The water is warm, the scenery breathtaking. There are fishing vessels riding at anchor to the starboard side and there is mutual handwaving. On we go, approaching Cape Tiburon, the swell causing the fishing vessels to disappear momentarily as we descend into a trough to come effortlessly and easily to a crest a few moments later. Panama, here we come! Meanwhile, the coastline character begins to change rapidly. I see an enormous rock fault face approaching, almost exactly perpendicular to the sea. This enormous sheer unbroken cliff plunges straight into the sea, probably to the very bottom of a very deep chasm. The swell changes as interference patterns begin to dominate. We are taken remarkably high on each crest and then we plunge rapidly downwards to what seems to be a dangerously low trough. Each cycle is becoming more and more intense. The boatman continues to stare intently at me, and I still do not care. My eyes are wild with enjoyment sharpened by the knowledge that this is close to the edge; a real white knuckle ride. I am thankful for the experience since even if I die here, I die doing something, and it is to me infinitely better than being run over by a number 47 bus on the High Street, or having a heart attack in a hospital in Orpington, Surrey. No, this is something else, it is a privilege to be here.

This doesn't mean that I don't consider the escape route if the boat were to capsize or sink. But it does not offer much hope of survival. It is therefore completely out of my hands and I am a helpless passenger who needn't even worry about it. I take huge exhilaration from each heartstopping lunge down and each magnificent soar up and I'm near to laughing out loud with the fun of it all, and the boatman knows and smiles with me. Alas, it is over too soon, and we are past this headland back into less energetic waters. We have a last check for any trace of the herb at the insistence of the boatman, and we arrive on Panamanian soil.

Panama

Carefully but hurriedly we repack our things and are escorted up the main street, which is much quieter than the vast majority of Colombian streets. We are taken in to see the boss man. He appears eventually, the very archetype of the customs outpost chief. He is obese, and a large cigar protrudes from the side of his mouth. Although the ceiling fan is operational, he perspires freely, constantly wiping his brow with a handkerchief. He babbles rapidly in Spanish and barks questions at us. The word Plata! repeats itself many times, and the boss man lapses into the only word of English he knows, "Money!", which he repeats in succession in an anguished crescendo. I do not have ample resources, but show him the few dollars we have left. Alas, this is not the required $50 each. He is not satisfied and waves us away. We argue, we say we have plenty money, our needs are frugal, we can survive easily on this. He waves us away. The waiting policeman beckons to us. We argue again. There is no mistaking the finality of the last rejection. We leave, wondering what happens now.

What happens now is all too simple: we are taken back to the beach. The boatman has been waiting for us and beckons us into the boat as if to say, "What took you so long?" As our shock slowly recedes, the dilemma becomes ever clearer. We put out to sea into the rapidly darkening sky, and there is a conspicuous lack of elation in this trip. We are not happy people.

The headland of Cape Tiburon reappears presenting a much more mysterious and foreboding aspect at night. The stars disappear and appear in accord with our motion through the blackened waves, which reflect the darkness now etched upon our lives. I hope that the weather holds. We silently arrive back at Zapzurro, and take stock of the predicament without even a spliff to comfort us.

It is not good. We have barely enough money to limp back to Bogotá, and then what? Leo proposes that we go overland to Panama, travelling at night through the jungle. But this is too dangerous, there are bandits who prey on such travellers and we would be lucky to escape with our lives in those circumstances. We are not armed. It feels all wrong. He agrees. We are shattered, our Jamaican dream temporarily dashed to pieces. We have to go back to that awful city, and we have achieved nothing with the money I was sent from London to finance this trip. We cannot even stay here in Zapzurro, this oasis of tranquillity, to catch our breath since we cannot afford the hotel bills. We would be stuck in perhaps Medellín where there is no British Consular Office and we could be caught in a hopeless trap there. No, there is nothing further to discuss. We must go back to Bogotá the same route as we left.

A tropical storm brews as we wake the next day and silently contemplate the inevitable. The wind begins to howl and shriek most miserably like a banshee wailing for her long lost lover. I open a leeward window shutter to watch the storm. It rapidly develops into a ferocious display of brute power with palm trees more or less as horizontal as they can be with their fronds blown together in tapered bunches offering as little wind resistance as possible. Other vegetation is not so well prepared and branches are hurled through the air. I wonder if this will be a hurricane, and what of the fishing vessels near to Cape Tiburon? The hotel seems to be fairly sturdily built, but the wind really is wickedly angry. We are not too far off the beach so if it is a hurricane the real danger will be the low pressure centre literally sucking up the sea some several metres higher thereby flooding and battering us. Again, there is absolutely no point in worrying about anything, so I enjoy the spectacle as best I can, but it's difficult since my spirits are at a low ebb following our Panamanian paperwork débacle. I wonder if we will be forced to stay in Zapzurro over our financial safety limit due to the storm thereby propelling us into a far more serious doom than is currently being dished out to us.

The storm abates after a few hours, and the boatman is ready to take us to Acandí. The sea close to shore is brown and is cluttered with flotsam. Further along the coastline the boatman fishes with an unbaited hook. Time and time again, the line is drawn in and a fish reminiscent of mackerel is hooked. This is a bare hook - not even a spinner! This spectacle takes my mind temporarily off the gloom, but the approach of Acandí thoroughly reinstates it.

We are lucky in Acandí as there is not long to wait for the launch, and we arrive in Turbo again almost indecently early. The bus to Medellín is very soon, and we make very sure we are on it. We watch the landscape change without interest and soon we are back in Medellín where, again, we stick to the safety of the bus terminal where there is not long to wait for the bus back to good old Bogotá. The journey goes by much faster this time and, before we know it, we are once more in the cold night concrete jungles of the capital, and my heart is down in my boots as we take up our positions right back at square one.