With Panama boasting an appealing location weather-wise, we have chosen it as this year’s destination. Images most often coming to mind are of a pineapple faced Noriega, drug running, and the world’s greatest shortcut; the Panama Canal. However, as a connoisseur of countries 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 confiscating Christine’s eyelash curlers. This hardly seems in the interests of national security, so I try arguing they’re not a problem, but it’s like trying to explain the Theory of Relativity to an ostrich! When the stupidity genes were being passed out this crackpot hit the jackpot! A ludicrous image pops into my head of some daft dolt brandishing the curlers on the plane, yelling ‘Take me to Colombia or I curl your eyelashes’!
The pint-sized Aeroperlas plane drops onto the runway with a thud and halts concernedly close to the sea. Our flight is one of the last to use the fragmented runway, as it’s in such tough shape that aircraft tires can only be inflated to half pressure to stop them from blowing out on landings.
Contadora is part of the Pearl Islands, where 16th century Spanish Conquistadors came in search of coveted pearls. At just over a square kilometer in size the Panamanian island can best be described as rustic, with neon and traffic unknown entities.
Hankering to try our hand at fishing we hire the local expert Pedro. After a couple of hours and the boat still fishless I go to my backup plan. Having brought along a mask and fins in hopes of a close encounter of the marine kind, I jump overboard into a clear sea oozing tails and scales. A 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. Sure enough, 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 had better 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’s obvious Panama has a failing grade in environmental awareness. The secluded beach is a disgraceful trash-strewn gumbo of plastic and other rubbish, which oddly includes the corpse of an old Soviet-built ferry now rusting on the beach.
We’ve come to this beach to snorkel, but with Christine not exactly a daughter of the water, she chooses to sit on shore. She is paranoid of everything in the sea to the point I think she’s even worried about being ravaged by hostile plankton, so I give a wave and plunge into the sea to check out a coral reef rife with life.
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 when I see a huge toothy eel undulating towards me! Fortunately I escape its teeth by the skin of mine, and with both adrenaline and flippers pumping, anxiously thrash back to shore! Chagrinned to see a ‘told-you-so’ 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’!
Isla Contadora’s four resident policemen all show up at our place today. 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. They have been hired to resurface our dwelling’s 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.
Quickly we realize 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!
Diablos Rojos (Red Devil) buses take ‘pimp’ to a whole new level, with the ancient 12-ton diesel chariots covered in flashy paintwork depicting anything from cartoon characters to Osama Bin Laden. They are often bright enough to be retina-endangering, and some even add ridiculous shiny streamers to the steering wheels and outside mirrors 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 a drive to Chiquiri Highlands a large iguana with bad timing scampers out in front of us and meets a double-thumped demise. Abandoning the lifeless lizard we continue to the town of Boquete; taken aback by the recent devastation of severe flooding having destroyed many of the roads, buildings, and bridges.
Cowering at the foot of the extinct volcano Volcan Baru, our lodging at Boquete Garden Inn has lovely gardens hosting a rainbow of birds peeping at each other. Hovering like little helicopters are iridescent hummingbirds, sparkling in the sun like flying pieces of jewelry as they suckle from exotic tropical flowers.
Unfortunately several of the hiking trails we hoped to experience are now inaccessible due to washouts, but asking around we learn of a scrawny mountain path used by the indigenous Indians. That is to be our mission for tomorrow, which happens to be Christmas Day.
Beginning our trek we praise the moo-tivation of the hefty four-legged trekkers that made the strenuous climb to the top of the steep mountainside to graze. Shimmering neon-blue Morpho butterflies dazzle with their aerial dancing as we follow a muddy path to an impoverished family of ethnic Ngobe-Bugle Indians. The brightly dressed woman, her four little kids, and a dog seem more than a little surprised to see us. After our five hour workout in the shark-grey gloom it’s time to head back for a hot shower and a splash of rum before heading to the fireside lounge of the 1914 built Paramonte Inn for a candlelit Christmas dinner.
Boxing Day the sky is cloaked with rainclouds letting loose their offerings during a drive to the mountain villages of Cerro Punta and Volcan. But not letting the uninviting weather steal our shine, we stop the car and hike through the woods to Caldera Hot Springs, where we shed our clothes, 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 some karmic iguana payback. This time it’s not another rotund reptile getting flattened, it’s our 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.
Because I’d rather pour honey over my genitals and lie on bed of ants than spend any more time with the cars, concrete, and commotion of Panama City we grapple on the plane over where and how to spend the last few days of our holiday!
Our solution is to bus over the distinctive Bridge of Americas spanning Panama’s great cross-country ditch to the mountain town of El Valle. Nestled away in the crater of an extinct volcano, the town has a virtually perfect climate and is surrounded by mountains and cloud forest that provide a great opportunity for some quietude and healthy elevated hiking.
For our last day in the country we boat to Taboga Island, located about 20 km from the skyline of Panama City. There’s not a lot to do on the tiny island, so after hiking to the top of Cerro de la Cruz Trail for the panoramic views, we’re content to just hang out on the lovely beach and relax with a couple of cold ones while being nourished by the sun.
As late afternoon becomes evening a soothing sunset begins painting the sky a bubblegum pink, signaling it’s time to disentangle ourselves from the little beachside bar for a boat back to the mainland to conclude our pleasing sojourn in the Banana Republic of Panama.
Mark Colegrave Dec 2008