No Mas Turbo

 

           

 

                     Our final crossing of the Gulf of Urabà was nearly complete. Turbo was close enough to make out the trucks and buses spewing exhaust along a coastal frontage road. The most striking characteristic the mystical fantasy world known as the Kuna Comarca was its absence of automobiles. We hadn’t seen a car in three weeks, yet Turbo had been waiting all along to reacquaint us with reality.

                       

                      It was the home stretch of our Kayak trip, but fate would have it that our last day at sea would be no walk in the park. There we were, pushing hard in the blistering midday sun. Usually, around noon, we pull over in a shady beach for lunch. In this part of the Urabà Gulf, along the Mouth of the Rìo Atrato, vegetation was sparse. For the first time on our Kayak trip there was not even a hint of breeze, no cloud cover, and not a single palm tree to be seen.

 

   Just an hour ago, Goat and I had beached in front of a Colombian military base to ask if we could rest for a few hours. Our reception had been less than welcoming.

            “What’s inside this Kayak? Take everything out and show me piece by piece.� ordered the base commander.

 

               After we had painstakingly unpacked, the commander, drowsy and impatient told us to repack. Without comment he took his leave to go back and administer practice drills to his unit. Obviously the odd gringo traveler wasn’t worth his time.

                Eventually Goat and I came to resent the fact that we were left to stand in the open sun with a machine gun toting guard.

                “Do you think it might be possible to stand in the shade over there?� I asked the guard.

                       

                  The soldier blinked, looked over toward the base commander, took off to ask permission. A few minutes later the base commander stomped over.

“I’ve had contact with higher command… by orders of General (so and so) you are to leave here immediately for Turbo.� Somehow this allusion to a recent communiqué just didn’t seem believable.

                        “But…�Goat started up. “We’ve got to wait for our friends!� Naturally Jacob and J. were nowhere in sight.

                        “I am sorry.� sighed the commander. “There is nothing I can do.� He was doing a poor job feigning a tone of lamentation.

                       

                   Several stone faced guards closed in to expedite our departure. As we took up our paddles, a motor boat raced toward the base at full throttle. Some broad shouldered, imposing figure crouched low bracing himself against the wind, clenching a smoldering stub of a cigar between forefinger and thumb. By the looks of it, those grunts lined up practicing drills back at the base were in for a real ball busting. It was easier to understand how our arrival had been such an inconvenience to a base commander preoccupied with preparations for an inspection by “High Command�.

           

                   It turned out that Jacob and J. had somehow paddled ahead of us. I had received the news from an aging fisherman taking his midday lunch rest beneath a plastic tarp tent rigged on top a small sandbar.

               “They passed here half an hour ago, looked like they were taking a direct path across the bay.� Offered the fisherman. “The current is fast, you could make Turbo in an hour.�

  

                It seemed plausible that Goat and I would be able to catch up to them midway through the channel crossing. But as usual my grumbling stomach craved food and I popped open a tin of sardines, pouring the contents down my throat in seconds. The scene must’ve been somewhat disturbing to the fisherman who, suddenly shouted out:       

 

                “Look, you guys eat fish?�

                   We eagerly nodded.

                  “…And Plantains?�

                  “Yeah.�

     “Why don’t you sit for a minute and eat some of the fish stew in that pot.�

                                        

       As we were finishing off the man’s soup, another fisherman docked his boat on the sand bar.

               “Your friends are just beyond that point.� he said, pointing toward the murky water beyond the river’s mouth.

                 Goat sped ahead and caught up to Jacob and J. just as they were heading out to the bay. They hadn’t eaten, or at least, not in the luxurious manner that Goat and I had eaten.

              

               Within half an hour of paddling, I could feel the heat affecting basic cerebral functions. My brain like some squishy rubber ball squirmed languidly against a scorched skull.

               I was rambling to Jacob or J. “There is no Turbo; we are doomed to roam unfamiliar seas, hauling these deteriorating bicycles that’ll never touch land.�

   Everyone was constantly dousing themselves with unrefreshing sea water; Jacob with his rotting sponge, and me with a raggedy white shirt donated by some teenage kid who took pity on me back in Capurganà. Drinking water had exactly zero impact on our thirst. It had to be at least one hundred and ten degrees, with a hundred percent humidity.

           

               “I´m about ready for a helicopter evac, that 911 button the SPOT messenger is looking really tempting.� cried out Jacob, with the GPS unit in his hand. His finger was dangling over the 911 emergency button on the GPS device. It looked like he was desperate enough to push the button, and I was too haggard to convince him otherwise.

            Suddenly two motor boats approached from behind. It was the group of fisherman on whose island we had kambuchared the previous night.

           

              “Now tell me, have you ever seen a Colombian take a bike across the sea and then try to ride it over his entire country� blabbed one of our fisherman acquaintances. “No, only a tourist would do that. You’d never see a Colombian try this type of adventure.�

         “Hey Gringo…â€� Called out another member of the motor boat crew. “You need some water.â€�

            “I’ve got plenty… actually.â€� what I wanted to say was, please, just stay beside me on idle and provide a slight shadow, a buffer against the relentless sun. But I was incapable of making the translation.

            “All you had to do was wait Gringo, and we would have given you a ride.� Laughed one of the Boatmen.

     “Damn, these boys have no idea. As soon as they make the landing in Turbo they’ll be ripped off for sure.� Pointed out another.

            “All their bags, and boats, and bike parts… what’s going to keep the thieves at bay?� Said another.

  

                        Eventually the fishermen waved and took off at full throttle. Were they right? Would we all just be sitting ducks, an obvious criminal target? 

                        Beach front cafes with their umbrella tables were visible. Despite the booming bass of a Bob Marley song rattling through an overworked subwoofer, I swore I could hear glasses clinking, frosted mugs of delicious tropical juice blended with ice. We were so close. It was such an effort just to dip my paddle in the water.                                      “J.�I yelled. “Don’t get alarmed but I’m throwing myself over. I’m going to tie a rope around my shoulders and swim the boat in.�

                       “I suppose, ah…  I support that.� He mumbled. “Probably make about the same progress.�

       

                     The only thing that dissuaded me from trying the swim and drag technique was the presence of some bright orange rotting fish guts floating on the surface. But then, much to my disbelief, we made it, gliding up to the shallows where some thirty or forty locals waded and swam. I dragged my heavy rig up on the beach and kissed the sand; that tropical sun would torture me no more!�

 

                     At a café we had Coca-Cola instead of the refreshing tropical fruit juices of my dreams. We were all exhausted, but it was looking like we would have to paddle some more after lunch. We were sending our kayaks back by boat to the resort town of Capurganà. There we had made a new friend, a lawyer from Medellìn who had purchased our Kayaks and arranged for their transport aboard the Nuevo Jerusalem on Friday morning. It was Thursday evening.

    

                    “Really we should try to get a hold of the ship captain tonight.� commented Goat. “Who knows how early the boats leaving… and whether it’ll still have space aboard for our stuff?�

           

                   “It might take us another two hours to reach the moye (docks).�said J. Basing his prediction on observations from out at Sea. We had noticed that all the boats were continuing far up the coast from Turbo´s public beaches. Of course the moye was just on the other side of town, but a long peninsula still had to be circumvented to reach it. “We don’t have that much light.�

     

                 “Well we could give it a try and camp out somewhere down the line if we have to. It was all uninhabited land by the looks of it.�

    

                   We wedged our aching bodies back into the Kayaks. Feeling particularly devoid of motivation I paid a kid fifty-cents to push my boat into the water.

              “For the same price, you could’ve had your boat taxied the quarter mile to the moye.� Taunted J.

           

                    Why the hell didn’t I realize before? “It’s still a possibility.â€� I shouted. “If they got a come-along and a long plank, they could just ratchet me and my boat right on top of their roofrack. Wouldn’t even have to get out`a the `yak.â€� But I had already drifted too far away from my helper to put the idea into motion.

           

                    My Kayak pitched and rolled with the turbulent swell. It must have been the roughest water we had seen on our eighteen days at sea. Not more than a quarter mile down the coast I heard shouting. It was an officer on some hole-in-the-wall military base. Several young soldiers, rifles at the ready were running towards the road, apparently trying to head off Goat and Jacob who were up ahead and couldn’t hear the order to stand down.

           

                  “Come over here.� Yelled the commander. “Where are you going?�

     J. and I tried to get in close to the shore along the military installation, but it was all heavy surf crashing into sharp rock. With his Paddle outstretched, J. tried to brace himself well enough to comfortably pass on the necessary information. It looked like he would capsize at any minute.

         

                 “Look,� said the Commander. “The Military operates this coast… all of it, up until the docks of Turbo. You can’t be floating around this close to our operations.�

 

     “Yeah, well its getting dark…â€�Started J. “…and we’re not sure we’ll make it to the Docks by nightfall. Since we’re already here, what do you say to us setting up a Kambucha (This was the Colombian military’s word for camping) on your base? It’s much safer for us here with the military then with the thieves on the docks, no?â€� We both tried laughing to impress the fact that we were amiable enough

   

               Instead of saying no he shook his head slowly: Are you kidding me?�

           “What do you mean you might not make it?� Asked the commander. “You’ll be there in less than half an hour. The moye is right around the next bend.�

       

                The base commander’s prediction turned out to be accurate. In another half hour, just as it was becoming dark, we were pulling into the tainted waters that double as both sewer and harbor for Turbo’s commercial dock. There were no ‘minimum wake’ zones to ensure smooth sailing into the harbor; speed hungry people (of all ages) would zoom by and kick up a hefty swell. A pungent odor of fecal matter mixed with Diesel fuel and motor oil choked my sinuses. There were too many merchant ships to count; some brightly painted, others disheveled and falling apart, and a few completely un-sea-worthy shells sagging against the pier. But then we had no trouble finding the Nueva Jerusalem.

       

               “Hola,  donde esta el dueño de este barco?� Not wasting any time, we all started shouting for the boat operator.

              He came stumbling out the pilot house and looked down at the four gringos floating on their miniature boats.

          “We think that our friend from Medellìn contacted you… about transporting four Kayaks back to Capurganà?� Said J.

            His expression betrayed bewilderment. “No, I don’t know anything about it.�

                    It was no use trying to conduct negotiations from our disadvantageous position; the captain looked miles above us. We tried maneuvering in between the Nueva Jerusalem and the pier. J. and I managed to get up alongside the sea wall and pull ourselves out of the kayaks, but there was no room for Goat and Jacob.

                “We’ll go down the moye and look for a better place to disembark.� Goat shouted before taking off.

                 Many curious eyes had already gathered around J. and I; “Fools, your boats will be crushed between the ship and the sea wall…� Warned the dueño of the Nueva Jerusalem. “All it’ll take is one motor boat going by.�

           

                  There was at least a two and a half foot distance between the top of the pier and our boats below. Each of our boats weighed something like two hundred and fifty pounds. By employing three hands to each boat we were able to lift them out of the water and set them to balance precariously at the Pier’s edge. J. commandeered someone’s cell phone and tried to get in touch with our Lawyer.

          “Alright, this is the guy who claims he already had your consent to transport our boat,� said J. passing the cell piece over to the boat captain.

          

                  There was a small coffee table with five loud men playing cards. Money exchanged hands and drinks were brought from a local bar. Momentarily I got distracted from the lively gambling scene by a few questions from the local kids. When I turned my head to follow the action again, I was shocked to find the card players dispersed, and the card table being carried away. Thirty seconds later the clouds above opened up and released a torrential downpour. My clothes were soaked through in seconds. Everyone was running for cover. There was a sound like a shotgun blast as a halogen Street light exploded. The captain had retreated back into the pilot house to continue negotiations with our Lawyer. When he came out again, he gave us the thumbs up.

        

                 “Alright, we’re going to load your boats up on the deck tonight.�

         And with that we were officially finished with our Kayak trip. Goat and Jacob found a seedy hospedaje that would let us use one of their cardboard cells as a Bike repair room. In the morning we would begin the long tedious process of sanding down our bike frames. Three weeks of near constant immersion in sea water had wrought havoc on our equipment. It would days of sanding, greasing, and reassembling before we would be ready to hit the road.