Wanting to liberate ourselves from the Canadian winter’s Fifty Shades of Grey, the delicious climate of Panama has merited our choice as this year’s getaway. The first image coming to mind is of course a canal known as the world’s greatest shortcut, but we’re here to discover what else a little republic bordered by both the Caribbean Sea and Pacific Ocean has to offer.
Waiting at the airport in Panama City for a flight to Contadora Island we are flummoxed by a security guard who likely spent three years in grade four. Since confiscating Christine’s eyelash curlers hardly seems in the interests of national security I try arguing they’re not a problem, but it’s like trying to explain the Theory of Relativity to an ostrich! A ludicrous image pops into my head of some lunatic brandishing the curlers on the plane and yelling ‘Take me to Colombia or I curl your eyelashes’!
On the island our pint-sized Aeroperlas plane thuds onto ground and rattles down the runway coming to a halt worryingly close to the sea. Our aircraft is one of the last to use the fragmented runway as it’s in such tough shape that the tires can only be inflated to half pressure to stop them from blowing out on landings!
Tiny Contadora is part of the Pearl Islands where 16th century Spanish Conquistadors came in search of coveted pearls, and can best be described as rustic, with neon and traffic unknown entities.
Hankering to try our hand at fishing we hire local expert Pedro, but after a couple of hours and the boat still fishless I go to my backup plan. I’ve brought along a mask and fins in hopes of a close encounter of the marine kind. As I jump overboard into a clear sea oozing tails and scales, the stunning smorgasbord of omega-3 on display quickly gives credibility to why Panama translates to ‘place of abundant fish’.
With the meter still running we opt to head back to Contadora, but Pedro’s ‘fishful thinking’ is to keep the rods out on the way back. Ten minutes later off Isla Mogo Mogo my rod is thrashing about with a large angry mackerel battling against its fate. It’s difficult to persuade the torpedo with teeth to relinquish its salty sea life for a frying pan, but finally I reel it in close enough to use the gaff and victory is mine. Holy Mackerel, I guess we best find some tartar sauce, because my slippery new friend’s name is dinner!
Hiking to Playa Larga and the vandalized ruins of Contadora Resort it quickly becomes obvious Panama has a failing grade in environmental awareness. The secluded beach is a trash-strewn gumbo of nasty debris, including the corpse of a derelict old Soviet-built ferry rusting away on the beach.
Though I’ve come to this beach to snorkel Christine chooses to wait on the shore. Not exactly a daughter of the water, she seems paranoid of everything in the sea; to the point I think she’s even troubled about being ravaged by hostile plankton! Offering a wave I plunge into the sea to check out a coral reef rife with life, and things are going swimmingly until a huge cloud of fish swiftly scatters like a sneeze in a breeze.
Suffering succotash, I’m verging on swallowing my snorkel on seeing a huge toothy eel undulating towards me! Fortunately I escape its teeth by the skin of mine, and with both adrenaline and flippers pumping I anxiously thrash back to shore chagrinned to see a told’ja smirk on the face of you know who. My galloping imagination wanders to new lyrics for an old Dean Martin song; ‘When you snorkel the reef, and an eel gives you grief, that’s a-moray’!
Today, Isla Contadora’s four resident policemen all show up at our lodging. Have we done something wrong? Naah, it turns out they don’t have enough to keep them busy and are temporarily swapping weapons for sandpaper, having been hired by the owner to resurface the sundecks. We’ve relished the calm of island but our four days have disappeared as quickly as cookies at a pot party and it’s time to move on.
We realize that Panama City is not for the timid with seemingly almost as many police in town as fish in the sea. Dressed in bullet proof vests and armed up like Rambo, the cops always travel in packs for safety. Stopping any independent travelers like ourselves, they administer a warning to avoid the bad-assed barrio of El Chorillo, because to the thugs living there ‘point and click’ simply means you’re out of ammo!
Taking ‘pimp’ to a whole new level, ancient 12-ton diesel buses known as Diablos Rojos (Red Devil) chug about covered with flashy paintwork depicting anything from cartoon characters to Osama Bin Laden. Often bright enough to be retina-endangering, some of them even add ridiculous shiny streamers to the steering wheel and outside mirrors, much like one might expect to see on a kiddie’s bike.
To escape the city’s disagreeableness we fly north to the town of David and collect a rental car. On our drive to Chiquiri Highlands a large iguana with bad timing suddenly scampers out in front the car and meets a double-thumped demise. Abandoning the lifeless lizard we continue to the town of Boquete where we are taken aback by recent flooding having devastated of several of the roads, buildings, and bridges.
Nestled at the foot of the extinct volcano Volcan Baru, the Boquete Garden Inn has a lovely rainbow of birds exchanging gossip in the gardens, and iridescent hummingbirds sparkle in the sun like flying pieces of jewelry while suckling from exotic flowers fighting with each other for attention.
Unfortunately several of the hiking trails we hoped to experience are now inaccessible due to the washouts, but asking around we learn of a scrawny mountain path used by the indigenous Indians. This is to be our mission for tomorrow, which happens to be Christmas Day.
Dazzled by the aerial dancing of neon-blue Morpho butterflies we follow a muddy path to an impoverished family of ethnic Ngobe-Bugle Indians who appear more than a little surprised to see us. After a five hour workout in the shark-grey gloom it’s time to indulge in a hot shower before dropping into the 1914 built Paramonte Inn for a candlelit Christmas dinner in the fireside lounge.
Boxing Day’s sky is cloaked with rainclouds letting loose their offerings during our drive to the mountain villages of Cerro Punta and Volcan, but not letting the uninviting weather steal our shine, we stop the car for a hike through the woods to Caldera Hot Springs. Shedding our clothes, we then pull a bottle of fermented grape out of the backpack and wallow in an outdoor bath where the water never turns cold.
Returning to David for a flight back to Panama City we incur a little karmic iguana payback; only this time it’s not another rotund reptile getting flattened, but a car tire. Alarmed about missing our flight we work with pit-crew speed to swap out the tire, and make it to the airport with mere minutes to spare.
Since I’d rather pour honey over my genitals and lie on bed of ants than spend more time with the cars, concrete, and commotion in Panama City, we grapple on the plane over how to spend the last of our dwindling holiday! Our solution is bussing over the distinctive Bridge of Americas spanning Panama’s great cross-country ditch to the mountain town of El Valle.
Surrounded by mountains and cloud forest, the beautiful mountain town is uniquely nestled in the crater of an extinct volcano and a microclimate offering amazing flora and fauna, along with an opportunity for some healthy elevated hiking.
For our last day in the country we return to Panama City and take a boat to tiny Taboga Island, about 20 km from the city’s skyline. There’s not a lot to do on ‘The Island of Flowers’, so after hiking the Cerro de la Cruz Trail for the panoramic views we’re content just sunning ourselves on the sandy beach with a couple of cold ones while being nourished by the sun.
As late afternoon becomes evening, a soothing sunset painting the sky a bubblegum pink signals it’s time to disentangle ourselves from the little beachside bar, and in the peacefulness of the oceanic dusk we boat back to the mainland to conclude our pleasing sojourn in the Banana Republic of Panama.
Mark Colegrave Dec 2008