Panama and Costa Rica, redux

***UPDATED WITH PICTURES***

My how time flies when you start having “responsibilities” and “a schedule” again. One of the parts of our trip that I’ve really come to appreciate is the flexibility we had in the beginning. Find a cool place to stay? Stay there for a few more days – why the hell not? That is how Utila, Honduras and San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua turned into week-plus events. There are few times I’ll be able to travel like this again, so I’ve tried my best to appreciate it. But once Jeff and I bought plane tickets for South America, there was a bit more urgency in our itinerary. So much to do and so little time left. When you’re travelling with commitments, your time tends to go by like a speeding train rather than a surreal dream. Such was Panama. Despite the fact that we spent much of our time sitting inside and watching the rain, the last week went by like a blur.

Despite the weather, I think Bocas del Toro, Panama may be one of my favorite of the Caribbean beach towns we’ve visited. There are plenty of tourists, but not so many that they choke out the local flavor. The town is on “island time” in a big way, but it’s a big enough area that there is plenty to do – you never feel isolated. But faced with a weather forecast that predicted a 90 percent chance of thunder showers for the next 10 days in a row, we decided we needed to get going to find sun. From there it was south over the mountains to the Pacific side, where we prayed the weather might cooperate. It did, to an extent – intermittent downpours instead of constant ones. We stayed at a very homey little hostel in between David, a mid-sized urban area near the Costa Rican border, and Boquette, a supposed mountain paradise perched below Volcan Baru, the largest peak in the country. While using the Frisbee golf course (first one we’ve seen down here) and perusing the 1950s-era jukebox that had been loaded with Dylan, Van Morrison and Neutral Milk Hotel, we got to know one of the owners – a 20-something dude from Fort Lauderdale who made opening up a hostel in Central America sound like a pretty damn good idea. He and a friend had opened up their “Waterfall Hostel” four months ago and were in the process of getting the word out to other travellers. Duder hangs out with travellers and goes surfing – that’s his life. There’s probably at least a little bit of financial stress behind the scenes, but I’m sure it doesn’t come close to the type of stress that you’d have if you were working a 9-5er for The Man in the States.

They don´t even beat around the bush with political slogans in Panama. The translation here is roughly: “Your best option.” At home they just leave it up to us to come to the realization that we are voting for the lesser of two evils.

Matt, who inexplicably shaved his head in Bocas, playing frisbee golf at the hostel on the way to Boquette, Panama.

Edward 40 hands translates as “Eduardo 40 manos.”

Frank the devil bunny.

After two and a half months in all-too-close quarters, it came time for Caleb, Matt and Jeff to split up. Matt wanted to wait for the weather to clear so he could do Boquette and the mountain; Jeff had to fly out of Panama City in a couple days and I was down to my last week before I had to depart for Sao Paulo, Brazil. I went with Jeff to Panama City, hoping to set up a few days on the deserted Caribbean islands of San Blas before I left. Mother nature had other ideas. Having your own island to yourself sounds like a truly transcendent experience, but I couldn’t picture doing it in the rain. So instead I went with Jeff to visit the Panama Canal. I’m glad I can say I’ve seen it, as it undoubtedly is an a testament to human ingenuity, etc. But the three three floors of exhibitions and movies relating every single detail about the canal’s construction was a bit overkill. Jeff, however, was a kid in a candy shop.

Big old tanker with the world´s largest “No smoking” sign moves through a big old canal.

Jeff is excited about big boats.

Jeff is excited about video games. Panama City was up there with Costa Rica as far as “American-ness” goes, as you could tell by the abnormally large mall.

The “tobacco and rum” store.

Knowing I had to get north into Costa Rica by Friday, I decided I should bite the bullet and do as much bus travel as humanly possible in one sitting. That way, I theorized, I could have a couple of days in along a Pacific coast beach before I flew out. My plan worked (even saw the sun again for the first time in a week), but the bus trip from Panama City to San Jose was absolute hell. I don’t sleep well on planes, much less on buses going over pot-holed roads. After leaving Panama City at 11 p.m. and finally dozing off at around 2 a.m., I woke up at sunrise to find us at La Frontera (the border). By far the most trouble we’ve had getting through a border was coming south into Costa Rica, and coming north was no different. I spent a total of four hours in three different lines and had to let “authorities” (they were dressed the same as the cab drivers) go through my bags not once but twice. It would have been better if they actually did search, but it was fairly obvious that none of the guards really cared what tourists had in their bags. Essentially I sat in line for hours only to reach the front, take my hiking boots out of the top of my bag and be waved forward to the next line.

A street dog licks his crotch in front of dozens of idle Panamanian border police. This sums up my feelings about the border crossing.

Another seven hours from there and I arrived in San Jose, feeling a bit like a lobotomy patient. Not wanting to deal with a cab driver (Lonely Planet specifically warns about crooked ones in San Jose), I began to walk towards my desired hostel. Lo and behold it began to rain again, so I hopped in a cab. And lo and behold he drove in circles, going south when I told him the hostel was north and then dropping me off several blocks away from where I needed to be. I finally arrived, got some dinner, and met a dude from UCLA who was studying birds in Monte Verde. Duder complained that he left the book he was reading on the bus to San Jose, so I gave him the copy of “Three Cups of Tea” that my Mom had given me a couple weeks ago. I’m not usually one to give away books, but I have a whole library in my backpack and it’s the type of book that lends itself to a “Pay it Forward” kind of thing. It’s the story of a climber who unsuccessfully tries to scale K2 in Pakistan, gets lost and is taken in by a tiny mountain village and then returns to the village and surrounding area to build schools for the children. I had already read about Islamic fundamentalism (The Looming Tower) and high-altitude climbing (Into Thin Air) on this trip, so reading this was a nice bit of synchronicity. I’d highly recommend it: It makes a good argument for a more humanitarian edge to the “War on Terror,” which seems much more likely to win over the vast amount of poor, directionless youth in those areas that have few other options. The book occasionally gets a bit warm and fuzzy and “Oprah Book Club-ish,” but is worth reading anyways. Then I somehow passed out at 8 p.m. in a dorm room full of eight people and woke up early to head to Montezuma, on the south end of the Nicoya Peninsula in northwestern Costa Rica.

Montezuma was probably my favorite of the towns I’ve been to in Costa Rica – still undeveloped (by Costa Rican standards), with a fair amount of young travellers and an absolutely beautiful white sand beach. I lucked out and found the Mochilla Inn – a great hostel that was up in the jungle a little ways from town. I think I saw more monkeys in two days of sitting on the deck of the hostel than in all of Guatemala. The trade off, of course, is that you’re woken up to their screaming at 5 a.m. every morning, but it’s a small price to pay. Chris, the German owner, and Roberto, the Costa Rican hippie artisan who worked there, were great company, as were the other travellers staying there – Canadians, a Swede and an Irish girl. Yesterday afternoon I went to the waterfall outside of town, which is a hike up a stream bed and along cliffs to a rock amphitheater and a 100+ foot cascadia. The monkeys were there too, including a mom with a baby on the back. Said it before and I’ll say it again – I friggin love monkeys. Last night Roberto took us out to the beach, made a giant bonfire, complete with a bongo drum. In Costa Rica they are fond of saying “Pura Vida” as a greeting or goodbye or pretty much any other occasion. “Pure Life” is the direct translation, but “This is the life” or “I’m doing great” is probably more like it. This was, indeed, “Pura Vida.” The huge amounts of tourists and the price gouging that follows them (us) has soured my impression of Costa Rica a bit, but sitting around the fire that night and practicing my Spanish with a bona fide Costa Rican is a nice last memory of the country.

Live with the monkeys.

Costa Rican beaches.

Montezuma waterfall.

Howler monkey.

If you look carefully, the one at the bottom of the picture is a mother with a baby on her back.

Caleb looks creepy during a bongo lesson with an Aussie, a Canadian, a Swede and a Costa Rican.

The outdoor shower looked right out to the trees. While taking a shower I was suprised to look 15 yards to my right and see an iguana the size of a black lab staring back.

Rita, Roberto´s dog, was being nursed back to health after being run over by a car.

This morning it was once again up at sunrise (it’s a bad habit I’ll have to break when I’m back home), to head back to San Jose so I can catch my flight tomorrow. Roberto suggested I stay in Alejuela, a suburb of San Jose that is closer to the airport. I’m here now and it is certainly less crowded, dirty and sketchy than San Jose. My Thanksgiving dinner consisted of Americanized Mexican food, which is surprisingly hard to find down here. It’s no turkey and mashed potatoes, but it’s the first time I’ve had cilantro in months, so I’m content. Hope the holiday went well for everyone.

Tomorrow I fly from San Jose to Panama City and then on to Sao Paulo. Apparently Sunday is the Brazilian futbol championship – the equivalent of the American Super Bowl, so I’m apparently coming right in time. Joe has mentioned heading to the beach for a few days as well as the countryside, which I’m excited to see. I also intend on doing Rio de Janeiro at some point.

Gotta head to bed. The old man who I assume owns this place is watching “Deal or No Deal” and yelling at the TV: “Take the deal! Just take it! It’s $260,000! Deal!”

When you´re lost in the rain in Juarez…

Turns out “Just Like Tom Thumb´s Blues” is a fitting soundtrack to the trip so far. Once again we´re on a Caribbean island during a four-day long rain storm. I´m not looking for sympathy – I know there are far worse places to be, but it´s a bit of a let down not to be able to take advantage of idyllic beaches because of the weather.

First some pictures from Costa Rica, where Matt, Jeff and I stayed with the lovely Roger and Kelly Heeringa and ate like Americans (well and often) once again.

Our first group photo in nearly two-and-a-half months. Predictably, I look creepy and Jeff´s ADD has caused him to stare at something in the sky.

Apparently mutant iguanas like pineapple.

Jeff walking on water again in Puerto Viejo, on the Caribbean coast near Panama.

Now here we sit in Bocas del Toro, Panama, reading books (including my first experience with David Sedaris) and watching it pour rain. The plan is to leave tomorrow for Panama City (reportedly the most “cosmopolitan” of Central American capitals, whatever that means). I am going to try my hardest to make it north from there to San Blas, a string of sparsely populated Caribbean islands that are supposed to be the creme of the crop. But we´re having to deal with a “schedule” for the first time on our trip – Jeff flies south on Monday and I follow suit next Friday. Time will tell.

Goodbye Nicaragua, hello America.

Apologies for the lack of updates – life is so busy here in the surreal dream world that is our trip. Mostly we’ve been religiously watching the pundits on CNN and BBC World News argue in circles about whether Obama is God himself or only half-Kenyan and half-deity. I fully expect that by the time I get back he will have raised the economy from the dead, solved global warming and found world peace just by sheer will-power. Seriously though, I’ll just settle for another economic stimulus package while I consider whether I look better in a Subway or Quiznos uniform.

The day after the election, which Matt and I watched crowded around the television with people from all over the world, we took off for the Nicaraguan highlands – Esteli, Matagalpa and Jinotega. We needed to kill a little time before my parents arrived in Costa Rica. The highlands were beautiful on the way down from Honduras and we figured we could find some good coffee near the plethora of coffee farms in the area. On the way up we figured out the reason it was so green – it rains a lot there. We ruled out hikes in the nature reserves and tours of coffee farms for that reason. We did get plenty of views on the bus rides to and from, however, and had some memorable times in hotel rooms along the way. Though we’d loved what we’d seen of Nicaragua (if I had to pick a country to live down here, Nica would be it without a doubt), it has one thing in common with the rest of the continent – a tourist track. Sometimes it’s a relief to see white people, but other times you hardly feel like you’re in a third-world country. It’s a delicate balance – a few days of one extreme occasionally needs to be tempered by the other extreme. Thankfully, we were just about the only white people for miles in the highlands. Locals gave us the sorts of looks we hadn’t seen since rural Guatemala – the looks that make you wonder if you have a tail and antenea. They don’t see many white folks in these parts.

BBQ ladies cook on the street sides in Leon. Don’t know what took us so long, but street food is the way to go. A giant pile of rice, beans and chicken tacos for $1.50? Yes, please. Once your digestive system goes through a few ugly, uncomfortable weeks of adjustment, you’re safe to eat just about anything down here. The key is to only buy from people you can actually see cooking the food.

Matt says hi to a turtle wandering around the hostel.

Matt plays cat billiards.

***PICTURE REMOVED AT REQUEST OF THE PHOTOGRAPHED***
Jeff shows off his freakish metabolism by overdosing on cookies in Esteli.

Jeff shows his feelings on Caballito, which sells for about $1.80 a fifth. For that price we couldn’t afford not to drink it, while watching The Rock (featuring the talents of Nicholas Cage) in Jinotega.

Caballito wreaks havoc on Jeff, causing him to break out in hives. It also caused him to remark, “Let’s go out and start a fight,” in rural Nicaragua. Matt and I babysat.

***PICTURE REMOVED AT REQUEST OF THE PHOTOGRAPHED***
The end of the Caballito night.

“The Rooster More Rooster,” which inexplicably sells kitchen appliances.

The highlands out a bus window.

Jeff proudly shows off the 2/3 of a liter of urine he created in the back of a school bus.

We stayed in Granada again after heading south, since it was a good halfway point to Costa Rica. We arrived at the Bearded Monkey at about 4 p.m. that day to learn that because of the upcoming municipal elections in town, we could not purchase alcohol past 6 p.m. Nicaraguans have a nasty habit of rioting during election season and alcohol doesn’t help. The ban lasts from the night before, all of election day and into the day after. We made use of the two hours we had that night. The next day much of the town was shut down, making getting a bus out of town even more difficult. Cassie, the manager at the Bearded Monkey, entertained us by showing off the amazing colonial house she was renting from a Brit named Tavin. The fact that she paid as much a month as we paid for a tar paper shack in Bellingham made me feel like I’d been wasting my life. The next day I decided that a locally made guitar was going to be my single souvenir from this trip, so Cassie and I went to Masaya, a town known for its local handicrafts. I found the most beautiful six string I had ever seen, but couldn’t bring myself to pay the $400 for it, even though it probably would have been three times that in the states. My next choice for a souvenir, a hammock, was also out of the question because the market was still closed because of the election. Looks like it’s only Che Guevara shirts for me.

I want banana trees in my house.

Cassie and Matt lounge in hammocks.

A young girl, friends with the girl (yes, she insisted she was female) to the right, takes a picture of Matt, Cassie and I while playing with my camera while we sat in Parque Central.

Her self-portrait.

“Testiculos” are just what you think they are.

A local television station covered the riots happening in Managua due to the election. That’s a truck you see burning. Several people ended up being shot. Good call on not travelling.

Jeff and Matt had already headed south to Montezuma, on the south end of the Nicoya peninsula in Costa Rica. So I said goodbye to Nicaragua (hands down my favorite of the countries we’ve seen so far) and headed south to Playa del Coco, near where I would meet my parents the next day. As luck would have it I happened to run in to Ode (of Ode and Tina from Utila fame) in a coffee shop downtown. Like me, Tina’s parents were also staying in the area and so Ode and Tina were taking advantage of a “vacation from vacation.” Their parents place had a pool and about 80 pounds of fresh caught Mahi Mahi and Red-fin tuna. We caught up with each other’s stories from the last few weeks (turned out that Ode and Tina had been to all the same places that Matt, Jeff and I had, but in a different order.)

Ode and Tina, goofy as always, get in a food fight.

Now Matt, Jeff and I are staying with my parents. It’s nice to live like an American again after some of the places we’ve been staying in, though we’ll probably be high-tailing it south to Panama as soon as we’re done here. The tourism here has brought lots of money and political and economic stability to Costa Rica, but it also means everything is twice as expensive as we’re used to. For now, Jeff, Matt and I will enjoy feeling like we’re living like kings. From there, Jeff and I have a week and a half before we fly to South America. I wish I had the words to describe this trip thus far, but they really fall short. This blog just scratches the surface of the beauty of the places we’ve seen, the character of the people we’ve met and the joys of the times we’ve had. It’s been two months out of my life thus far, but it’s felt like a lifetime in all the best ways.

Bob Dylan, Halloween and a cockfight

I figured I´d fill you in on my eventful last few days while I sit and refresh the New York Times homepage waiting for election results to come in.

After playing soccer barefoot on the beach Thursday (Note to self: Just because the locals can do it doesn´t mean gringos can. My feet are torn up, still.), Matt and Ariel from Israel followed everyone´s suggestions and went out to a bar where they have an open mic night. I sat down and made friends with an outgoing young Swede named Jimmy (pronounced Yimmy) and his girlfriend. Jimmy is temporarily living in San Juan Del Sur, as his level of intoxication could attest. Jimmy, who also happened to know the owner, asked if I played – to which I said yes. Before I knew it I was handed a guitar and told to go up and play. Quickly racking my brain for which songs: A) I knew the words to, and B) At least some of the tipsy, half-Latin crowd might know, I came up with Bob Dylan´s “Just Like Tom Thumb´s Blues” and “I Shall Be Released,” as well as Radiohead´s “Karma Police.” A Canadian dude whose guitar I had borrowed in Ometepe was also in the crowd and came up and backed me up on harmonica and vocals, as well as a house bassist and some dude from El Salvador playing bongos. I don´t think I´d played in front of a crowd in three or four years, but it was every bit as fun as I remembered. I´m most impressed that I was able to remember four out of the six verses of Tom Thumb after three beers.

Drunken singalong.

The next night was Halloween. Although no one in Latin America actually celebrates Halloween, we lucked out in that we were in the whitest place in Nicaragua. For as beautiful as San Juan Del Sur was, it was a little like the Nicaraguan version of Cancun – full of gringos with their minds set on partying. In a country that is otherwise authentic and proud of it´s Latin American identity, San Juan sticks out in not the best way in my mind. But maybe that´s because I´m not a surfer. But as they say, “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.” And we did. Darren, an animated and hilarious travel-loving Canadian who looks and acts a little like a bulked up Stifler from the “American Pie” movies, went as his own Facebook profile. Considering how difficult it is to find a costume store in a country that doesn´t celebrate Halloween, this was impressive. Jeff briefly made a mask out of a pie tin and went as a robot ant, but otherwise the rest of us just went as gringos. One of the numerous highlights from the evening was seeing the delight in the eyes of a 17-year-old kid from the Seattle area in a bar. Another was being told by a Nicaraguan chick that I was so white she could “see my kidneys and liver.” The next day it was six or seven hours of bus ride to Leon, hangover be damned.

Local kids chilling on the beach, enjoying a mind-blowing sunset. This is a daily occurrence in San Juan.

Darren shows off his costume.

Jeff is a robot ant.

17-year-old has only seen girls dance on bars on MTV. Come to think of it, that´s the only place I´ve seen them do that as well.

Leon is swimming with history that I´m slowly starting to pick up. Back in the days of the civil war, it was the base for the Sandinistas and has always been at the center of left-leaning politics – the counterweight to the more right-wing Granada to the south. You can´t walk for a block without getting a sense of this. Wall murals depict Nicaragua´s history, from the Mayan roots to the Spanish conquest to the bloody revolutions. While walking around sightseeing I was approached by a sweet little old lady who offered to walk me around town and explain the significance of the art. My Spanish was only good enough to pick up bits and pieces, but it was extremely interesting, particularly being an American.

Augusto Sandino, champion for the peasants and farmers in the 1920s and 30s and the basis for the name “Sandinista,” stands on top of Uncle Sam. Another mural depicts him doing the same to Samoza, a family of U.S.-backed right-wingers that ruled the country until the revolution in 1979.

One of many beautiful olf churches in town.

Looking up at said church. It´s been in the 80s or 90s nearly our entire time here, but cools down enough at night to be pleasant.

A mural depicts the killing of four students by government militia in downtown Leon. Four crosses are painted on the road where it happened – you´d think they were the markings for parking spots if you didn´t know better. Think of it as a Latin American Kent State.

The CIA as a snake. Those are said to be America´s hands on top.

On the activity board in our hostel there was a sign that said “Rooster fights.” I´d heard of this before but wasn´t quite sure I was ready to witness it. The journalist in me won out and I had to go. Our guides, a Dutch couple who pride themselves in doing tours that get gringos connected with the bonafide local community, brought us to the seedy part of town and into Don Pedro´s cockfighting ring. This really is a popular hobby for quite a few locals down here – people train their chickens by making them run against rubber bands and fighting with “gloves” on. Our guides assured us that Nicaraguan cock fighting was “more humane” than cockfighting in Asia, where chickens are armed with two-inch blades. Here they are only fitted with tiny sharp points – the equivalent of a pin prick. As we sat drinking local rum (horrid stuff that goes for two dollars a bottle) and beer to get the real “local feel,” people began filing in with roosters in hand. Most sat in their owner´s hands like a domesticated cat. Matches go for 15 minutes and the winner is declared if one chicken puts their beak in the ground (a universal sign for giving up), if the losing chicken outright runs away from the winner or if the losing chicken dies. There is a referee who oversees the whole match. Owners will sometimes stop the match to do the equivalent of CPR on their animal – blowing down their throats to clear them of blood so they don´t choke. The guides said that the animals rarely die and often an owner will nurse a good fighting chicken back to health to fight again. Like Rocky or something. If an owner or a rooster does particular well on the local circuit, they can go to the national one, where it costs the equivalent of $15 dollars to watch and bets upwards of $1000 dollars are placed. The guides did their best to convince us that it really wasn´t that barbaric and I did my best to convince myself that I eat chicken all the time, so it really shouldn´t offend me to see one killed. Matt, Jeff and I got into an argument about what really separates this from dog fighting, bull fighting or some sort of Roman death match. I´m not a big fan of chickens and their tiny, useless brains, but I´ve also never had any desire to see them fight to the death. At the end of the day (only two fights, thankfully), I was certainly ready to go home. I have to say I´m glad I did it, as it felt like the first time all trip that we interacted with the locals on their playing field and outside of a safe “tourist” destination. But I can´t say it´s something I have the desire to ever witness again. If I didn´t love the taste of meat so much it´d be enough to make me go vegetarian.

My biggest question (someone forward this to PETA) is what Pepsi is doing sponsoring a cockfighting ring in rural Nicaragua.

One of our guides demonstrates how to hold a rooster.

Matt pets a rooster before rooting for its death.

The long prongs are mounted along the boot on their claws, the tiny bump you see on the underside of the “U” is the little pin prick.

Exactly what you´d expect from a cockfight – two animals beating each other to within an inch of their life and drunk people cheering them on.

Matt sits in the ring with the man in the leather hat – a big wig in the local cockfighting scene.

It was up early the next morning (3:45 a.m. – No, that´s not a typo) to head out on a two-day trek with Quetzaltrekkers – a non-profit that leads guided hikes and puts all their proceeds to programs that help local street kids. A chain of large, active volcanoes runs north from Leon. We got to climb three of them in two days and camp on the last one overnight. While our last trek had upwards of 10 people, it was just us three and two guides for this hike – a hippie named Ryan from Berkeley and Franz from Austria. The way was hot, which made the climbing strenuous, but the volcanoes themselves were amazing sights – the kinds of things that would be crawling with people in the states. But the only people we saw the entire time were local cattle ranchers bring their herds up to the fertile forests that surround the peaks.

A sea of black, volcanic sand greets you on the way to Cerro Negro, the newest of the volcanoes.

Jeff, with guides in tow, heads up the volcanoe.

Large boulders, thrown from the crater, sit in the black sand desert. Looked like something out of Star Wars.

Sulfur makes you cough while in the crater.

The face of a monkey comes out of the wall of the crater.

The view north, to another steaming volcano.

Jeff heads down the wall of the volcano. It´s probably 800 feet of pure sand to the bottom. This is where we could have surfed if we had come with another guide service. A couple years ago a dude broke the world record for fastest speed on a bike while heading down this slope of the mountain but then had to be hospitalized after the bike broke in half.

Matt, Jeff and a guide head down.

The ranger station had a rattlesnake in a tiny cage and provided you a stick with which you could poke the snake.

Beautiful butterflies wouldn´t leave you alone, kinda like mosquitos. This is my knee.

Butterfly and a beard that desperately needs to be trimmed.

The last volcano was called “El Hoyo,” Spanish for “The Hole.” This is why.

Looking down in the hole, which is believed to have been caused when lava created a bubble underneath and then receded, leaving the roof to collapse.

That´s Matt up above the hole.

The top of El Hoyo is littered with tiny vents that smoke and give off heat. This is how we warmed our water for the morning coffee.

The volcano also had a giant bat cave, which we explored for a bit. We went in as it was getting dark and just as the bats were preparing to flock out of the cave for the evening. I got as far in as I could but had to turn around when they started buzzing by my face. Of course none of the pictures turned out, but this was a creepy, creepy place, even as caves go.

Matt and Franz watching the sunrise from the top. Perhaps the best sunrise I´ve ever seen. Point and shoot don´t do it justice.

Descending down. The lake in the back is the laguna where we stopped to swim and eat lunch.

A scorpion.

I can´t take this anymore.  This election need to be over.