The good, the bad and the ugly

I pull into the hotel's underground car park and turn the bike in a circle looking for a space. That's when I notice I've been followed down the ramp by a stressed-looking policeman. I wondered what all the blowing of whistles outside had been about... it quickly becomes apparent that I am in trouble with the cops for the second time in two hours. He's somewhat upset with me as I've ridden my bike from the front of the hotel to the side without my crash helmet on, and I'm just wondering what the Spanish word for "d'oh" is, when he pulls out a set of handcuffs from behind his back and waves them under my nose. Oh dear, it's going to be one of those days...

It had all started so well too. I'd left Uvita in the sun and headed down the coast road toward the Panama border. Ricardo had told me that crossing the border would be very straightforward, maybe a half hour or so, which I was really looking forward to after some of the Central American borders. Arriving at the Costa Rican side I was pounced on by a tramitador as normal but I stood my ground and kept telling him I would manage, in the end he started to get the message. After I'd sorted out my exit stamp and one for the bike, he tried one last time by telling me "Panama is very complicated". I rode off to the Panamanian border a few dozen metres down the road. I had to fend off maybe a half dozen kids trying to help, telling them I would be ok just didn't seem to have much effect, but ignoring them worked just fine ;) I had to wait a little while for customs to translate all my details off the bike registration, but I had all my copy documents to hand and the process was relatively painless. 45 minutes after I arrived all that remained was an inspection, which for the first time included a baggage search. The only thing of interest turned out to be my reading material, the customs agent mouthed the title and then said "ah, Narnia" with a rolled r. Some things are universal, it seems ;)

Then I was free to go, under an hour and no money at all making it probably the least hassle since I left the States, maybe excluding Guatemala. I was proud of myself for dealing with everything myself, when none of the officials spoke English. Unfortunately that turned out to be about the last good thing about Panama.

I'd been across the border about ten minutes before I hit the first police/customs post. They checked all the documents again but that was ok because I'd rather find out now if I'd done something wrong than when I try to leave the country! Then a dozen or so kilometers down the road I got pulled over again by the cops. This one had a radar gun and showed me the reading, 97kph. As the last sign I saw said 100kph, I nodded and said "that's good". Wrong. He told me I was in a 60kph zone. Um, there were no signs... but he wasn't having it, so I accepted I was in the wrong and asked how much the ticket was going to cost. He said $100, which elicited a gasp from me. He got his ticket book out, then asked where I was heading. I told him David, and then he graciously announced that he wasn't going to book me, but I had to slow it down. I shook his hand, and headed off breathing a sigh of relief. I don't know whether he changed his mind because I took it on the chin and didn't argue, or because he couldn't be bothered, but I was grateful anyway.

Ricardo had mentioned if I got to David to look up the Puerta Del Sol hotel, and I found it by accident whilst trawling through the mayhem of the town centre. I parked out front, got a room, then put my helmet and tank bag in the room whist I moved the bike to the parking lot. Two cops on the beat had seen me and followed me into the hotel, then tore me off a strip for not having the helmet. My grasp of Spanish is bad when it is spoken slowly, I was way out of my depth at the speed these guys were going at. When the handcuffs came out I apologised and told them I was just moving the bike, my helmet was upstairs and I waved the room keys at them. That seemed to calm things down a little, and I got the impression the handcuff waving was a kind of warning about what happens to law breaking bikers. Although I could be wrong ;)

Admonished, I went up to the room, glad to be off the roads. At least I couldn't be arrested for sleeping... but sleep wouldn't come, I lay awake all night listening to traffic noise and the air conditioner.

Next morning I was out on the road by 8am. I needed to get a long way, about 430 kilometers to Panama City, and judging by the previous day's run in it wasn't going to be quick progress. Ricardo had warned me about speeding in Panama. There was a big waterfall not far from the road, and at one point a large bright green and red iguana scuttled across the road, disturbed from his sun bathing, but I'd seen those things before and was not having a lot of success motivating myself to enjoy Panama. Even the gaudily painted buses, just like Guatemala, couldn't lift my spirits.

I'd already been stopped once for a papers check by customs when I was flagged down again by a combined police and customs point. I was thoroughly fed up but still removed my helmet and smiled. The cop spoke no English but one of the customs agents did. It was all very polite and we joked a bit about the humidity in my bike gear. I was assuming there might be a bag check, or papers check, so when the cop asked for my licence and passport I gave them over. Then he told me I'd been speeding - or at least he pointed to the 100 on my speedo. I knew I'd been doing no more than 80kph, but he said I'd been seen up the road and it had been radioed down to him. I was fairly confident I wasn't in the wrong, but not confident enough to call a cop a liar. So after a number of attempts at explaining the situation, me speaking no Spanish, and him no English, I gave in and asked what the fine was. He showed me the thick wodge of paper that is just about everything they can think of an offence for and the equivalent fine. It was going to cost $50. Then the same as the day before, the cop produced his ticket book and then asked where I was headed. I told him Panama City, and he said if I was to give him "pocochito" - a little cash, he'd turn a blind eye.

I was a bit shocked, as I'd read you should never try to bribe officials in Panama like you can everywhere else in Central America. But here he was, definitely saying if I gave him a little bung I could go. I wasn't sure if I was being set up, so I looked around and mysteriously, not only the English speaker but everyone else had gone off somewhere. It was just me and the cop. Were they all in on this?? I weighed up the options - I was sitting in the baking heat, and would be a lot longer if he wrote me a ticket. The fine would be $50, and it was my word against his whether I was in the wrong. Plus he had my licence and passport and I didn't know what he would do with them. The smallest denomination I had was a $20 so I got one out and he had me tuck it inside the traffic violations book, making it look about as underhand as it probably was. I noticed my hand was shaking as I gave the book back, but oddly I didn't feel that nervous.

Then he was all smiles and announced I was free to go, and as I put my earplugs in I thought ruefully yeah, you take Mrs Bent Copper out for dinner on me. It's against my principals to bribe people, it encourages the behaviour and in my view is no better than theft. I'm a bit ashamed of myself really. Looking back on it with 20/20 hindsight, I was the slowest vehicle on the road at that point, and yet the only one that was pulled over. I wonder exactly how it might have gone if I'd called his bluff?

Reaching Panama City things didn't get a lot better because I was hot, exhausted and it had taken ages to get there, driving up a road equivalent to a motorway or interstate in size, at 40mph/60kph to avoid any more pulls. I saw the biggest building in town and rode at it hoping it would be a posh hotel, and it was. I think Dubya stayed here a few years ago. Walking back to the bike after checking in I found it being inspected by a guy who was outside to have a smoke. He asked me in a broad Bradford accent whether I'd ridden from the UK, so I explained my route so far. When he found out my destination, he asked if I had business cards and was interested in having my face on a magazine cover or writing a book, as he knew Simon Fuller (apparently the Spice Girls' manager, probably why I never heard of him!). I told him I was far too shy for that. He asked if a million quid might help, and I had to explain that the trip wasn't really about that. Then in true Yorkshire fashion, he suggested I write and he kept the million... I laughed and told him about the blog, but he didn't seem interested. Obviously no money in it ;)

Later I found myself in a mall downtown. Panama City reminds me a little of Singapore, lots of tall buildings and malls and traffic. I sat drinking a decent Mocha and reflecting on how much I dislike Panama, and on what possesses people to come here. I could see hats and a canal in Oxford. It seems odd that I should find comfort in a mall... of all the things at home I'd have thought a shopping centre was the last thing I'd miss. I think it is part of a greater desire to be elsewhere, maybe after three months I'm finally getting a bit fed up with it all.

Maybe I should have taken Mr Bradford Businessman up on his offer, at least writing a book would mean I don't have to busk for a living when I get home ;)

Frase.