January 20-February 13, 2007
January 20 - Panama City
The alarm buzzed at 4:45 A.M. We jumped out of bed, scurried about the house completing it’s shut down and then I pulled the car out of the garage, where our neighbor, Dennis, was waiting to take us to the airport.
I must admit that I wonder why Delta Airlines is in such trouble. Every airplane we rode on was filled to capacity and from what I could tell, it seems to be an excellent airline. Considering that we spent 16 long hours in transit to Panama, I feel that I’m somewhat of an expert on the topic. Even though it was a long, hard ride, it could have been much worse.
We checked into the Costa Inn on less than scenic Avenita Peru that night. The first thing I noticed was an overwhelming odor emanating from the bathroom, where their choice for an air freshener bar smelled like a mixture of Lysol and mothballs. The mucus membrane of my nose burned like I had been snorting Listerene. The next thing I noticed was that a light bulb was burned out in the bathroom, making a dark, claustrophobic room seem ever smaller and darker. “Try shaving in there, where you can barely make out your nose,” I thought to myself. I wasn’t the only one wondering about the quality of the Costa Inn. Kim immediately sat up at attention when we laid down on the bed for some much needed, much deserved rest. The loud squeaking howl of the fragile, but attractive wood frame of the bed could have been used as an air raid siren. There was to be no rolling over, no fidgeting with your legs on this bed. Any movement, any repositioning, was enough to not only wake you up, but make the neighboring room’s miserable. On the other hand, Costa Inn came out to pick us up at the airport, saving a $25 taxi fee, and they included breakfast in the $36 a night charge.
January 21 - Panama City
We woke up in a drug induced, Excedrin P.M. haze, took a quick shower and went downstairs for our free breakfast. It was fun to get out our dismal Spanish skills and dust them off for use again. You could tell our waitress enjoyed our attempt to order eggs and ham, with a hot cup of black coffee. She smiled anyway.
Kim and I then took a taxi to the city rain forest park. As we began our walk under the canopy of the rain forest, we realized for the first time that it was 90 degrees and about 90 percent humidity. Sweat poured from our frozen Utah pores, dripping down nearly every square inch of our bodies. We chugged up a moderately steep hill, periodically stopping to inspect the gigantic trees and lush tropical undergrowth. Eventually the trail wound its way to a small knoll, where we found a nice view of the canal zone and sky line of the city.
Our next destination was the Miraflores Locks of the Panama Canal. We first went through a small museum celebrating the building of the canal and then watched a short film over it’s construction. I found it interesting that little was said about the American involvement in the process. Sure, we were mentioned in passing, but much more was made of the French efforts and today’s administration by the Panamanian government. Obviously, the years of American hegemony in Panama is not remembered fondly. It appears that they would prefer to wipe it away like bad nightmare and move on to the future.
Watching the boats move through the locks was about as exciting as watching paint dry. For the life of me, I’ll never understand why so many people pay huge amounts of money to take a cruise through the canal. What’s exciting about being on a big boat being drug through a small slot at a slow speed? I don’t get it.
Kim and I finished the day by taxiing to a typical Panamanian restaurant, El Trapiche, where I ordered the meat plate and Kim had a sea food casserole. Mine was a wonderful collection of spicy, tender chunks of stewed chicken, beef and pork surrounded by empanadas, fried banana and rice. Kim’s casserole was actually a rich sea food stew in a spicy gravy. It was a wonderful thing to do for our taste buds and the best thing about the experience, it only cost us $33 with tip.
January 22 - Panama City
We loaded up in another taxi for a crazy ride across town to Casco Viejo, the old town. The Panama City taxi cab driver is not like any other motorists that I’ve ever seen. First of all, he does not really stop at stop signs. He merely slows down his ancient Japanese vintage bucket of bolts and then edges his way out into the oncoming traffic, which even though it has the right of way, begrudgingly slows down to let the taxi sneak across the intersection. This, of course, is always done with a bit of horn honking. Like using Morse Code, one honk seems to tell the world I’m coming, get out of my way. Two honks is I’m coming faster than Hell, get the Hell out of my way. Three honks, God save us. They are also highly skilled at maneuvering at high speeds through spots too thin for a bulimic pencil, much less a sedan, and most amazingly, can cut across three lanes of traffic without even looking. They truly are magicians of the motor car.
When we finally made our way to our destination, a flower covered walkway at the end of a small peninsula, we happily crawled from the taxi with a feeling of relief that our carnival ride was over. Kim immediately spotted our first tourist trap, a Panama hat dealer. For only $10, she had one on her head within seconds, looking cuter than Miss Panama, 2006. We then began a long, meandering walk through the old city’s tourist district, eyeing old cathedrals, colorful city squares and partially restored government buildings. The crescendo of this experience was stumbling upon the Panamanian White House palace, a humble building by American standards, where the most interesting aspect was that large herons marched freely about the building in step with the guards.
Perhaps the most interesting aspect of visiting Casco Viejo was that it was only a few very small blocks from absolute economic desolation. On one block you had the Presidential palace and the beautiful national theater, and on an adjacent block you found an impoverished slum, where very scary looking men sat idly on the tenement’s stoops waiting for stupid, skinny American tourists wearing Wyoming baseball hats to wander by. Needless to say, we carefully monitored our whereabouts.
After a two days in the country, I wasn’t really impressed with our choice of Panama as Kim’s 50th birthday celebration. The city was oppressingly hot and muggy. It felt unsafe. It was dirty. However, relief came with our next stop on the tourist circuit. Our taxi wound it’s way through an unbelievable slum of concrete projects that made Casco Viejo look like Beverly Hills, and then sped down a long, narrow spit of land known to the locals as the Causeway. Apparently the Americans needed somewhere to dump the tons and tons of dirt and rock they removed in building the canal, so they elected to build a narrow road out to two islands overlooking the harbor. The Lonely Planet explains that these islands once held some of the most powerful, long range artillery in the history of the world.
We started our Causeway experience by having a leisurely lunch at a beautiful restaurant overlooking a group of sailboats moored off of the islands. Then we started a pleasant walk back towards the city. All was perfect. We had a light cloud cover, a slight wind cooled us and the scenery was magnificent (ships making their way to the canal, the bridge of the Americas, fishermen working the ocean, etc.). After walking for more than an hour we found ourselves at the end of the trail, and not wanting to accidentally wander into the slum we had come through on our way to the Causeway, we elected to taxi back to our hotel.
It had been years since we delved into the life of high priced dining. Kim suggested that we go to Limoncello, a wonderful dining experience. I had a huge watercress, beet and blue cheese salad, a giant pork chop cooked in a rich tomato, sage cream sauce served with olive gnocchi. Divine! Kim’s meal entailed a large piece of grouper wrapped in rice paper with asparagus in a tamarind vinaigrette. We enjoyed a lemon tort and great Panamanian coffee afterwards.
Possibly the best aspect of the meal was the service. Since we were there before they opened at 8:00 P.M., we were the only ones in the restaurant. Our waiter, a Panamanian of African descent, spoke the King’s English. He told us about the good old days of the military dictatorship. The poor ate well and everyone was afforded a place to live. He stated that life wasn’t rich, but everyone had a descent standard of living. Since the American invasion and the coming of democracy, the rich have taken back all of the power and wealth of the nation. Even though he works in a high class restaurant, he only earns $1.30 an hour, Panama’s minimum wage. He used to work on the American military base administrating the canal, where he made $6.57 an hour in 1980. He feels that Panama was much better off in the days of Noriega. He stated that of the three million people in Panama today, 2.5 million are dirt poor. So much for the virtues of democracy in Latin America.
January 23 - Boquete
It was over nine very long, very tedious hours in a bus from Panama City to Boquete. A movie played with Spanish subtitles on the bus television and the steady beat of nonstop Latin music boomed through our sit. Nevertheless, I had two naps of about 45 minutes a piece. Kim tells me I didn’t snore. The scenery wasn’t spectacular until we came to Chiriqui Province, when we were met by lush, rolling hills intersected by a couple of large, fast flowing rivers. Big swaths of verdant pasture land had been cut out of the rain forest canopy. Small herds of Brahma cattle stood grazing on the hillsides.
We got into Boquete late and had no reservation. We found our way to Hostel Boquete, where the American owner, Rick, gave us a room with a view for only $18 a night. We quickly exited to eat, as we hadn’t had anything of substance since breakfast, which seemed like another lifetime. By this time nearly everything was shut down in the village, but taking direction from a friendly resident we found ourselves in a local Panamanian buffet, El Sabroson. Our simple, but tasty meals cost us a combined $4.50, which was quite a contrast to the Limoncello, where our dining experience had run somewhere north of $75.
January 24 - Boquete
After serving Kim a Panamanian latte and cinnamon rolls from the local bakery, we strolled up to “Mi Jardin es Su Jardin,” a fantastic flower garden cultivated by two property owners on the road up the mountainside. The colors were electric. We were surrounded by a collection of brilliant orange, red, yellow, and purple flowers contrasting against a rolling green carpet of vegetation. A deep blue sky and the heavily vegetated peaks of distant mountains added a National Geographic like background for this portrait.
No sooner had we gotten back to the Hostel, we started visiting with our friendly neighbors in the room next to ours, Tim and Wendy, from Vancouver, B.C. They invited us to accompany them to a local hot springs, and we spontaneously agreed. The tour started with our young guides taking us to see some ancient petroglyphs and then we drove down the road in our open air Landcruiser to the springs. The springs themselves, which were nothing more than three small pools which had been dammed up by the locals, were nothing special, but the tour was well worth the money. Just getting out into the countryside and visiting with our guides was enjoyable. Upon leaving the Rio Caldera, where we had been swimming, we found a large Black Boa Constrictor crawling up in the trees by our truck. I found that I can still jump!
January 25 - Boquete
We hiked 6.5 KM up a very steep, rocky road on the slopes of Volcan Baru. The area was gorgeous. It was a story of lush tropical vegetation mixed with coffee bushes and a smattering of brilliantly colored flowers. On our way up the road we ran into a little Indian boy and his three sisters. They looked so helpless and desperately poor that it weighed on my heart. Thankfully I had some hard candy in my pack, so I did what I could to insure that they would be toothless by age 30. The hike itself wasn’t spectacular, but it did afford a few nice vistas of the Boquete Valley. We enjoyed our new Canadian friend, Wendy, on the lengthy trudge. Overall, it was a very pleasant day and a great workout.
We ate my birthday dinner at Peruvian Seafood, which was quite a move up from the $2.50 buffet of the previous night. Even though our bill was a whopping $41.00, it was worth every penny. My dinner was a bacon wrapped fillet on a bed of mashed potatoes surrounded by giant prawns. Wonderful! Kim had a seafood casserole covered with a cheese sauce. She wasn’t as excited about her meal.
January 26 - Boquete
Today was a kickback day after the big hike. The big event of the day was meeting Cecil and Rena Dodd, an elderly couple from Oregon. We were hanging out by the supermarket when I struck up a conversation with Cecil. We indicated we were interested in the life of an ex-pat and before we knew it, we were sitting in the their living room drinking coffee and eating brownies.
Their condo, which is about 1500 square feet, was beautifully built in the colonial Spanish style, with large, airy rooms and gorgeous views onto a golf course. Since they had lived in a doublewide in the states, for a $160,000 it was an obvious move up.
Cecil took us on a tour of their gated community, Villa Escondito. The grounds were well manicured and a plethora of flowers glowed against the vibrant green background.
If you were rich, which they were not, you could join the country club for an additional $6000 and an additional sum each year. It included a fabulous club house, exercise facility, amazing indoor pool, a small outdoor amphitheater and an upscale restaurant.
Kim and I talked about them relocating to Boquete. I seemed kind of sad in a way, in that they had moved because they hated the American government and felt it was “evil and corrupt.” They were excited the day we had visited, because they had received their conspiracy theory newspaper from the states telling the terrible truths about the sins of America. I’m no fan of the Bush administration, and am embarrassed by some of our more recent foreign policy decisions, but I love my country. I could never pack up and move away like they did, cutting all ties to family and friends. And, I might add, I think that they’ll find the “evil” in Panama’s government to be every bit as pervasive as it is in the United States. And considering the fact that they are not even citizens in Panama, they are powerless to complain.
January 27 - Cerro Punta
Our five hour, nine dollar, bus ride from Boquete to Cerro Punta went flawlessly. The buses are generally jam packed and stop nearly every kilometer at times, but it’s still a tolerable way to see the country and have a feel for its flavor.
Boquete is on the “hip” list of places to be in Panama, but in my opinion, it’s a poor second place to the Vulcan, Cerro Punta and Guadeloupe areas. From ten miles before Vulcan, the terrain turns into a post card setting of steep, fluorescent green hills, which have been carved into rich fields of vegetables or left as pasture land.
Kim and I walked three miles from our hotel in Cerro Punta to Guadeloupe, a charming little Indian village filled with flowers, which are sold commercially throughout Panama. Along the way we walked past large pastures full of race horses, which are owned by the Swiss and Yugoslavian settlers of the region. With the volcano and other peaks in the background, the cool temperatures and large barns, you felt like you were in walking in the Alps, not Central America.
We had dinner that night at the Cerro Punta Hotel. When we first went into the dining room, it was vacant as a ghost town. After about five minutes of waiting, which we wondered about, an older senora appeared to get our order. She was so patient, so friendly in helping us decide what to eat. Kim had a nice piece of ham in a pineapple sauce, while I had heaven in the form of a bacon wrapped fillet covered with a relish of garlic and parsley. Best meal in Panama and only $21 for both of us. It is obvious proof that Jesus does live!
January 28 - Cerro Punta
All the years of listening to loud rock and roll has taken its toll on me. Sometimes, as much as I hate to admit to it, it’s a blessing. All Saturday night long Kim laid in our bed, furiously listening to drunken Indians howling, screaming, crying, fighting and playing loud music. Thankfully, due to my poor hearing, I slept soundly all night long, waking refreshed and ready to attack the day. For poor Kim, well.....
After a delicious breakfast of strawberry pancakes and bacon, we took a taxi to Parque International La Amistad. It was our first true rain forest hike in Panama. The trail was surrounded by moss covered trees, dense green vegetation and many of the same plants which we keep domestically, but these babies were an easy 20’ high. There was a brilliant blue sky in the valley, but within minutes of starting our hike and gaining minimal elevation, we were walking through the light mist of the cloud forest. The area is supposedly renowned for bird watching, but we only saw two varieties all day, and they weren’t overly impressive. We slipped and slid up and down the steep, muddy track to a waterfall, and then took a meandering course through the jungle while paralleling a small creek.
The ride home was shared with two French men, who told us that their last adventure was driving their sedan from Paris to Bombay. That, obviously, would be an adventure of a lifetime.
January 29 - Boca Brava
When we woke up from a pleasant night’s slumber at the Hotel Cerro Punta, we thought, “We’re going to hike the Sendero los Quetzales, the best hike in all of Panama.” However, the cloud cover was already hovering an inch over the village, and if we were to go up into the mountains to do the hike, it would have been a long day of walking in fog, mist and wind.
Therefore, plan B, the coast. We took an uneventful bus trip to David, where for a thirty cent tip we were immediately ushered to the next bus for the Horconcitios turnoff. All was wonderful, blissful even, until the bus driver insisted on waiting until he had packed every last centimeter of his bus with human flesh. It wouldn’t have so bad if it wasn’t 90 degrees and 90% humidity, and the bus’s air conditioner had all of the potency of a 90 year old man listlessly waving a hand fan.
Nevertheless, we finally made it to the junction, where we were immediately scooped up by a taxi for a 13 KM ride over a pot holed, boulder field to the beach.
We waited and waited for a water taxi. It was hot, it was humid and we were miserable. To magnify our misery, Brian, an overly friendly, 19 year old American, wouldn’t give us a moments peace. He talked and talked to us, letting us know more than we wanted to know about Boca Brava, Panama and life in general. Finally, in a fit of desperation, I beckoned to two small boys who were attempting to start a boat. They agreed to run us across the narrow channel to Isla Boca Brava. The boys couldn’t even figure out how to release the motor lock on the outboard, much less start one. After the older boy got a boat running, he coasted it into the concrete boat launch and his partner threw the heavy, tri-hook steel anchor up above the boat onto the platform of the launch. We loaded our bags and got into his old fiberglass boat. The older boy, who had forgotten the huge anchor, threw the motor into reverse and quickly backed away the boat. “Crash,” the anchor banged off the side and floor boards of the boat. Looking for a stream of water pouring into the boat, I was shocked to see that it hadn’t punched a hole into our craft. I was slightly nervous with my captain, but I didn’t want to spend another moment at Boca Chica listening to Brian, waiting for another ride. My fear was groundless. Not only did he safely make it out of the harbor, but like he was Joseph Hazelwood on Scotch, he powered the heavy craft up on step and in moments we were across the water at the resort’s dock.
We ascended what seemed like a million steps from the dock to the resort, which was several cabins built around the main complex, a tastefully done, open air bar/restaurant. Out of breath, dehydrated, and miserable, we met Frank, the German owner, and got the keys to our $30 room.
I could tell Kim was in ill humor, but with a little urging, she belatedly agreed to walk with me to the beach. A few minutes down the trail we encountered a small group of very active Howler monkeys. We watched them jump from limb to limb, and then from tree to tree. I ran around below them, attempting to get the perfect National Geographic photo. Eventually, when one threatened me with a stream of urine, we continued on our walk to the beach, where we met a delightful couple from Oregon. The water refreshed our travel weary souls and we were soon smiling and laughing again. It seemed such a magical moment. The sun was going down, the water was perfect for swimming and above us on the shore line, another group of howlers frolicked in the trees.
That night we enjoyed a delicious red snapper dinner and the company of our new Oregon friends. However, Brian, the bluegrass playing power talker that we had met at Boca Chica, talked and talked and talked, monopolizing all conversation. It was easy to see his real intent, securing our agreement to go on a $100 overnight cruise on his family’s sailboat. I could handle him, but within minutes Kim was strung as tight as a fifty dollar guitar from his continual blather.
January 30 - Boca Brava
We awoke early and had omelets for breakfast prior to taking our snorkeling cruise to another island. Elvis, our captain, maneuvered his heavy fiberglass boat with an old Suzuki 30 to our destination slowly. It was a magnificent, tranquil morning and you could see the cone shape of Volcan Baru in the distance. Finally, about 30 minutes into our journey, we landed at a white sand beach surrounded by coconut trees. The brilliantly clear, turquoise water made it a travel channel destination.
The snorkeling itself was marginal. We did see many tiny parrot fish and later in the day I spotted two schools of barracuda and a stingray. The best part of the day, however, was hanging out with Carlos, a Spaniard, and Micheal, a French boxing trainer. The were friendly and interesting.
The end result of the day was that I returned to port burned to a crisp. Kim couldn’t help herself. I spent much the night listening to an endless litany of chastisement, “I told you so, David. I told you to wear a t-shirt. You’re so dumb you won’t listen.”
January 31 - Boca Brava
It was the definition of the word, “listless.” We lazed about our room and the beach all day long, swimming for about an hour and then taking a short hike in search of monkeys.
I must admit that we are both monkey affectionados. It’s fun to watch them scamper along the limbs, swing wildly from branch to branch, and most impressively, take nose dives of twenty feet to crash into a lower set of branches, catching themselves with their arms, legs and, of course, their tails.
Unfortunately, we had to spend much of the day dodging Brad, an ultra-boring American graduate of Oral Roberts University. Five minutes of Brad felt like five hours of mind numbing gospel television. Even the insects were lulled to sleep.
February 1 - Boca Brava
Today was probably the most relaxing day of the vacation. It was quite a contrast to the way the day started.
Victor, the resort’s 16 hour a day bartender/waiter, banged on our door at 8:00 A.M. asking if we wanted to go on another snorkeling expedition. We had mulled over this issue the night before, counting and recounting our money, always finding that we really didn’t have enough to do the trip and eat. Nevertheless, Kim bound out of bed with an evil glee in her eye. She wanted to go, no, she had to go. We would change rooms, moving from our $48 a day air conditioned, balcony overlooking the ocean palace, to a $22 a night backpacker slum. Decision made, we set out at a panicked pace to move our possessions to room 3, Boca Brava’s version of Motel 6.
Proud of our five minutes of frenzy, we reappeared at the restaurant to find that the trip had been canceled. Broken outboard!
The rest of the day was so relaxing it felt like a new, never before realized level of placidity. Sure we swam for hours on end at our little private, coconut tree studded beach, but even the swimming seemed magical and therapeutic. It was a very, very special day. No doubt about it.
The evening was the antithesis of the day. We spent it in a raucous bout of drinking with Dan, a fellow Alaskan, Chris, a wild woman bartender from Cape Cod, and Ben, a friendly Albertan. Even though we were tired, slumber would not come easily, as the pounding base of the party across the channel at Boca Chica kept us awake well into the night.
February 2 - Santa Fe
It was another eight hour bus marathon. It started with a taxi ride out to the main road, and then we got on the slow bus through life. No kidding, our elderly bus driver cruised his Toyota bus at a thirty mile an hour pace down the Pan-American Highway. If it wasn’t so dangerous, most buses run this stretch of road at a good seventy, it would have been funny. Perhaps the highlight was when kind hearted, elderly driver stopped the bus to buy all of the gringos an iced coconut drink. The low point, without a doubt, was the last segment, the ride up into the mountains from Santiago to Santa Fe. At one point we had approximately 60 people jammed into and hanging out the door of our moderately sized, Japanese bus. Kim and I, who had a seat in the back, marveled at people’s ability to mash their bodies tighter and tighter, never complaining verbally or with body language. It was so un-American.
The bus drivers always seemed to know where the gringos were going. As usual, he stopped the bus and pointed up the road to a sign that said, “Hostel Qhia.” We strapped on our backpacks and tramped up the hill to find a very rustic, very cool bamboo stick lodge owned by Belgian hippies. It was so filled with character. The first thing you noticed when you walked in was that you could see through the walls, since the split bamboo logs didn’t fit tightly together. Apparently, using some kind of caulking would have been madness. It would have kept out the cooling summer winds. The windows didn’t have glass, much less any kind of screen, but had simple shutters that could be propped open to admit light. In view of the obvious fact that we could be potential targets for insects at night, we slept under a mosquito net. An array of antique furniture and a pleasant porch, equipped with hammocks, overlooking the garden made Hostel Qhia seem magical.
February 3 - Santa Fe
It wasn’t magical. It was a very long night. Since it’s dark at 7:00 P.M., one needs to have light to play cards or read. However, Hostel Qhia had two lame 25 watt bulbs for our room. You could barely see your book, much less read from it. Thankfully, I had my portable reading light, so I was able to entertain myself for quite some time. Kim decided that she would try to sleep, even though the mattress was so soft that you sunk an easy 6-8” every time you rolled over.
The long night of madness started with an endless temper tantrum by the owner’s four year old son at about 9:00 P.M. After a protracted bout of screaming and crying, the young parents finally removed him from the downstairs. We sighed deep relief and soon we were slipping off into the first stages of slumber.
The next jarring wake up call came with a group of out of tune, somewhat drunken Flamenco singers from the property next door. Just when they were starting to end their renditions of Spanish favorites, the long haired, body pierced male owner of the house turned on his European football game. The frenzied voice of the announcer excitedly relayed the play by play in high volume Spanish to Kim and I, who were now laying on our backs, eyes wide open, hate heavy in our hearts.
Hard, desperately needed sleep was achieved at about 11:00 P.M., but a full hour before dawn we were awakened to a resounding crescendo of a thousand competing roosters. To add insult to injury, Fluffy, the owner’s kitten, had somehow broken into our room and burrowed his way under our mosquito net. He was laying at my feet meowing, hoping that I would again start to scratch around his ears. I truly felt that I had fully embraced the rural Panamanian way of life. No doubt about it.
Our luck had no where to go but up and it did improve in a big way. We spent a wonderful day horseback riding up into the rain forest. Fidel, our cowboy guide, led us up an incredibly steep, amazingly muddy road past vacation retreats, humble Indian dwellings and a dilapidated series of buildings that served as a school. After two hours on the horses, we embarked down a trail through a lush, lichen covered forest to a series of three small waterfalls. The vibrant flowers coupled with the absolute tranquility made this rain forest hike, horse ride a perfect day. And get this, five hours for the both of us only cost $37 with tip.
February 4 - Santa Fe
Kim and I set out to get a bit of exercise, since our Panama experience hadn’t exactly been conducive to keeping fit. Stephanie, the hostel host, drew us a never fail map of the area, which was supposed to ultimately lead us to an amazing rain forest waterfall, which we never did find.
Seconds after crossing the village bridge, we started to ascend a very steep, very long hill. Kim immediately knew our proposed hike was a mistake. We should have gone on the horses again. Even with a stiff breeze blowing over the mountains from the Caribbean, the 95 degree and 98% humidity were almost overwhelming. Sweat dripped off Kim like a leaky faucet.
Nevertheless, we continued on our march, finding the road ultimately leveling out and with it, our moods improving. In retrospect, our personal Bataan Death March proved to be very enjoyable in the end. We were treated to gorgeous views of the mountain valley and enjoyed inspecting the simple grass roofed homes dotting the countryside. However, the best aspect of the experience was meeting numerous friendly villagers on the trail. Nearly every one of them had a smile and a kind word for us. We stopped twice to chat with children, pleasing them to no end with the wonders of digital photography.
Late in the day we returned to pick up our laundry. This was no upscale Laundromat, but a simple run down, cinderblock home where the Senora dried our clothes on the top three strands of the barb wire fence of the estate next door. Amazingly, all of our clothes were intact and clean as a whistle. When we were paying her $3.00 for our two mammoth bags of clothing, her three year old son shyly came out of the house to show us his hand made toy guitar. When he started to strum his instrument, Kim and I quickly jumped into a jitterbug, causing him to wildly erupt in laughter. It was a priceless experience.
February 5 - Pedasi
It was another long, uncomfortable day in a bus. Considering that we switched buses four times, our longest wait for our next connection was a whopping eight minutes. As has always been the case, we were helped by so many kind non-English speakers, who went out of their way to make it easy for us to find our next ride. One man made a special point to walk down the street with us in Las Tablas so that we would know exactly where to stand for the Pedasi bus. Others grabbed our bags and positioned them so we would be the first ones on the next bus to pull into the stop. After being the recipient of such kindness, it really makes you wonder about yourself and how you interact with others. It makes you want to be a better person towards your fellow man.
Pedasi seemed like going back in time to some old world Spanish village on the Mediterranean. It was a slow paced, basic little beach town. There were no flashy art galleries, no upscale restaurants or coffee shops. Our hotel was very old, and even with the cold water showers and threadbare towels, I found it refreshing. It was not targeting the foreign tourists with either its Western standards or “Lonely Planet” quaintness. It was basic, clean and felt like Panama.
Since it was hot in Pedasi, nearly everyone had their door open and was sitting out on the porch at night. Air conditioning seemed a foreign concept here, another world far, far away from this 1950’s version of Panama. When we were walking down the street, almost everyone greeted us and attempted to help us find Kim’s Lonely Planet restaurant pick of the night, a long closed down French bistro that the locals had never heard of.
February 6 - Resort La Playa
What a difference a day makes! Yesterday I was idealistically touting the placid environs of the everyday Panamanian beach town. Today, Kim and I are living the high life, staying at a gorgeous beach resort owned by a Panamian-American jockey. Resort La Playa has a gorgeous setting, located on a small cove with two small volcanic islands in front of the resort to break the surf.
The real bonus of this place is the amazing detail put into the facility. Everything, from the exotic stone masonry on the building’s walls to the high quality art and furniture in each room, was well thought out and exuded character. Lester, the owner, had strategically placed large metal sculpture around the grounds. A praying mantis, two Spanish conquistadors and other metal art made it more of an exclusive gallery than a hotel/resort.
The owner was also a bird lover, so the grounds were full of free ranging toucans, parrots, parakeets, turkeys, emus and peacocks. We also were entertained by Lally, the resort’s pet monkey, who was seriously injured by a fellow adult male Howler. Kim, laying on a hammock on the beach, was almost beside herself when a resort worker placed Lally on her lap.
We finished the day with a nice swim in the cove and an excellent fish dinner with a Canadian and British couple. Unfortunately, I reverted to my old habit of talking politics, which is always a downer in today’s world. The other couples kindly tolerated my poor choice in table talk.
February 7 - Playa Venao
The day started with a very sorry excuse for a breakfast, which entailed a chopped up hot dog cooked with a couple of eggs omelet style. Once finished with our fine dining, we packed up our bags and set off down a well trodden trail to our new home, Villa Marina.
The new destination was a another upscale selection, this one located on a two mile long, curving beach called Playa Venao.
After taking a leisurely walk to the end of the beach, we returned to have a light lunch. We both ordered soup and eagerly took a seat out on the porch overlooking the ocean to await our food. Shortly after we were seated we heard a group of men entering the dining room for their lunch. We had watched one of them fly into the resort on a personal helicopter, so we knew that they were an affluent crowd.
Twenty minutes, forty minutes and then an hour went by and we didn’t see our waiter, much less get any food. My stomach began to growl. My mood blackened. I began to complain to Kim, speaking spitefully of second class treatment. The nightmare of our less than egalitarian lives while working in Bolivia began to haunt me. Resentment festered.
Kim, with a laser sharp tongue, put me in my place, telling me that Americans also kiss ass to the wealthy, and that you couldn’t blame the Villa Marina staff for taking care of their jobs at our expense. After all, we would probably never be there again, while the monied locals were sure to return.
When Randy, our friendly waiter, brought our soup, I was in a less than polite state of mind. He indicated that his staff had been consumed with serving the seven wealthy co-owners of the hotel, who had flown in for a meeting and to inspect their new construction. He apologized in his limited English for blowing us off, explaining that until dessert was served, the last cigar was lit and a final toast was raised, he couldn’t really take care of us. I didn’t like it, but I got over it. However, having a little soup in my stomach definitely helped.
The tide started to come in in the late afternoon, so I borrowed a boogie board from the resort staff and hit the beach for some fun. Amazingly, I was the only person over 30 on the beach. Does that say something about me?
The day ended well with a delicious private dinner served on the resort porch, watching sky turn brilliant reds, oranges and purples as the sun went down over the ocean. We had shrimp a barbecue sauce, fried yucca and veggies. The combination of wine, the brilliant sky, and a fine meal made it one of the most romantic evenings we had had in years.
February 8 - Playa Venao
It was all about cruising, a self inflicted state of loneliness that is nearly lethal to those who encounter recipients of the disease.
We had enjoyed a leisurely breakfast and made the mistake of stopping to visit with Irwin, the Austrian owner of a large sailboat moored in the bay in front of our hotel, on our way back to our room. We quickly found out that once you turned Irwin on, it was very, very difficult to find the “off” button. For well over two hours we listened to him expound about working as an engineer in Kazakhstan and Libya, his sail boat and the war in Iraq.
We finally made our escape two hours later to walk to the end of the beach, after which we elected for lunch. Kim and I were tired of being continually hungry and decided a hearty lunch was in order. When we sat down at the table, we were joined by our new cruiser friends. This time conversation was more civilized, as Jenny, Irwin’s deck hand, balanced the discussion around the table, actually asking us about our travels and our lives.
Kim and I excused ourselves from the table for another try at boogie boarding. It turned out to be two action packed hours of explosive foam riding. I would wait until a large wave was breaking and then spring into action, wildly paddling and kicking to catch the ultimate ride into the beach. If you caught the wave just right, it was like being catsup blasted out of a squeeze bottle.
That night we had the ill fortune to meet two American cruisers, Billy and Sandy, who had been on their boat for over 500 days. They made Irwin look like a minor leaguer. We were reluctantly engaged by an electrically charged, high volume, frenzied blast of verbiage that was absolutely head turning. And to make things even more interesting, they were more than half in the bag. It has to be a very lonely life on the high seas, because these people were desperate for someone to talk at, not to, but at. All you were required to do was shake your head from time to time, or make a slight movement with your eyes. They would both keep talking, one attempting to talk over the other, with neither of the stopping for air. Wow! It was something. I hope I never to encounter another cruiser again. It’s just too overwhelming.
February 9 - El Valle
We started the day with our staple at Villa Marina, an extremely enjoyable breakfast on the porch overlooking the ocean. It was then off to walk our four mile loop on the beach before packing up and leaving.
Everything went like clockwork until it was time to leave. We called for a taxi at 11:00 A.M. When no one showed, another was beckoned at 11:45. Finally, just when patience was running very thin and I was threatening to hitch hike, a taxi arrived at 12:45.
The rest of the day went as expected; perfect bus connections, the typically over crowded buses where we were forced to stand in the aisle at one point, and then getting into El Valle in the dark, no reservations and without a clue about the layout of the town.
The minute we were let off our bus, our Province Town pal, Chris, beckoned us from the hotel balcony. She invited us to dinner with her and her male friend, Kurt, at a traditional Panamanian restaurant. The food was excellent, but the television had been turned up to full volume to drown out our American banter. Apparently, watching Latin soap operas while eating your nightly meal is a priority in Panama. Everyone in the restaurant, except us, was glued to the screen. Conversation during a quiet meal is considered boring. One needs high volume television to digest those calories.
February 10 - El Valle
Even though we still had three days before our Delta airlines departure, Kim and I were already mentally “bon voyage.” As much as we tried and tried, we both found it difficult to get excited about anything.
We started the day going through the craft galleries located by our hotel. Not satisfied that we had inspected everything to be inspected, we then ambled down to the community market, where venders were selling everything from fruit and vegetables to baskets and wood carvings. When all was said and done, we opted to buy a brilliantly colored oil painting that is a reproduction of a traditional Indian mola.
That afternoon we walked around El Valle, which is a very picturesque mountain village. We found it to be a mixture of traditional Indian peoples who live there permanently and wealthy Panamanians from the city who arrive nearly every weekend throughout the year. We saw some absolutely stunning country estates that were obviously locked up Monday through Friday, when the upper class spent their time in the hot, steamy city working. Our wandering finally brought us to a German restaurant for lunch. It wasn’t the best meal I’d had in Panama, but it was exciting eating another kind of ethnic food.
The evening was spent sharing information with Richard and Helen, a friendly couple from Kentucky who were just beginning their Panama experience.
February 11 - El Valle
Since the day before had been spent listlessly mulling about waiting for the plane on Tuesday, we decided we needed to do something to fill out the day. Horseback riding was selected as our activity.
Our guide on the big ride, Obeidi, showed up at our hotel a half hour early. A thin, cute girl of 19, she didn’t speak a word of English, and struggled to understand our miserable attempts at Spanish. It took a good five minutes to get across the fact that she in fact was Obeidi and our horses were Saffito and Mickey.
The ride wound through downtown El Valle and out through back roads to the mountains, where we picked up a well used trail surrounded by carved out, flooded fields of water cress, brilliant masses of red, pink and purple Impatience and your typical collection of dense moos covered, jungle vegetation. The higher we rode up the zigzagging path the thicker the rain forest fog enveloped us. Wisps of cloud blew by us, making the setting seem aerie and chilling; however, in my simple wicker t-shirt, I couldn’t have been more comfortable.
Obeidi led us through several gates separating pasture after pasture. Finally, we arrived at a gate that had been locked, and apparently her key would not work, so she turned us around and worked our way down the steep, slick trail we had ascended.
I thought our trip was over. We were headed back to our hotel. “Derecha,” she suddenly called out from behind us, telling us to turn up another trail. An older man, wearing a traditional Panamanian cowboy hat, sat on his horse by the trail head. As we rode by him, he shouted out, “Peligro, mucho, mucho peligro! Mas Malo! Malo!” He motioned that the ride was going to be a swaying, up and down carnival ride, and that it was going to be perilous. Obeidi didn’t even acknowledge him. She stoically rode in back of us, looking like a bored teenager who would rather be shopping at the mall.
The old man did not disappoint. This trail didn’t zigzag, but went straight up. It was deeply rutted, extremely rocky, and slicker than snot from the misty fog enveloping us. The horses stopped at several points, balking at our insistence to continue onward. Finally, my ride, Saffito, lost his footing and temporarily fell to his knees before catching himself. It was at this point that I announced to the world that I was walking, and got off my mount to lead Saffito up the steep incline. The fog thickened with every step and at times you could only see the outline of Kim and Obeidi, even though they were no more than 15 yards behind me. In the distance we heard roosters crowing. It sounded like thousands of roosters.
When we finally made our way to the summit, I looked back to see Kim only seconds behind me. Obeidi, the teenager, appeared moments later, obviously not used to walking up steep hills. We continued on through a collection of small pastures and then broke out into a road leading by a large chicken farm, with 20-30 large barns and support buildings. The expedition concluded down a steep mountain road past the canopy adventures and back into downtown El Valle. It took us six hours. Once we had our feet firmly planted on the ground, Kim and I agreed that it had been one of the most beautiful, most exciting things we had done in Panama. And to think, we had no expectations. We had just wanted to kill a day before the long ride home.
The evening was spent again with Richard and Helen, who drove us up and down nearly every back country road in El Valle. We saw some stunning mansions built in an amazing setting. El Valle is obviously the Beaver Creek of Panama.
February 12 - Panama City
The end of a fabulous trip was finally here. We awoke early, had a relaxing breakfast and then took the bus into Panama City.
The most interesting aspect of the day was finding a case for our newly purchased painting. We nervously walked down the streets of the capital city looking for a department store. We were helped several times, and one time, to my embarrassment, we balked at a man’s assistance, thinking that he was leading us into an alley to be beat up and robbed. When we realized that he was simply taking us on a short cut to the store, you could just feel the egg dripping from our faces. He was just another friendly, helpful Panamanian, the greatest wealth of their nation.
It wouldn’t have been right to leave town without one more NASCAR ride in a Panama City taxi. Our driver, equipped with one driving glove, roared through the city streets at 60-70 miles an hour, moving in and out of traffic, cutting off other motorists and laying on his horn when no opening existed. It was my most frightening moment ever in a car. I felt like Princess Diana facing her eminent demise.
The last day ended with a tasty dinner with Terry and Dennis, a retired teaching couple from Kenai, Alaska. Dennis had taken a job as principal in Panama City, while Terri, a nurse by profession, was serving as housewife extraordinaire. We enjoyed speaking Alaskan with them and sharing tales of our many Panamanian adventures.
We were ready to go home. Very ready actually. However, we had just experienced one of our best trips ever. As Kim put it, there was no one thing that was overwhelmingly stunning or an area that was so beautiful that it left you speechless. Nevertheless, the people and the endless beauty of this jungle nation made Panama one of our favorite destinations of all time.
