A Testament of Testicles

Up in the pre-dawn darkness, fumbling into clothes, joining friends outside. Within moments we are walking through a cold and silent Paso Ancho – groping our way, actually, since the night renders these dirt roads invisible – to the home of our friend Inéz. There, sweet lady that she is, we are treated to delicious cups of coffee; it is ubiquitous here, and far more superb than even the most “gourmet” brands available in the United States or France, since clearly travel and time quickly degrade the quality of the beans. As we sip the aromatic beverage, the sun outside Inéz’s windows gradually weaves his beams into the atmosphere from behind Barú. We see a field of yellow flowers, something like Keats’s daffodils, on the other side of which is the local Roman Catholic church. Soon we will be on our way to the top of the Florentina.

I was up this mountain once before to see the farm high on the Florentina run by Inéz’s estranged husband.

On the way, however, we took the wrong trail at one fork and wound up in territory new to us both. During the climb we encountered two very friendly Ngobe Bugle men, in heavy rain, hacking up a fallen tree with only their machetes. As we reached the top, all around us were wild steep slopes, nothing horizontal, and the constant, intense sound of the rain.

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As they come to me to be written, new chapters will be added to this blog, so stay tuned! But the blogs up to a certain point are now chapters are now in a book.

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