and a tour guide to take us on a day trip to a few wineries and Valparaiso (the Sausalito of Chile). The whites were buttery, the reds were earthy… the pairings with the cheese (whites) and the chocolates (reds) were absolutely divine. For the afternoon at least I was a wine drinker trapped in a beer drinker’s body. With our metabolisms still kicking from the week trek, we rambled all over Valpo, sometimes with the assistance of elevator cars serving as chair lifts to summit the greatest jumps in elevation. This seaside city was absolutely breathtaking – serene, quaint, picturesque. So of course, it was a great place to take a nap.


Continuing with our theme of walking and eating, we strolled to a hole in the wall diner that served only one entrée: a dish containing French fries, fried onions, cheese, and carne. Our run rate on calories was probably upwards of 5,000/day so we didn’t feel too guilty about taking down 4 portions of this scrumptious dish.


The climactic evening on the adventure was a BBQ generously hosted by the Uauys. So if you look at a world map, Chile is contained in a single time zone. However, there really should be two time zones… but not based on geographic coordinates. One time zone should be for all travelers which is the actual time. Chilean time for locals is adjusted by two hours. For example, a BBQ that was supposed ot kick off at 9pm actually begins at around 11pm. When I say begins, I should say when the first Chilean guest arrives. Hunger might be the best chef… but the food was scrumptious. We ate so much that 4 of us suffering from food coma took naps in the middle of the dinner party!!! The troupe rallied for one more late night city party at a random spot in the center of the city. The parties are passed via word of mouth and the best ones are triangulated from several independent sources.

On the last day, I made one last attempt to support the local economy. I was stoked to find a shoemaker who would make a custom design shoe fit to the outline of my foot drawn onto an 8½” x 11” piece of college rule paper. I couldn’t be more excited for this purchase since I haven’t found a replacement pair of leather boots that I wore on my first day of high school. (yep Skate, the ones you got for me to go with the blue button down shirt and braided leather belt.) Unfortunately, it would take him a few days to finish up the shoes but Ricardo would be able to fly them back to the States. WOOHOOO!!!

Late addition: If any of you are in the market for slim, size ~9 US custom made leather boots, drop me a line. They’ve never been worn since they didn’t quite fit my size 10.5 wide feet :)

Jamba Juice Feeling the Squeeze from Swollen Hands

Jamba Juice employees have just filed a class action lawsuit against their employer due to hazardous working conditions. The suit charges that the Jamba Juice process requires their employees to beat the sides of the blender to initiate the "calving" of the smoothie into the styrofoam cups. The repetitive thumping results in severely distended hands as can be seen in the attached pictures.




Jamba corporate has yet to provide an official response... which makes some sense since this post is an April Fools'.

How's It Hanging?

Okay... inappropriate title especially for the initial post, right? Well, this racy heading serves as PG-13ish warning for those stumbling into this site. And it also serves as inspiration for me starting up this blog. Why? When I was 10, I recall my sister coming home from school one day. Being the model child, she would regularly have some successes to share with the fam--which, in our family, is to be celebrated -- and rightfully so! However, she got off to a rough start in this particular conversation. Always eager to regurgitate something she overheard during the day, she innocently engaged my dad with "how's it hanging?" His gruff response, "Just fine, Katie. Most people don't ask."