Our guide was a very able Panamanian nicknamed Pepe, who together with the kayaker river rescue man made for a formidable team. Pepe knew the waters incredibly well- every turn, every feature, every current. He was an amazing guide, helping steer us into waves and holes in strategic positions so as to maximise our prospects of capsizing, without actually fully capsizing. He made the already exciting Río Chiriquí even more exciting, and we heartily appreciated his efforts. River rescue kayaker was another character- I have since forgotten his name- but he quickly detected that I was the cheeky one to watch and spent much of the river trip trying to pluck me from my raft. His skills were also something to admire, as he was completing all manner of play tricks in his river running boat. Cartwheels, nose stands... he used his paddle and carved through the water as smoothly as a bread knife through warm butter. It was fabulous to watch. Pepe and cool-kayaker man regaled me with stories of first descents with the owner of Boquete Outdoor Adventures, Jim- a gun kayaker and American who had since relocated to Panamá. These guys had skills and had done all manner of gnarly Grade V (for my non-kayaking friends, Grade V= "Exceedingly difficult, long and violent rapids, following each other without interruption, riverbed extremely obstructed; big drops; very steep gradient... ") creeks. Sensing my enthusiasm to get in the boat, kayaker man kindly gave me go at kayaking the last few rapids. I was ecstatic and grinned the whole way down to the take-out.
We returned to Boquete as happy chappies and gorged ourselves on a delicious chicken rice dish. I also discovered the delights of passionfruit juice, and 'jugo de maracuyá' became a staple part of my Spanish vocabulary. We decided to check out a local fundraiser with some professional salsa dancing performances. We had the good fortune of witnessing some truly awful expatriate behaviour. Panamá, with its relaxed vibe, its beautiful setting and its dollarization (use of the USD as its currency) had become a real hub for retiree Americans wishing to live out the latter quarter of their lives in a beautiful tropical country that was very affordable. Boquete was one of the hubs that many of these retirees had come to settle in, and on this night they all came out to play. We made some pleasant small talk with a pleasant British retiree who had come to Panamá to fulfil his dream of learning Spanish. We watched a group of women drunkenly sway to the Bachata music, each of them embodying Bridget Jones spinsterdom quite well. Suddenly one of these women, who had been a particularly outstanding drunken flailer, started to wail. Yes, she WAILED. Everyone in the circus tent turned to look at the wailer curious to see what she was wailing about. Our eyes followed her across the room as she strode back on forth, staring frantically at the ground. Turned out she had allegedly lost her engagement ring and pretty soon she started screaming obscenities at both animate and inanimate objects. She was making a scene, and though understandably, losing a engagement ring is cause for concern, she was incredibly rude about the entire affair. We all looked for her ring, on the tables, on the floor. When our British retiree friend admonished her for being so rude, she proceeded to rant at him: "who the *!@# do you think you are?! It's my ENGAGEMENT RING! It's 40 $@#%^$ CARATS!" The MC of the event even stopped to announce that her ring had been lost but she rudely shoved him aside, grabbing the mic so she could make another plea to look for the ring, making sure to state that it was 40-effing carats. No one could muster much sympathy after her awful behaviour, in any case she was so drunk that we were sure that she'd probably left her ring at her hotel or house and not realised it. That, or her awful dancing had resulted in the ring being flung off her finger into outer space, never to be seen again. After that display, we decided to count our losses and retire for the night. Not that it was any better at the hostel. Our room was unfortunately perched above a noisy bar, and we were serenaded by the tunes of latin american heavy metal until the wee hours of the morning.
Our next project was to climb Volcán Baru, the highest mountain in Panamá. From the base where we were dropped off, it was apparently only 13 km. Here, we met a nice group of Americans from the Peace Corps. They had trekked all night and reached the summit for sunrise, then legged it back down. They were plainly exhausted and warned us that it was genuinely cold up there and that it was certainly no stroll in the park, despite it only being 13 km. We were comparatively speaking, a little better prepared and had hired a tent, so there would be no midnight strolling. What we weren't prepared for was the fact that there was no water on the mountain and therefore would have to carry all our water up and down. We had only brought 2 litres each, and in a tropical nation where one is inclined to sweat terribly, this was not going to be enough for 2 days. Luckily, the lone ranger at the bottom of the mountain had spare bottles of water and kindly donated them to us.
I soon understood what the Americans were saying, when the proclaimed that Barú was "no joke". 13 km may not be that far, but for some reason, the tropical heat, combined with the relentless uphill, sapped my energy quickly. I have done a fair bit of hiking in my life, long multi-days with a pack on my back, but the terrain was more or less varied. The track up Barú had no such variations, it just went UP, and up, and up- it was totally unforgiving. We stopped to observe some nice sheep in lovely green meadow and poked at a rather large tarantula skin whilst passing through several tropical montane forests. Also adding to our frustrations was the temperamental weather- one second we would be bathed in sunshine, sweating like pigs and then the next we would be shivering cold as this eerie cold mist would often blow across the mountain face. About 5 km from the summit we passed by a series of craters. Suddenly I was reminded that Volcán Barú, was, after all, a volcano, and not an extinct one at that. It was notably dormant and there had been evidence of a minor eruption occurring around 1550 AD- not that long ago in geological time. Furthermore in 2006, an 'earthquake swarm' occurred in the region. These earthquake swarms commonly precede large volcanic events. Given that the whole of Central America is essentially a volcanic isthmus, I had serious doubts about Volcán Barú being totally dormant and found myself imagining my own dramatic death and the news piece that would accompany it: "Tourists Angela Wong and Morten Skafle were unfortuitiously flung from the heights of Volcán Barú all the way into the Pacific Ocean due to the sheer force explosive force of its eruption..." By the time Morten and I finally reached our campsite, final saddle (and only flat bit for a while) before the summit, the sun had pretty much set. We had a lovely view over to the Atlantic ocean side of Panama. We were also knackered and pretty dehydrated from attempting to conserve our limited water supplies. We chomped on some soggy pre-made sandwiches and fruit and hit the sack at a ridiculously early hour.
We got up at another ridiculously early hour in order to scale the summit in time for sunrise. I recalled the words of our local taxi driver that dropped us of at the base of Baru:"Es muy frío! Muy frío". His warning that it would be bladdy cold up there (by Panamanian standards) certainly held true. The summit had also been marked by a heavily graffiti-ed crucifix. Nonetheless, it was absolutely beautiful up there. We were well above the clouds at 3,474 metres and it was clear enough that we could see both the Atlantic and Pacific oceans at the same time. Thank goodness for the anorexic Panama! Skinny enough to allow us the privilege of seeing both oceans.Though Central America had already begun to demonstrate its sheer awesomeness, Volcán Barú really put it into perspective for us. Panama was that small, that we could see not only the Atlantic and Pacific, but also Costa Rica. Yet somehow despite its tinyness it had so much to offer. After taking far too many pictures, we descended down the rocky summit back to pack up our campsite and begin the long schlepp down. We chatted to a nice German fellow who had been the only other on the summit that day. The schlepp down was less painful, but again relentless. This time, there were more signs of life as a couple of quad bikers rode past us, as did a 4WD ute (pick-up for my American friends), all of whom were negotiating the boulderous terrain like absolute pros. By the time we finally got to the base, my legs were jelly and Morten had lost all feeling in his left big toe. To this day, he still has no feeling in that toe. We rejoined with the German who had made it shortly just before us and ventured down towards the stop where it had all started. Soon enough, a minibus came chortling by. We scrambled on board for yet another hair raising journey down windy mountain roads, mere passengers on the driver and conductor's joy ride. We would have been in serious trouble if another vehicle had suddenly appeared around a blind corner, as these guys were hooning it up at seriously high speeds on roads wide enough for only 1.5 vehicles. Upon reaching the intersection of the busy rd between Boquete and David, they made a screeching turn left, narrowly missing an oncoming truck by centimetres. It was such a close call that even the driver and conductor yelped. They turned around to us and gave us a big grin. We grinned back and broke into a chorus of laughter as we made our way back in to Boquete, feeling triumphant about our successful ascent and our avoidance of a large vehicle pile-up.
Our next stop would be an antidote to our Boquete activities, which had been action packed and physically demanding. We set off towards the Caribbean Coast to "Bocas del Toro," an archipelago of islands that had made a name for themselves on the backpacker's circuit. To get there, it would take a day of backtracking towards David, then another little chickenbus to the dreary town of Almirante, then a boat to Isla Colón, the largest and most developed of the Bocas islands. When we got off the boat, an American lady named Gloria with a fairly nasty sunburn introduced herself and asked if we wanted to go to Isla Bastimentos. Our original plan had been to spend a bit of time on both and for our initial stay to be on Isla Colón. However after reading a bit more about Isla Bastimentos' reputation as the quieter, more genuinely Caribbean Island, we decided to gun it over to Bastimentos. The Lonely Planet described Isla Bastimentos as "a different world" from Isla Colón and Bocas del Toro town, home to the indigenous Ngöbe-Buglé people, and far less developed. The northern coast of the island was lined with pristine beaches, whilst the southern coast consisted of coral reefs and mangroves. The main settlement where we docked was known as Old Bank, with roots in the Banana industry and a healthy population of West Indian Caribbean folk that spoke Guari-Guari, an English-Spanish creole hybrid with a distinctive Afro-Caribbean lilt. Unlike Isla Colón, there were no roads in Bastimentos, only a concrete footpath. A small muddy footpath connected the southern part of the island with the northern beaches, and the path was known as the 'flop-eater', as it notorious for consuming thongs/flops/slops/jandals/tennis shoes and many other forms of footwear in its muddy recesses.
We did the rounds, searching for the cheapest but most pleasant accommodation around. Some places had since closed, whilst others were full. Eventually a lady and her young daughter approached us and showed us her hostel, Hostel de Jaguar. The rooms were decent and only $10 a night. It was perched over the water and had a beautiful balcony area where one could watch the sunsets whilst never having to move from the multitudes of colourful hammocks set up all over the place. We were pleased with the price and doubly pleased with the location. The only problem was that the place seemed to have chronic water problems, and after 6pm we found that we had no water to shower, to drink, to flush the toilets. Whilst walking along Old Bank's one concrete path the next day, we were attracted to Tío Toms sign- offering free snorkelling equipment, kayak use, lunches, dinners... Jaguar had been great in terms of locale but not much else. We knocked on the door, just to 'check it out' and we were warmly welcomed by Roberto, the Dutch overseer of the place. It became clear that Tío Toms had been thought out. Its original German owners and constructed the place from scratch and in typical German style hadn't missed a detail. The rooms were tastefully decorated and had huge open windows to allow the coastal breeze in and allow guests to savour the magnificent waterfront views. There was a mini garden, where the famous rare Red Frogs would turn up to play. Hummingbirds would flit in and out all day, attracted to the orchids and honey dispensers they had put out to attract them. Underneath the jetty there was a resident Moray Eel and several sea creatures at which to peer at. Tío Toms had won us over and despite their more heavily inflated room price, it was clear they had more to offer. We made the switch and didn't look back. Having woken up early, there was still time to fit in a snorkelling adventure. Roberto quickly mustered his resources and gathered another German couple together for us to pool resources. He summoned Anton, a local man that would offer the boats and the tour. Together we quickly came to an agreement for him to take us to Hospital Point, Coral Caye, Dolphin Bay and Cayos Zapatilla which was within the Parque Nacional Marino Isla Bastimentos. All this for only $25 each!
Hospital Point, the first stop of our outing was less than 5 minutes and within sight of Old Bank. Though severely lacking in coral, there were plenty of colourful fish to keep me occupied. We then made our way to Coral Caye, which, whilst lacking in fish, was full of impressive brain corals, sea lilies, fan corals, pillar corals, every type of coral imaginable. Similarly, Dolphin Caye lived up to its name- we yelped with glee as we spotted several small pods of dolphins. Anton lamented that up to even eight years ago it was not uncommon to find literally hundreds of dolphins at the Caye. The dolphins were apparently attracted to the fish life that would frequently gather in the area. Unfortunately, due to the sheer volume of tourist traffic coming up to Bocas del Toro and the fast blooming development of Isla Colón, the dolphins had been put off by all the boats chasing them down aggressively. Though we thought we had it pretty good, spotting about 10 dolphins in all, imagining them there in their hundreds would have been a sight indeed. Unfortunately we humans had driven them away.
The last main stop on our splendid snorkelling trip was Zapatilla Caye, which lay within the bounds of Isla Bastimentos' Marine Park zone. As we zoomed up to the little series of Cayes, I thought we'd hit the jackpot. The place was exactly as one pictured a Caribbean paradise to be: blindingly white powdery sand, shores laced with palm trees, crystal clear azure blue water, as warm as a bath tub.The 28 degree celsius water was almost too much, as one went into the ocean expecting to gain some respite from the Caribbean heat and sun, only to find that the water was as warm as a spa. Zapatilla Caye bore a remarkable resemblance to the island setting of the Microsoft standard desktop backgrounds. We returned to Tío Toms truly happy chappies, albeit badly sunburned happy chappies. Despite Morten's liberal application of sunscreen to his pasty Norwegian whiteness, he had not escaped the effects of the Caribbean sun. As for I, I had been over-confident that my Asian genes would save me from the worst, but had come off worse than Morten. Sure I had started to gain some aboriginality, however I had forgotten to slip slop slap my back, and given that we had been snorkelling all day, it didn't look pretty. Soon enough, it was apparent that I had been burnt.
None of this really mattered though, we slopped the Aloe Vera on and capped off the day by joining our hosts Roberto, his wife Debbie and the German couple and a scrumptious coconut chicken dish. Roberto and Debbie were fabulous company and told us the story of how they came arrive in Isla Bastimentos. The two, prior to moving to this little slice of paradise, had in fact been corporate high fliers in Amsterdam. Debbie had a senior position at Bosch, and from what we could gather, essentially oversaw Bosch's operations in half of Europe and parts of the Middle East and Asia. Roberto was in a similar position of senior management at some other company. He was also a keen diver and weekends off had managed to work his way up the PADI Scuba diving levels to that of an "instructor of instructors", the creme de la creme, the top of the tops. He was not only qualified to teach SCUBA diving to newbies, but to instruct aspiring instructors on how to teach newbies. In Holland, Debbie and Roberto had been so wealthy, that decisions in their household operated around whether to get an additional SUV to fit all their dive gear for vacations as the Audi TT and other sports vehicles were simply no longer sufficing. But despite the opulence and the high paying jobs, neither of them were particularly happy. Having long discussed the idea of selling it all, giving it up to move to a Caribbean paradise, after years of dwelling on the idea, they finally decided to do it. This was when the GFC hit. Their house, a virtual mansion by dutch standards- was unsellable given the state of the market, as were many of their other top-notch possessions. Morten asked them what their friends thught of their brave move. Debbie replied, "Some really admire us for what we have done. It's what they have been imagining as well for years, and they really admire that we finally had the guts to go through with it. Others, well they just don't understand and perhaps they never will."
It had not been an easy ride for Debbie and Roberto. After virtually swimming in money, they now had no house, no vehicle, few material possessions and severely reduced funds. They technically didn't even own Tío Toms, as they were simply care taking for the German owners that had built the place who had temporarily left Panamá to seek greener, untamed pastures. Development was fast coming to Isla Bastimentos and the Bocas islands and it was no longer the unknown frontier it had once been. We had a myriad of interesting conversations with Debbie and Roberto, about noticeably Central American issues such as Marijuana and drug legalization. We also threw in the more uplifting story of how Morten and I had met. After hours of chatting we retreated to fight another day.
The next day we had options- Roberto and Anton had proposed an adventurous trip to the Subterranean batcaves in the middle of the island. However this would involve digging into our limited funds for more money, especially if there were only the two of us to guide. As always, it was a case of the more the people, the less the cost for everyone involved. Eventually Anton never turned up so we reverted to our original plan of braving the 'flop-eater' path and making our way to the northern coast to see Wizard Beach and possibly Red Frog Beach if we were up for walking further. Stopping at a small hippy store for some fresh Kambucha along the way, we managed to make it to Wizard Beach with our shoes still attached to our feet. Wizard beach was beautiful- yellow sand surrounded by the lush thick jungle we had just walked through to get there. We spent the day lounging on Wizard Beach, giving up on plans to go to Red Frog after hearing about the suboptimal path conditions from a couple of passer-bys. Wizard Beach was not without its own surprises, in the form of a small crocodile lounging on the western end of the beach. Our initial fears were soon eased when we discovered that it was in fact, dead. We returned to Old Bank after a lazy day of beach lounging, feeling quite content. I passed Roberto on the waterbank who seemed to be rather pleased with himself. I asked him what he was up to. He said, "I'm running over the meeting agenda". I replied: "The meeting that consists of... you... you and you?" He grinned at me and said, "Of course!"
Later that night, Roberto told us a few interesting stories about life on Isla Bastimentos. On Bastimentos, it was clear that there was little concept of a work ethic. He began with the observation that Anton hadn't turned up that morning to see if we still wanted to go to Bat caves. In doing so, he had lost potential business. Prior to this, Anton had apparently been with a Chilean girl for a number of months. Being a resourceful lady, she saw that Anton had all the materials to start a successful tour business- after all- he owned a boat and had all the contacts. The main obstacle wrangling tourists onto a boat together, as it was not economical nor appealing for two budget travellers to fork out $40 for a snorkelling trip when with four in a boat, Anton could charge only $25 each and turn a tidy profit. Hence the Chilean girl rounded up all the various travellers across Old Bank. Her simple initiative soon got her into trouble, as the fellow boat owners began complaining about lack of business. As Tío Toms guests offered frequent clients, these boat owners soon began boycotting Tío Toms. Roberto was having none of this and called the boat owners for a meeting. After explaining the Chilean girl's logic and providing suggestions for how they could emulate Anton's success, the boat owners replied, "but that would involve more work". They wanted nothing more than to just get by. Putting in the extra yards to get more money was an alien concept. Some may just call this plain laziness, however for me it seemed more of a case of capitalism bypassing this corner of the world. Predictably, the Chilean girl eventually left and Anton went back to his old ways. He hadn't turned up that morning because he had all the money he needed to survive for the next few days due to our little snorkelling venture the day before. Even more alarming was Roberto's recollection of his visit to the local church, where he had heard the minister preaching that if girls used condoms during sex, the would get HIV/AIDs. We were utterly shocked by his story. Apparently if at the age of 16, one wasn't pregnant on Bastimentos, that was very strange indeed. Teen pregnancies were the norm here, not the exceptions. With those stimulating conversation points, we heartily thanked Roberto for all he had done for us whilst we were on Bastimentos. The next morning we bade farewell to Roberto and Debbie, Bastimentos and Bocas Del Toro, ready for a new country: Costa Rica.
