Damselflies of the Tobeatic

Damselfies on our first nature walk. Trout Point Lodge at the edge of the Tobeatic Wilderness. A riot of insect life in Novia Scotian wetlands.

Ebony Jewelwings along the edge of a stream the color of tea, pine tannins.

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Female Ebony Jewelwing

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Ebony Jewelwing male

At the edge of an esker filled lake. Looks like a powdered dancer!

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Narrow-winged Damsel

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Mating Narrow-wings

Recently emerged, this narrow-winged damsel has yet to develop its color, it’s abdomen still soft-shelled.

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Emergent Narrow-wing

SOHO

Waiting on the Q. This, taken in the 7th Ave station.

Mixed

Mixed

Going through her purse.

Entering

Entering

Low light, teasing out the motion. This woman standing confidently in front of the train, about to enter.

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Walking

Teens walking, talking, their feet the only thing stationary for a quarter of a second.

2014 Subway

2014 Underground

The train, shiny and clean. Not your 80’s graffitied coach.

On the Manhattan Bridge

On the Manhattan Bridge

This Schooner seemed trapped by the incoming tide and light wind as it drifted back up the Harlem River.

Again, the Bilboard

Again, the Bilboard

This time with cops.

Cast Iron Facade

Cast Iron Facade

Many of the building in SOHO are built with cast iron facades. This first use of iron allowed for huge windows impossible in masonry walls.

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The Gallery

An image I went back for. The painting in the gallery, and the reflection ghosting over the street.

Column

Column

The patina of iron.

Cylcing

Cylcing

Another corner building, huge windows. Floors with flooded with light. Ancestor to the glass skyscraper of steel.

A walk to Alphabet City

Spring has come to Brooklyn. Here, a walk from Prospect Park to Alphabet City. A photo essay with few words.

Dogwoods in bloom

Dogwoods in bloom

A plumber refused to move his van. Yelling, You’ve got room! Busses Backed up all the way down Garfield.

Street blocked

Street blocked

Symmetry.

Red rim

Red rim

A worker, breaking, caught through the wrought iron.

Work break

Work break

The garden warbler

The garden warbler

She played with teen disdain, a Jimmy Hendrix voice track backing through her amp. Her guitar was as his, she never stopped as the crowd swirled by, channeling Cross Town Traffic. It’s so hard to get through to you.

Jimmy Hendrix

Jimmy Hendrix

He had no idea.

Jimmy Hendrix

Jimmy Hendrix

Probe

Probe

Most people don’t realize how pervasive heterosexual love is, in images, ads, media–billboards the size of buildings.

Heterosexual love

Heterosexual love

But ask these guys.

Holding hands

Holding hands

Cycling in the bike lane.

Bench

Bench

Hipster

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To the East River

To the East River

A coffee break, the journeyman leans in.

Work break

Work break

Laying fiber optic cable from a FIOs truck. Ventilation and a hardhat in Alphabet City.

Way down in the rabbit hole.

Way down in the rabbit hole.

Sunday in Tandem

An unplanned day in Brooklyn, sunny and warm, the first really nice Sunday 

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of spring, trees trying to catch up with the warmth, leaves sprouting now that the freezes are over. We snacked our way down to 7th, then 5th Avenue, Charlie sniffing post and stoop, photos of abandoned bikes, one, a white shrine with fading plastic flowers, memorial to a fatal accident.

Yogurt, thick and Greek, handmade in Brooklyn.  Consignment shops with old fans and a chopped boxer R/7 liquidating.  Atlantic Avenue and the sun outside of the ExLax building too strong to sit, so we found a park off limits to adults without children, scoffed at the law and shared our aluminum wrapped middle eastern falafel halves alongside the tulip tree in full flower.

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Our tandem, with new whitewalls, buried behind other bikes at Dixon’s, fit for riding again. Charlie perched in the rear basket, folks in the store commented on the fear in his face, shivering ears laid half back, wide eyes waiting for me to lift him down.  Instead I put him in the basket, a snug fit, Charlie road up the slope without the least indication of discontent.  A woman passing by as we locked the frame to the signpost said, “Everything about you two is cute.  And then I noticed the dog.”

Margarita's at Fort Defiance

Later, coasting downhill we crossed the Gawanis into Red Hook, and sat for margarita’s outside at Fort Defiance, the waitresses, leaning out the open window to replenish our drink on a makeshift bar with stool seating on the sidewalk, told us that limes were in short supply. Unrest in Michaocan, farmers burning their trees instead of selling at half price to cartels.

Red Hook, quieter than the rest of Brooklyn, a hike from the nearest Subway, not in the least bit convenient, a neighborhood of brick buildings with cast iron columns supporting corner doorways, cobble streets limit traffic speed.  The sky over New Jersey and the Statue of Liberty resplendent red, a sliver of open sky below the low hazy ceiling, the inexorable sinking full disk of sun, Carla and I taking panoramas with her iPhone.

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Bocas outside at Botanica, shared as was the rest of the day.  Our climb back up the Slope easy and light, Carla stoking effortlessly uphill, both winded by our arrival back home.  Spring in Brooklyn.

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Brady in New York

Cold with the wind, especially in the shade of West Village buildings, we walked in the sun past a woman with flaming hair and long orange eyelashes.  She sat down on a street tree’s railing.  At the corner Brady said to me, She looks like she’s having mobility issues.  I’m going to see if she needs any help.  And so he walked back and gave her his arm.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAShe took it and walked a ways and she sat again.  With a huge smile she told us she was 94 years old and she was an artist.  She walked every day, and knew, like a dog knows all the hydrants, where all the seats were.  Outside the beauty parlor, two chairs.  A fabulous impeccably groomed man peaked out the door and offered tea.

She pulled down her glasses to illustrate a point. Billboards in New Zealand.  She was an eyeglass model. If we had a computer we could look her up! Ilona Royce Smithkin. Eyelashes made from her own hair. An artist who painted Ayn Rand, Tennesee Williams. I asked her if she new Edna St Vincent Millay, and she said she had, had been to her little narrow house.OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

She always has these kinds of adventures. People are so kind.  Her positive energy erupts in brilliant color. She finishes her tea. We sit on the corner in the shade, in the biting wind. She motions Brady to sit beside her, block the wind. I take a portrait.

We sit in the park, in the sun, next to the art in memoriam to the Stonewall.  She says the older she gets, the happier.  The rest of it doesn’t matter.  All she cares about is positivity.  And admonishes us not to compare ourselves with anyone ever.ilona brady walking

Back Roads, Mostly

Chased out of Philly by a snowstorm, a heat wave through Georgia, the weather for our road trip this December.  The Thanksgiving feast fattened with gravy; cousins and second cousins from Texas, Mississippi, uncles from Oklahoma in SUVs, an old Bronco.

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Carla’s first trip through the south–our first stop in the Delta, cotton still littering the ground, in fields sometimes uncut, waist high, black soil graded for centuries by the great river meandering, abandoning crescent lakes, boggy oxbows, filled with cyprus, left uncultivated, we photographed the landscape at 60 miles per hour.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERASaturday at Red’s, a Clarksdale Mississippi juke joint, piled high with junk, Red lounged out on his day couch.  “Pull yourselves up here by the fire,” he said and we sat and watched Robert Belfour set up, drank white whiskey with Red out of a plastic cranberry juice bottle.  Hard of hearing in one ear, leaned in; told us of cross cutting wood when he was twelve, his mom had sent him up to the delta from the hills where he was raised up.

Later a white woman with a lopsided bob leaned in and put her lips next to Red’s ear–Robert jangling his rhythmic foot pattering wail–asked him to turn down the action movie on the flatscreen. Red turned to Carla and growled, “She want to fuck with my high. She know she ain’t right,” and hunching over, stiff and unhappy, he turned down the movie and turned to us, “I cain’t get back the way I was now.” He sadly mean mugged her till her friends came.  She moved out of his sight to babble over our shoulders.  Delfour played the heart out of the blues in that flat dark heartbroken land, rundown shacks, abandoned main streets, ducks flocking, blackbirds wheeling in the grey sky.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAThe delta ended in bluff, edged with wood; into the hills we drove.  Alabama: a little saner, sanitized, houses more middle class, trailers in the pines, roads rain slicked by the warm front.  Georgia had the mansions where Sherman veered south out of Atlanta and left the antebellum streets of Maddison, Eatonton, Greensboro unburnt.  Uncle David in a house with a name: The Davis House, of red brick, the brick foundry’s owner, thirteen foot nine inch ceilings, fourteen fireplaces; Carla swore she wouldn’t speak to me for half an hour.  I’d told her, I’m sure, that it was in fact a big house.

Appling, where her grandfather had been born, near the 1,300 acres amassed by Senator Crawford, a namesake perhaps, if nothing else, a few houses scattered along highway 28 just north of the interstate, a wet muggy morning, the western omelet in Saluda, or Winnsboro the best I’d ever had, thick with bacon and sausage, the rest of the plate floded with grits yellowed with melted butter.  OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

South Carolina different yet, more pine, porch couches, the old homesteads abandoned–we explored one, Carla imploring me not to go up the steep stairs, a banister made of old siding boards, the light from low windows illuminating a sad tableau of SpongeBob, cast off toys, a dank mattress.

Carla’s family now, an Aunt, and her two children in a big house filled with art, that beautiful mix of races, the blossoming of loving care and great opportunity, precocious pubescent energy, “testosterone poisoning,” as Leslie said of her son, her daughter gutted because she lost a footrace Carla and me.

A splendid sunrise leaving Raleigh, up to the Virginia coast via the Chesapeake Bay Bridge and Tunnel; the torn up the Atlantic colder, battleships cruising out to sea.  Ocean City, OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAMaryland, Delaware, emptied to the winter, the bright summer signage and paint spun images of working-class crowds packing the beaches in their bikinis, bright surf trunks, pedestrians blocking the largely empty streets.

An evil rain north into Philly, blotting out the white lines, glazing the black pavement on 95, a spray of vile mist kicked up from tractor trailer wheels, cars, their lights a maze of insidious movement, into the warmth of Carla’s sisters ancient apartment on Front Street overlooking the Benjamin Franklin Bridge.  A fabulous production of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Knight, after a fireside dinner with homemade marshmallow and graham cracker for pine toasted s’mores.  A cold front that brought the foot of snow that chased us north just setting in.  Flurries outside, we stopped at Dukin’ Donuts, our last cup of coffee for the road; tolls, tunnels and bridges back into Brooklyn.

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We bought a Christmas tree and decompressed after two weeks of constant company.  Charley whimpering in his dreams, lolling on the couch next to us.  Real salad for dinner.  Nothing meaty, nothing oily, ready for the Holidays.

The Nina, Pinta, Santa Maria

Mostly I’ve been busy.  Carla flew back to Brooklyn this morning; we blew kisses in the propwash.  Very romantic.  My community is pouring out cruces for a pile foundation over the water—a municipal building funded by the Floating Doctors: a post for healthcare workers in La Ensenada.  The missionaries are funding wells, and I’ve had visitor after visitor since my folks in April ethnobotanizing, politicizing, midwiferizing.

But I’ve been putting my census off for a boat-building contest I’m putting up some prize money for.  Some of the men told me they used to race model boats as kids with an outrigger called a timon.  Think $40 to the boat, three feet maximum, that sails fastest and straightest.  I’ll pick a target on the other side of the bay directly down wind and the first one makes it wins.

My boat: a Rounded Caraval, a Carrack, built from plans of the Santa Maria I downloaded from Panama Para Todos in Bahia Azul.  In the rain.

Eliel cut down the balsa tree with an axe.  Then he cut out pieces; let me swing the axe but I wasn’t fast or accurate enough.  The diameter chunk I wanted was ten or twelve feet in the air, the tree had fallen across a gorge in the wet green riot of tropical finca.  He climbed up and swung the axe down at his feet, slicing into the trunk as he was standing on it, slick bark, in the rain.

All my strength to carry it out.  A 90lb sack of cement might be less wieldy.

The men on my porch cheered me in jest as I wobbled, trying to squat the trunkpiece onto my shoulders.  I dropped it in front of my house.

Enrique loaned me a chainsaw and I carved the rough shape.  Laughter every time I messed something up, El sabes, when I get it just so.  Viste, el esta estudiando, when it comes out.

Inline image 1I hand planed the hull over the next couple of days.  Tried it in the water, it listed and spun right out of control at the least push.   Very heavy.

I carved out the inside of the hull with a chainsaw and milled the superstructure out of left over rough cut balsa with my handplane and crosscut saw. Epoxied the quarterdeck on.  Glued on an even heavier keel of half inch by three inch steel.  Painted it black.

Masts, rigging big square sails out of a white plastic bag all scaled off the drawing.  I crossed a line running from two tiller arms to the mainsail yard so that it self corrects sailing downwind.  On its trail run it self corrected like a drunken Pirate.  Wouldn’t sail straight at all.  pretty funny.

I added a keel all the way to the tip of the rudder with another piece of balsa.

Men came by and asked me how it goes.  Drunken?  Told me of theirs.  I reminded them of the $40 prize.  Ben said he’d put a prize in too.  Wants to film the race.

With Carla in the front of my canoe we set the hull in the water of a glass calm in side the bay.  It drifted to and fro.  The sails filled now and again, it pointed downwind, ghosted along.  I added an Iron Cross in red to the mainsail, the foresail, and a kite with a crest or another in red and white.

For our last evening we set in out at sunset.  It sailed free with the light breeze, shivering its sails downwind now and again and then correcting itself beautifully.  Carla took shots silhouetted in the glare.  Into the wind its sail pushed the boat backwards, around, filled and eased off.  I was very happy.  Men paddled by and checked it out, said I’d win.  But I won’t.  It’s too fat and their boats are made for speed.

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Perhaps during the final grand prize race I’ll set mine out first, and hundred yards off, and if one of theirs can touch mine, capture it as it were, he can have the Santa Maria, The Admiral’s flagship.  That symbol of contact and the outside world.

As an update, I will be flying back to Arkansas on Sept 21st, my service Closed on the Solstice, the anniversary of my engagement to Carla.  Two fall weddings in NYC, helicopter ride in the Grand Canyon, Thanksgiving back in Hot Springs. Winter in Brooklyn.  Life races on.

The HIV Gira

Funds for this grant were provided by PEPFAR. Kristen Kaper solicited the funds and with Laura Geiken we wrote a proposal for a team of 13 Health Care professionals to offer free rapid HIV tests to an indigenous community without ready access to prevention basics like condoms and education. This is the story.

On the 14th of March, in Kusapin, I got an email from Dr Jurado at Fundacion ATENAS. He offered a thousand discuplas, but the boss was traveling overseas and had not authorized the use of the lancha for the ten planned days of our HIV tour. Could we reschedule. I thought not.

The Alcalde had offered his lancha in service to the project, so I knocked on his door, and told him I’d lost my boat. He said Archibold just gave Mendez, the Toro. Ask him.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAThe Toro is a big baby blue panga that used to run between Bahia Azul and Chiriqui Grande. Old Man Archibold used to run it a year ago, or have his sons. But the motor kept breaking down. He’s not getting any younger, and he likes to spend his time in town, away from his wife in Bahia Azul. The Archibolds are also notoriously difficult to do business with. The first time I ever saw him, on my site visit, he told Sergio and me his was the only boat to Ensanada. This was a lie. His nose flattened by some long ago fight gave him a fatherly look. He tried to overcharge us. The boat had to turn back because the sea was too rough, the boat so overloaded water was coming over the gunnels. And he yelled at me to bail.

So I went to Mendez, Son of Archibold. And said, You have a boat and a motor, will you help.

He said he’d like gas plus $50 a day.

I said no way. $500 total. You’ll be doing a favor to the whole community. He agreed, if I promised not to tell anyone he was doing it for so cheap. I could agree to that.

We shook hands and I told him I’d send him the first $50 by note if I needed to be picked up at 11am, Tuesday, the 19th of Feb. His hands are small and meaty and very strong. His arms hang akimbo—musclebound or because of his big belly. Bole kri in Ngabere. He’s an Archibold.

But so is the Alcalde.

On the 15th I met with Dr Jurado in David. He did not look well. I asked him if he’d been out all night—a joke. He said he hadn’t, he had a cold, a fever. He said he might not be able to go. He’d find the people. His boss was new and mixing things up. He looked under a lot of stress. On the way to buy the medical supplies, I made small talk, asked of his family. He told me he rarely gets to see his wife and kids because she works in Colon. Later, I asked him what the chances were that he would make the gira. He said, Fifty.

I can respect that.

In the morning I got an email that said that he couldn’t make it. And neither could any of the other nurses, or public health workers, or doctors. In fact nobody would come. That’s what que no podre asistir a la gira al igual que las personas que contacte de parte de atenas ya que tienen otros compromisos means. It’s an amazing thing the last minute excuse: impossible to attend, other previous commitments. He excused himself from any inconvenience. I like the guy, I felt like he is still on my side. Even though.

On Monday the 18th—the MINSA office alive inside the dark painted walls, the hum of an airconditioner. People coming and going, Dr Gantes pulled us all together, we sorted out all the particulars, transportation, supplies, reorganized schedules. We were down to one Doctor, Jenny, for three days starting tomorrow, one nurse, surely, and Uriel, the lab director for the Comarca, for four days. And four cases of Rapid HIV tests. Each worth $6000 wholesale.

All that really mattered I suppose.

Dr Gantes was on board. I called Roda, she fave the phone to Enrique, he promised to take to note to Mendez with the $50, the boat would pick us up. I could get these tests to the dock. Things were moving right along.

And then momentum kicked in. Kristen, from the Peace Corps office, offered us a ride in a White Stallion. Mysha Sissine, a Master’s student from North Carolina arrived to collect data for her International Public Health Thesis; which should shed light on the question: What motivates a Ngabe to want to take an HIV/AIDS test in the first place?

The next morning Uriel showed up outside Kristen’s Hotel, but the Doctora didn’t, We waited an hour or so on the busy streets of David. She probably had a previous commitment.

Half an hour late getting into Chiriqui Grande, Mendez, right there at the dock feigned indignation about how long suffering he’d been waiting for us. And he wanted everything up front. I told him no, $50 a day. He said he had to buy gas right now. 60 gal. Plus oil, $304. I said there you go. We walked his tanks over to the pumps, I made sure the receipt was signed.

We were five in his big panga, with his 40hp Yamaha, the most efficient balance of power and consumption of the outboard motors. Kristen, Laura Geiken, the GAD coordination and coauthor of the grant, Mysha, Uriel, and me. In a boat planned for 16. It was light and skimmed across the water into the dark ominous sky. It would rain for most of the next ten days.

In Bucori Mendez said, Oh, we sure used a lot of gas. He rattled the read five gallon tank. Eight gallons he said. A third of the way, I thought, He can’t complain. Probably use between 30 and 40 gallons total. He’d sell the rest at $6 a gallon. He asked for $20 walking around money. I gave it to him.

Bucori. Rhian was waiting in the drizzle. The local medico in the Puesto de Salud happy to see us. We stashed the boxes in the backroom, carried our bags to the office where we’d stay, rolled out or sleeping mats, hung the hammock and went back to give a quick charla. Later, laughter, stories over a huge plate of chicken and rice cooked by the medico’s wife.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAIn the morning we tested many more women than men. Rhian, from Detriot, lives in Bucori, explained what Adquiera means, the A in SIDA. It was a tough task. Men asked questions, he put a condom on four fingers. Showed them how to pull it off, tie it up, not throw it on the ground where anyone might find it. He’d use that joke again and again.

We tested 77 people that first day. The tests were run inside the puesto, results read in private, with follow-up counseling and questioning. This would have been the task of the doctor, psychologist, or nurse. But it fell to us in the Peace Corps. A huge learning moment. For us and them. If they didn’t have a question, I would ask, How can you guard yourself against HIV? Answers were mostly half condoms, half fidelity. The women said they were faithful, but only one said she knew that her husband was too. Most of the women would take some condoms.

For dinner we had lobster and daichin, a delicious purple tuber that eats like a lavender potato and tastes delicious. With lobster.

That night I puked. I wouldn’t be able to eat heartily for the rest of the tour. No coffee no soda no asprin half portions. Discomfort. Loose five pounds. I tried not to be too dull. I had to nap now and again.

Playa Verde. Evan was waiting for us. We set up outside the school after outwaiting the rough weather. Mendez asked me for another $20. He said he’d had to pay for room and board. You told me he was your uncle! I said. He said, Yeah, but you are gringos and he thinks I’m making a lot of money off of you. I said, Then it’s up to you to disabuse him of that notion. I gave him the $20.

We tested a good amount of folks. The Floating Doctors arrived, but didn’t have the necessary permissions to run a full clinic and therefore couldn’t do much but watch Uriel pricking fingers and running the tests. Dr Ben had brought a few pounds of beef so we had a delicious beef dinner and left them with their hammock hanging under the eves of the public rancho.

Our boatride to Bahia Azul was beautiful. Rainbows and massive kettles of raptors. Rosendo was outside his house burning trash. I thought, excellent, he’s waiting for us. I walked up to him and he had this strange look on his face. He said, Oh, I didn’t know when you were coming. You didn’t give me a date. I already rented out the house you were going to stay in to the teachers.

I pointed to the bills posted on the front door of his store. The flyer that said Bahia Azul, with the date of March 23rd. I said, This is the date we agreed on. This one posted on your door.

I like the guy. He’s always been good to me. I asked him where we might stay for the next four days. He pointed to a rough house on the corner and said it was open. I talked to the owner, explained that we were here on a gira to give HIV tests, and asked him if he would let us use his house, help us out. He said absolutely. Mendez’ brother waddled over to help hammer some rungs on the joists that had been the stairs. A rapid fix.

Mysha said Rhian was teaching her how to tell an Archibold by his bole kri. Bahia Azul: Archibold central.

Rosendo let us use his shower, his flush toilet.

Punta Sirain. Kristen left us early in the morning, in the middle of a rainstorm, bitten by chitras. We had breakfast up at the only little public spot in town, coffee, eggs, crema.

We boated to Punta Sirain as the sun came out. Up on the hill a slow day. Entertained by Mamacita—an old lady who told funny lies and floated along elegantly—asked us to guard her crema. We tested a little over 20 people.

The sun came out, empanadas for lunch. Laura said I couldn’t ask Uriel to stay another day, it would be unfair. He had already worked so hard. It was true. But tomorrow we’d loose half the day, and Bahia Azul would prove to be a big testing site. And what if the next lab tech never showed?

What if I asked real nice? I offered. She shook her head. I kind of had to agree. I joked that she loved MINSA so much, she’d defend Uriel to the end. We laughed.

Mendez had us wait for a half an hour on the dock, motoring back from around Punta Valiente. Took us back to Bahia Azul where the ladies had a chicken dinner waiting for us. I ate little and made it through the night.

Bahia Azul. The next morning at six I told Uriel the boat was coming. He said he’d decided to stay another day. I was surprised and pleased. Laura said as much herself.

We set up shop in the offices of the school while Rhian and Laura gave the charlas in the cafeteria.

Mendez pulled me aside and asked me how much I still owed him.

$90 I said.

He said, Oh oh. 90 palos for six more days! I’m loosing money on the trip. He said he had a business to run, and he needed to send some money back to Kusapin. He said he just couldn’t afford to take us the rest of the way without more money up front.

I had expected this. I was already spending money on food for him and his son, his helper.

He said, If you give me $300 more dollars I can do it.

I said, That’s not what we agreed on. I told you in the beginning that I would not pay $50 a day. And I’m not even using you all the days. Plus this boat doesn’t weigh and you’re using less gas.

He said, Oh no! I’ve already used up more than half the gas!

I told him, I’ll give you $100 more. $200 right now, so he could take some money back to his wife. And that I’d pay $50 when we get to the dock in Chiriqui Grande.

He agreed. Told me not to tell anyone.

Whitney and Tito, the lab tech from Kankintu arrived on the afternoon boat. Now we had a crew! And we tested 78 people. The most yet, admittedly with mine and Whit and Laura’s thrown in. Rhian said those tests didn’t count.

That evening we went to Cantina Archibald, where my bills were still posted on the wall. We all had a couple of beers, and I played Juni at pool. I dominated the table, beating him even at his own game. We played for the table. And I must admit, it felt good beating an Archibold at his own game.

Punta Alegre. A beautiful morning. Laura and Uriel left on the first boat.

The owner of our house came by and wanted to talk to me. He said I owed him $5 a person for the use of his house. This was $25, for a house that might rent for $40 a month. I told him I’d give him $15. He feigned indignation, which kind of upset me a little. I went in on him. I told him that I understood that he had offered us his place to help us out, to help out the community. We could have stayed in the artisan’s house for free. And now he was trying to take advantage of us, because why? He thought we had a lot of money? We were gringos? I told him we’d leave today, move out directly, and he would get nothing. $25 dollars? Who did he think we were?

And all this in front of Tito. The man paled.

After breakfast I came back and gave him $10. Told him I felt abused. An Abuso! He said I wasn’t being abused. I told him he had to tell me his terms up front! $5 a person! For that house! I would have told him, NO from the beginning. That’s not how business is done, and didn’t he have any sense of community?

We packed our stuff, stored it in the artisan house and left for Punta Alegre. Tito asked me how much I was paying Mendez. $650 I said. He said that was plenty. I said I thought so, and told him about doing business with the Archibolds.

Tito said Mendez had asked him how much I was paying him; that he was fishing for more money. Tito said, I told him he wasn’t paying me anything. He started calling him bole kri.

Punta Alegre went well. Lots of church going folk came by for tests. Whitney and Giro giving the charlas. It was quite in the afternoon, a stalled boat drifted past. The Kusapin corregirador, essentially the local judge, gave me some of the sweetest coconuts I’d ever tasted. My stomach was acting up. I felt horrible. He took pitty on me, thanked us for our work. The church group gave us a thick chicken soup in thanks as well. I couldn’t eat it.

Mendez came and picked us up. An half hour late. We went to Bahia Azul, had another dinner, and left for La Ensenada and my little house.

I put up Whitney, Mysha and Rhian. Tito slept in Roda’s house. He seemed well received there.

I told Mendez to come pick us up in three days, at 8am. Told him not to be late.

La Ensenada. In the morning Whitney left us. I was worried that we would be short handed for the rest of the gira. We PCVs were covering a lot that had been intended to be covered by the doctors and pshycologists. This made me a little sad.

La Ensenada would be the worst turnout. My own site!

First thing in the morning Anesio brought in his three and a half year old granddaughter in to get tested. Her mother had died of AIDS soon after she was born. The little girl had been getting treatment ever since.

She tested negative.

I read the test results to Anasio and his wife. She put her arm around my shoulders and pulled me in and said softly to me in Ngabere, What you have done is good. Very good. Ka koin. I felt the wave of love pass through her embrace. The little girl held the cotton ball on her pricked finger.

Further good news. Another young man that has been struggling with an unknown disease, very similar in symptoms to tuberculosis brought his wife in. Both tested negative. He told me his brother had died of AIDS in Bucori, and that he had lived a very reckless life a few years ago. Now he was one with God, and gracias a dios we had come with these tests.

The other members of my community pretty much let me down. Refused to get tested. Hid behind a door in the new school. His brother came though, and a couple of the other young toughs.

I talked to Dr Gantes on the phone. I told him that no doctors had arrived. He seemed surprised. I told him they probably had other commitments. He told me he would see what he could do. None would ever show.

We ate granja chicken and fried yuka for dinner.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAGuacamayo. A rollicking good reception! We set up in the Puesto de Salud and Alexi was there waiting for us, with a crowd. We had hiked up to Guacamayo from La Ensenada and weren’t there for fifteen minutes when Osi, aka Maggie from Playa Balsa showed. I put her to work immediately reading results and asking folks if they had any questions.

I was extremely please that she came out. It was difficult to fill out the forms, run charlas and give results with only two volunteers. And now the balance was back, two women, Mysha and Maggie, and Rhian and I. I remember feeling that now, for the first time, that it was all going to work out.

We had an excellent turnout. Many of which were in the 15-40 year old range, muchachos. Laughter and attention paid to the charlas, running smoothly. Gave out more than a hundred condoms, kept Tito busy. Had a wonderful walk home, a beautiful day, Tito and Mysha taking photos along the way. His first time out here on the Peninsula.

Playa Balsa. We got up, and started packing. At about 7:20 I heard my name yelled with indignation. Tito came by and told me Bole Kri wanted my attention. I walked out and he shouted, pointing to his watch. I made some vulgar motions towards him with my arm and thumbed him off with a cry equally loud to his. The folks in my community laughed.

Breakfast, crema, fishy eggs. I gave him two of my ojaldras. He and his son ate them with pleasure. We loaded the boat at 8 o’clock and headed out.

As we were passing by Punta Valiente a group of people flagged us down. Mendez looked at me, I nodded, and we pulled the boat it. 15 or so folks jumped in and we motored into Kusapin. It was the day when the Red de Opportunidad was paid out. Everyone stacking their cash.

We pulled up at his business, which he pointed out to Tito proudly, and unloaded the people. His wife yelled out to make sure they were all charged for their ride. At $2 a person…you can do the math.

The cut through the reef into Playa Balsa was known to Mendez. Even so, as we approached, the swell sucked the reef dry on either side, with twenty feet to pass through. We unloaded just before the rain and tested as high a percentage of folks as we had yet, a back of the envelope figure: nearly a quarter of the residents.

For dinner we had a simple meal of rice and lentils. Tito slept in the guest house, we slung our hammocks at Osi’s (aka Maggie).

Cayo Paloma. We walked in the rain to the Puesto de Salud. Leopoldo, the local medico, was waiting for us, and assured us when the rain let up, we’d have a steady stream of people to test. And we did.

Our work getting smoother and smoother, we gave out condoms and presented our charlas. Momentul building, more and more folks.

Hot johniecakes for lunch. And a pleasant walk home.

Julian, our host in Playa Blasa told stories of ancient Ngabe lore. The white monkey that climbed the tree in a lightning storm and when the lightning struck, turned him black, from head to foot, all except for his monkey testicles, which he was holding in his hand. And that is why, to this day, a howler monkey junk is not black!

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Tobobe. Our last stop. Rain squalls in the morning, Julian spotted Mendez racing out front of the line. A great boat ride, stormy, Mysha grinning, a solid swell running, shot a photo of me and posted it on Instagram. The technology that happens while I’m gone!

Another Red de Oportunidad day, lines down in the sidewalk, people standing, mired in mud. The crowd awaiting us at the puesto larger than any we had seen. Dora, the doctora, smiling and waiting for us. We tested over a hundred people throughout the day. There had been concern that HIV had reached Tobobe.

Tito called me in, showed me the result, a small red line next to the HIV mark. Our first positive. I called the young man’s name, after a few other negative results. I told him he would need to get his blood drawn.

He hung his head.

He said, I knew it.

Tito took his blood during a break in the testing, no one the wiser, and the handsome young man walked off down the sidewalk. He would be the only positive of the entire gira.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAI bought Mendez the last lunch, and he broke out into a grin. A plate for his son too. Sweet buns and johniecakes for us. We worked late, Mendez whistling and hooting for us to mind the time.

The sun sets fast in the tropics.

Epilogue. Maggie and I returned to Tobobe a couple of weeks later to find our young man. Lab tests had confirmed his HIV status. We talked with Dora and she said she had a boat but no gas. So I bought five gallons of gas and the Corrigedor drove us.

We motored across incredibly clear water, glass and a low swell. Once we’d managed to locate his house, his sister told us he had paddled to Tobobe. We found him on the sidewalk right where we’d put the boat in. He had a huge smile when he saw me.

He said he had seen us pull out, but didn’t think it was for him. He said thank you for coming. I told him the lab test had confirmed his status, and he told me again that he had suspected as much.

He told me he understood the treatment process, had a friend in Changinola that was getting treatment. He told me he was waiting to get paid so he could go to San Felix and start treatment. He said he would go Monday, if he could.

Incredible sweet. A magnetic personality. I told him we would help him, cover his expenses to San Felix this one time so he could talk to the doctor, the psychologist; figure out how to get his meds in the future. He smiled his handsome smile, sitting there on a beached dugout canoe.

I gave him $60, boat and bus fair round trip. Directions to the clinic, phone numbers.

He said, Thank you, Thank God you came.

I shook his hand. Maggie shook his hand. I think he would have

hugged us.

Mil gracias, he said one last time, A thousand thanks.

On the negative results of the little girl:

October 6, 2011 (Chicago, Illinois) — The loss of HIV-specific antibodies can lead to false-negative results on rapid HIV tests in children and adolescents after successful long-term antiretroviral therapy, according to results presented here at the 51st Interscience Conference on Antimicrobial Agents and Chemotherapy (ICAAC).