Hiking the Cloud Forest in Boquete, Panama
(Photo courtesy of Aaron Boyd)
I’m on the bottom of a bunk-bed in a hostel in Panama City. It’s dark and there’s a French girl sleeping above me.
The skin is peeling off my nose because I love the sun, but my big nose doesn’t. And, yes mom, I wear sunscreen, but I may need you to send me some zinc oxide.
When I catch myself picking off flakes of skin, I tell myself that someday I’ll procreate with a woman that has some brown in her skin. Then maybe the next generation of Cameronites will have a fighting chance.
This evening I hung out with some locals at a casino. I don’t want to like casinos. I think they’re evil, but I went anyway. When I’m alone in a new place, I tend to be flexible with my values: gambling, cigarettes, the occasional illicit drug. Prostitutes are continuously slipping me their business cards, but thankfully none have made it into my rolodex.
Not all my travels involve the influence of sex, drugs, and blackjack. Last week I lived with a small community of surfers on the Pacific Coast of Panama. They surfed and I simply tried to hold onto a surfboard while giant, salty waves reminded me of my insignificance. Hey at least my duck dives are improving.
I spent the week before with some quality individuals in the mountainous town of Boquete, Panama. The hostel was full of Rastafarian jewelers, writers, and non-awkward Europeans. We even managed a Girl Talk dance party (no worries SF crew, our shirts stayed on...y'all still hold the title).
In less than a week Brother Matt will arrive. I imagine he´ll show-up, sit down at a bench in some park, start drawing pictures of furniture and plants, and within five minutes have a following of young college girls that refer to him as 'El Guru.'
It will be nice to be with family.
