The stuff written here covers only the very beginning of our trip. Hopefully I will write the rest soon.
August 30, 2005
Looking back on other trips I wish I had made a better record of them, especially of simple details of what it was like to visit those places. For that reason, I took notes throughout the trip that M. and I recently took to Panama. Fortunately for me, M. brought and made extensive use of a ditigal camera, and the pictures also jog a lot of memories. Here, I have tried to fill in the gaps to create a basic but detailed picture of what we saw and did. I think it adds up to a fairly interesting story. And since I bothered to write it, I might as well send make it available to the people who know me and might find it interesting. Let me know how you find it!
Andrew and M. in El Valle, Panama
Here is a little picture of our itinerary: first, to San Blas from Panama City. Then, the mountain town of El Valle. Then, Isla Taboga. Then, the jungle province Darién, and finally, the Bocas del Toro islands.
[having some trouble finding the picture]
From my journal:
Sunday, June 19, 2005.
Monday, June 20, 2005.
In Albrook Domestic Airport in Panama City. This is our second morning in Panama. Reaching airport was difficult because hotelman had not “called” taxi at 4:30 a.m. We walked and accosted two men standing outdoors. They assured us that we would be robbed if we proceeded in current direction into slum. We expressed urgent desire to go to airport. One man walked with us to a safe intersection. Three cabs came by in about two minutes. First was full, second one did not work out: I told M. to get in, while preparing to tip the random man. He asked her where to and she said Albrook before she got in and he sped away and I barked at her that I told her to get in, not tell him where we were going. Eventually a cab got us and we were at aiport by 5am to check in. M.’s $40 ticket to Playón Chico (island) carried a surcharge of $6 for being 15 lbs over the weight limit of 33 lbs. (My bag came in at 33.5 lbs, no surcharge levied.)
We are somewhat eager to leave Panama City. At the instructions of our budget travel literature we stayed in Casco Viejo, the old part of town (of the new town, after it was rebuilt following pirate destruction in 1500s.) Apparently the prime virtue of it’s being such an international metropolis is that we can stay in the slum for $10 / night.
Here is a photo of the plaza in which we stayed:
Part of Plaza Herrera, as viewed from our hotel room
Our room was a slendid chamber. We had a light bulb for the latter portion after the hotel man (different one from the one who didn’t call the cab, a better one) and his street henchman (who greeted us as we arrived Saturday night at 11:30pm, and was sort of like Kramer from Seinfeld) installed it with much ado and a gigantic ladder to reach the high ceiling. Like all of Casco Viejo, this building was old. All of the buildings were old and a few floors. The differentiator was the condition. We had a balcony on our second-floor window overlooking what were essentially inhabited ruins—a landscape of rubble and hanging laundry. When we arrived by taxi on Saturday night, the main road to our hotel’s plaza, Plaza Herrera, led through a gauntlet of nightlife … such as swaggering drunkards, prositutes,etc., which in a back alley of semi-hidden doorways and shadow was frankly a little intimidating. On Sunday morning, when we set out with the proposition of finding the domestic airport and buying a ticket to San Blas archipelago (for this morning), we found that we had to hike our way out of what was the heart of a little ghetto, up a peatonal (pedestrian street) where we were the only tourists, despite some variety among the people there, including tall and short, Caribbean and indigenous in appearance, with some Asians (ostensibly Japanese) and English-speaking Haitians. For a while “we” (M.) were too grossed out to eat but eventually we broke down and had $.75 chicken breasts at a restaurant-like establishment which boasted a rack of full chickens out front but would not sell us any due to some not really comprehensible excuse.
We hopped a bus that said “Albrook”’ to go buy a ticket. Since the airport is named Albrook this seemed like a pretty safe bet. The buses in Panama were vastly superior to anything I saw in Guatemala. Like the Guate cousins, they are run-down American schoolbuses, but pretty clean on the inside. The kitchy decorations on the Panamanian bus were more like sophisticated graffiti, e.g. with bubble letters, rather than what seemed like witchcraft in Guatemala (“God is my driver” so please let’s not fall off the cliff, etc). The bus we hopped was noteworthy for a relatively excellent stereo system, which pumped some pretty excellent salsa-like music. M. was repelled by Panama City (esp. by day), calling it the “pit of despair,” but with Guatemala City in mind I was struck by the non-despair of the city. Yes, it was something of a slum in places but people had it in them to be very nice to us (with no exception that I can think of), whereas I often had a pretty dour reception in Guatemala.
“Dios es mi conductor” could come in pretty handy now, though, because we just boarded an 18-person plane that is delayed due to storms at our destination. M. is (loudly) commenting that our pilot is the same individual that checked our bags. She also insisted on taking an extra seat for her things in the waiting area while 12+ people were sitting nearby. Which is off topic but I am writing to piss her off.
Here’s what Panama looked like outside of the airplane:
Aerial view en route from Panama City to San Blas archipelago, with Caribbean sea at top
Playón Chico...
…is an island that few people visit. Tourists visit to the San Blas archipelago, but there are 300+ islands and we picked one on purpose that no one goes to. The islands are incredibly small and we weren’t even sure that we were going to have a place to stay.
(By the way, if you look at the map of the itinerary we are at #1 now.)
And it turned out, in fact, that our fears were justified, because the Playón Chico community was small and there were no hotels exactly. Nearby (say a slow 5 min boat ride) there were expensive hotel resorts. But we were not about to shell out $60 or $100 per person for a night of sleep. We knew this flying in. Our basic game plan was to wander around and ask people if there was somewhere cheaper to say in the hope that maybe someone would put us up in their home, which would in fact be great for learning about the culture of the Kuna people. (the Kuna are the indians/indigenous who live on the eastern caribbean coast of panama.)
We got off the plane on a tiny airstrip near a couple of ugly concrete structures. One of the structures was a small building where a handful of locals were congregating. One of them was a policeman and he approached us and asked for our passports and our purpose of visiting the island.
An entrepreneurial lad inspects his mango haul on the airstrip at Playon Chico
After we settled the documents and signed something and paid a visitation fee to the community, we asked the policeman if there was anywhere to stay in town. We explained that we were students and we couldn’t afford either of the island resorts nearby. The policeman, who was young, took a few steps and started consulting some older chaps. On the drizzily morning, we found ourselves waiting on the concrete porch while a few men discussed our fate in Kuna. They occasionally looked at us. One man, who we would later learn is named Mahone (see photo below), asked about the purposes of our trip. (“Mahone” sounds the same as the Irish name. ) In groveling Spanish I explained that we were poor students and that we were interested in experiencing the culture of Playón Chico, not staying at mini resort islands.
Sr. Mundo, M., and Sr. Mahone, on a hill with Playón Chico community in the background
Sr. Mahone concluded by welcolming us warmly and taking his back to an office building that was away from the community, on the mainland, near the airstrip. It was a regional office building of ANAM, which is Panama’s nature conservation organization (the Autoridad Nacional del Ambiente, http://www.anam.gob.pa). ANAM appeared to be worth something, because we encountered its offices nearly everywhere we went. Anyway, Mahone took us into an office and sat us at his desk and claimed to be the regional director of ANAM in the San Blas province. We were pretty impressed. He offered that we could stay in a guest room in the ANAM building for $15 each a night. Our ultimate conclusion about this price is that we were getting tremendously hosed, since for example we could stay in hotels in Panama City that had water and stuff for like $10 for the both of us. But possibly the good Sr. was mindful of the fact that he was offering a price at one quarter of the nearby hotel resort. There was also a kitchen and Sr. Mundo explained that he and his staff would cook our meals for us. So we accepted the room.
Then we were conducted on a tour of the island community and the nearby mainland by Sr. Mahone and Mundo, the town’s postmaster. Here are some images of the village, which is referred to as la comunidad in Spanish:
It was frankly a pretty dreary place, despite being on the Caribbean sea. It had impressively tiny streets. As you can see in the pictures, the homes were partly concrete, partly palm roof. All around the island, outhouses jutted out on docks hanging over the water. Smiling children flung themselves off the docks into the water to swim, often landing in the water virtually under the outhouses. It was pretty damn gross. Since the water was clear you could often see poop floating around, looking like orange sponges. Despite the fact that they were swimming in shit, the kids on the island were some of the happiest children I have ever seen. The island was packed with naked little dudes and dudettes, in very close quarters, yet we never heard any kids crying.
The kids jumping in the water by the outhouses would have made a great photograph, but we were rather cautious about taking photographs in Playón Chico. We had read that the Kuna sometimes object to being photographed, and Playón Chico did not get a lot of tourists. For that reason, the photos that we took on the island, as you can see here, were either generally empty of people or they included Kuna whom we had already met and could amicably ask for a photo of. The more time we spent there, the more it appeared that our concerns were unfounded and that the advice had been a little off.
Sr. Mahone sped us through the tiny streets. We we occasionally pop into a house or somewhere to greet someone. There were one or two restaurants on the island, a general store, and a post office near the main dock. Sr. Mahone seemed to know a lot of people and we sort of felt like we were getting a royal tour. At the post office we met “Sr. Mundo,” the postman, pictured above. The name was actually Raymond or Raimundo, but he went by Mundo, which also means “world” and hence makes for an awesome nickname. Mundo was an easy-going guy. Later, after we felt that Sr. Mahone was trying to rob us blind, we maintained a pretty good opinion of Mundo. He was never without baseball cap and sunglasses. Later on, we would meet his son and visit his house.
We went mango-hunting. Our departure was observed by a small group of mostly women and children. A couple people asked us smilingly if we were going to sell mangoes. This was a joke, because mangoes were so plentiful they were free.
Mahone and Mundo took us to the mainland and up a bit slightly into the jungle. Mahone stopped us at a section of mango trees and explained that the plot belonged to his family, and that other families had plots nearby as well.
Mundo taught us our first jungle survival skill: throw a rock at a cluster of mangoes to down them and get some fruit. We chomped on mangoes the likes of which you don’t see in the states! We applied this tactic very successfully later.
Continuing up the hill, we came to a cemetary for the community:
Playon Chico Cemetery
So far as we learned, the community’s attitudes and actions toward the buried were traditional rather than Christian, despite the appearance of a cross in the picture above. A few women were at the cemetary when we got there and it is usual to visit the cemetary on a daily basis. The dead were spoken of with reverence, much as when Sr. Mahone was talking about his family plot. Generally people were able to describe a bit of history about their grandfather, and, in some cases, great-grandfather. Somewhere past the grandfather stage, history became fuzzy and then did not exist. It is generally not known how long the Kuna people have inhabited the San Blas islands and some people theorizethat they are a relatively recent arrival in the last hundred years or two, and that they were kicked out of the jungle by the much tougher Embera people, which M. and I would get to know later in the trip.
We came down from the cemetary and then M. and I took some time alone to visit the community and rest in our squalid chambers. M. and I were feeling a bit suffocated by Sr. Mahone’s micro-planning of our day, but this break helped out.
Playón Chico was a tiny island, somewhere in the ballpark of the size of a football field. Out a bit from it, behind some sort of reef, was an even smaller island, somewhere near the border of the minimum size of what you could call an island. It only took around ten minutes to walk its circumference. We decided to go out there for a swim on a “private island.” We were rowed out there by Ray, Raimundo’s son, who was incredibly strong and moved us at an amazing rate. He hunted crabs by day so he spent many hours a day rowing around.
M., on the way to get her ass stung; Ray in background
We reached the private island. We opted to cross to swim on the far side, because we saw waves on the other side and we wanted to swim in some waves and also feel more removed from the Playón Chico community. This decision turned out to be a catastrophic error!
On the other side we discovered that the water was shallow and filled with rocks and strange coral structures. They were a bit sharp on the foot. But we had swim shoes (plastic webby shoes) so we threw those out and plunked out into the waves in search of deeper water. The rocks were hard to walk on and the waves knocked us around for a bit. It was fun for about thirty seconds. The peak of the fun was getting knocked over and stumbling in the rocks and falling in the shallow water, where we lolled around like idiots. M. fell and sat on a rock and yiped and it was pretty funny because she got up and fell on it again.
As we waddled into shore, M. complained that her ass hurt and she had been stung. I replied that she had simply fallen on a rock. But then she complained that her ass really hurt and it became quickly clear that she had sat on no ordinary rock, but rather some kind of stinging rock or anenome or animal.
M. was in a bad state because she could neither exactly walk nor lie down, due to the major pain on her butt. I took a peek and was secretly terrified by what I saw: a huge red blotch that was blistering almost before my eyes. It looked poisonous to me. The question was, how poisonous? And how poisonous was a double dose, since she had been stung twice in the same place?
It was nearly 3:00pm. We had arranged for Ray to row back and get us around 4:00pm. We had no way of reaching Ray or anyone else in the village, and it would have taken me an hour at least to swim back to the community. That meant that we had an hour to wait before we were picked up – if we were on time.
M. complained that the pain in her ass was spreading down her leg. I imagined posion circulating slowly through her blood in a slow but unstoppable course to kill her within the hour.
We waddled over to the non-rocky, non-wavey side of the island with the objective of washing off her patook. We got in the water but moving around was simply too painful, so we beached her. I pondered the worst-case scenario. She had not been bitten, so there didn’t appear to be any way of sucking the poison out of her body. The best was to keep her calm with the objective of keeping her pulse low and slowing the spread of the poison.
M. was concerned about the state of medical care in Playón Chico. There would be no way to get her to Panama City any earlier than the following day. She was also adamant that she did not want to receive an injection of any kind.
I tried to convince her to lie down and relax, but this was tough for her to due with her soreness. Then she started complaining about our relationship. Apparently we had not been “connecting” adequately recently. It was about as rough as circumstances can be on a private Caribbean island – a little bit like one of those old Got Milk? commercials where you go to heaven and you have 1,000 chocolate chip cookies but then you realize there is no milk and you’re actually in hell.
Ray came – our savior! As he rowed us back, we spun our yarn and queried him about whether M. was going to die. He seemed unconcerned. Trusting the authority of local experience, we were largely consoled.
The local diagnosis for what had happened was called mala agua or agua mala – “bad water.” Despite some questioning, we couldn’t exactly figure out what this was, but we surmised it was an animal, probably a jellyfish. Later research suggested that the term mala agua sometimes is used to refer to sea lice, but that definitely wasn’t what we were dealing with in this case.
There was, in fact, a clinic on the island, and Sr. Mahone assured us that they could give M. a shot to take down the pain, but for some reason M. wasn’t interested.
Soon thereafter it was time for dinner, served by Mahone and Mundo: crabs.
Mahone, Big Crabs, and Big Yuca
Mahone went to great pains to prepare us a feast. We had huge crabs and bowls full of boiled yuca (tastes sort of like potato). There were mangos and copious quantities of fruits and vegetables, all washed with the foul brown stuff that the people of Playón Chico know as “water.” M. had been starving for days due to a massive apetite coupled with high culinary standards. She proceded to eat the entire table. Mundo helped her get meat from the little crab claws and whatnot by slapping them on the concrete sink and smashing them with a knife. Occasionally she’d drop a piece on the floor as she handed it to him and he’d wash it off in the brown swill water before giving it back to her.
We ate interminably and it began to get dark. We found ourselves eaten alive by bugs. Mahone and Mundo got bored and went outside to hunt crabs. It was a full moon that gave plenty of light to hunt the crabs that came out at night. The crabs were about as wide as your foot (much smaller than what we had just eaten, but still good eating, they assured us). This was convenient because the two gents hunted a crab by stepping on it gently, then extracting it by hand from under the flip flop and tossing it into a bag – without getting chomped by the massive claws. M. and I were not exactly catching any crabs but it was still fun to be out there and witnessing the process.
When crab hunting was over, Mahone invited us into the community to hang for a bit. We were slightly shocked, because Mahone had impressed upon us earlier in the day that when night came we were to say in the ANAM building and not bother the community, which preferred its privacy at night. We were excited that apparently Mahone had grown fond of us and was extending us a somewhat personal offer. Also, we saw lights in the town and heard some music. So, despite the fact that M. was in tremendous pain from the mala agua, we forayed into town with Mahone and Mundo.
We went to Mundo’s house. The Kuna practice of walking freely into other people’s houses remained intact in the evening. By virtue of this practice, the island seemed like one big family. At Mundo’s house, we saw Ray and greeted him like a buddy. We also met the rest of Mundo’s family and if I recall Mundo’s wife was interested in selling us something but we were not interested.
Then we sat outside with Mundo and Mahone and we had a bonding session that was at once totally ordinary and also impossible to believe. We had cans of beer (the Panama brand, I think it was) and some other guys showed up and had a beer or two. Then Mahone produced a guitar and started playing and singing some of the most heartfelt music I have encountered in a while. He knew a variety of long songs from around Latin America and sang them somewhat above his vocal range but as if the love of his life was sitting there right in front of him. (I don’t think it was M. though! Despite a somewhat deified status that she had throughout the trip.) Occasionally neighbors would chime in, either from next door or as they were walking by or passing through the house.
M. finally couldn’t function any more due to pain. Mahone made us have another beer and then we went back and locked ourselves in the ANAM building.
It was a pretty grim night of sleep. The stage had been set at dinner: while we were eating, a rat the size of a household pet scurried up a pipe in the kitchen, and then followed the pipe as it ran directly over the room in which we were staying. So we knew that a huge rat had free access to our room at any time. A lamentable fact, given that we had food in our room. Moreover, there was no electricity in the building, so we had to spot our rat buddy by flashlight.
For better or worse, we had opted to pitch a tent in our room over sleeping in the bunk beds that were in there. This helped to provide an enclosure in which we could hide from bugs and the rat. We had a harrowing experience washing ourselves in the bathroom. There was a problem with the shower such that it would only drip water. So all day had been devoted to filling a barrel of water from the dripping shower, and we bathed a bit by splashing the water over ourselves using a coconut shell.
Afraid of rats and rat-like things, we eventually made our way from the bathroom to the room and into the tent. Our rat fears seemed childish but it turned out that they were most justified, because soon into the night and then for the rest of the evening we heard sounds from the kitchen, where quite a bit of food was stored. It sounded like a small pony had been placed among the pots and food and it was thrashing around and kicking everything. It was a really big rat.
M. was sweaty and in major pain. That evening was a low point for her on the trip, though there were several other contenders.
Getting off the island the next morning was a bit of a challenge. Sr. Mahone was intent on keeping us around as long as he could. The only standard way off the island was by plane, but the planes would take us only to Panama City and we wanted to go to a different island, Isla Tigre. Sr. Mahone was willing to arrange for a motor boat to take us to Isla Tigre, but at a price of $68, at least double the reasonable price. And the town was so small that we weren’t sure that we would be able to get any other price, due to collusion. So we were a bit freaked out and trapped.
From the journal:
We woke up in Playón Chico at 7:30 or so—about when the one plane of the day was passing through. By the time we had packed and dressed we realized that our morale was low and perhaps we would have been better off catching that plane. But now we faced another day in San Blas. House arrest by Sr. Mahone, the dog-sized rat in our overpriced “rooms,” our mysterious blackened tongues, the imperative to negotiate over every price we paid—and especially the urchin sting on M.’s ass—various factors had beaten us down.
The best plan we had was to try to hire a motor boat to get to La Isla Tigre. That island had the primary virtue of not being Playón Chico, being more used to tourists and hence probably more comfortable.
Isla Tigre was supposedly 1-2 hrs away by motor boat. Sr. Mahone had quoted us the price of $68, citing gas prices of $4/gallon. Yet we had been told that this ride could be done for $20-30, by our book and a guy at the expensive hotel nearby – although he also said we might pay $50 if we were hiring a boat that wasn’t already going, as in fact we ended up doing.
For better or worse, Mahone was occupied in what he claimed were meetings with the governor of the province. Which in fact we learned to be people from the Ministry of Tourism. Perhaps we should have lodged a compliant or two. Perhaps uncoincidentally, we bumped into Mundo a couple of times as we were preparing our departure. In his usual shades and baseball cap he greeted us warmly. He did not object to our plans and said he would keep a lookout for ships going our way. Eventually we went and found him at the police station by the dock. We left our bags there and he led us through the thicket of streets and we popped into half a dozen houses until we found an available boatman. He offered us a trip for $35 and assured us the price was all inclusive. He wandered away to get his boat after I explained that $20 was a reasonable price, $30 was our maximum, but Mundo was a friend so we’d pay $35 on his recommendation. Mundo took us back to the dock/police station and we waited while the dude put gas in his boat and brough it around. One the way there Mundo explained that ordinarily someone might have charged us $50, but Mundo had hooked us up with a fair price. I reflected that Sr. Mahone was an asshole. The ultimate irony was that while we were waiting some henchman of the boat guy came up by foot and said he forgot about the ride back and the ride would be $50. I told him to screw, despite the fact that we had no options and there was a slight air of intimidation, with a policeman telling us to take the expensive option. M. and I sat there confused but with poker faces. A dangerous-looking Colombian trade boat posed a non-option. A dude came up out of nowhere and offered $40 just as M. and I were beginning to despair. Somehow I commanded $35 and we were in. Sometimes I think that the trick to haggling is not caring about the outcome. When you care your opponent can tell and you’re lost. But in this case we cared deeply in at least some sense and yet we somehow avoided hosiery.
We went with the boatman to dock and get gas and I gave gas money. The rest would be payable on arrival. We made a mysterious stop to trade a boat boy for a boat girl.
The boat man, Juan, informed me that we would stop off on the mainland coast to change the boat for a lighter one. He said with a warm smile that we could meet his family. I wan’t positive that I understood what he was saying so I didn’t mention it to M. somewhat later. Plus since he had given us our price I thought it would be stiff not to let him do the job as he wanted it.
We cruised out into fairly open sea. The shore was always well within sight but it was a huge swim away. Our boat, like all the Kuna boats we had seen, was constructed by hand from coconut tree wood. It looked rather old, and the fact that we were taking it on semi-open sea was somewhat sketchy to us, although it made the ride exciting.
The coast was devoid of any sign of civilization; it looked a lot like the coastline shown on the aerial view photograph above. Basically there was a short beach that gave way abruptly to full jungle. There was usually very little beach and sometimes the ocean waves crashed on rocks that had jungle right on top of them.
After about an hour, nowhere close to anything and just when I was starting to think that maybe we weren’t changing boats, we approached a slightly clearer beach with a few huts visible, as well as a few boats pulled up on the shore. There was no dock. We steered directly for the coast and it was clear that we were goiing to meet Juan’s family after all. Juan called from the boat and a strapping young lad appeared on the beach and started fighting the waves to come out to meet us. He was about chest deep when he met us and helped pull the boat onto the shore. Juan told us he’d get the new boat ready and instructed us to follow the folks into town to wait with the family.
The family on the beach was among the most remote, isolated human life I’ve ever seen. [though Playa de Muerto, which came later, is a decent contender.] This community, which may not have had a name and was not obviously greater than one family, had an impenetrable jungle behind it, making the open-sea, long and expensive motor boat trip the only obvious way to reach the rest of mankind.
The village had huts of the Kuna variety, but minus the concrete that we had seen in Playón Chico. The place was clean and exuded rustic and wholesome qualities. We were led into a beautiful, rather expansive, sand-floored hut where there was a crowd of a family, including an old man, women of various ages, and a flock of children. People stood around and watched us. We sat in two lone chairs that had been prepared for us. As we walked in, a teenage girl was breast-feeding a baby.
How big was the community? Where was the rest of the community? Kuna always seemed to hide in their houses, but kids were always playing everywhere, at least back on Playón Chico. There were few kids roaming the streets here, giving the impression that there was little village to speak of.
The old man, who spoke a few English phrases and some Spanish, entertained us. A couple times he asked us how many days we would be staying and it took a while to convey to him that we would be gone in a jiffy. He asked his wife (?) to fetch us some cold water but it turned out that there was none available. He had learned his English working in the canal zone long ago, and he asked me if I was military (not a crazy question from my clothing and short hair).
Eventually the boat was ready and the entire family came out with us to the beach. The boat had a hole in the bottom and just before we got in Juan and his brother were plugging the hole with a piece of styrofoam.
The old man asked us when we would be coming back. I gave a pretty noncommittal answer. He asked us not to forget his home, and as the motor boat launched out through the breaking waves, the whole family waved us away, and the old man shouted from the shore, “God bless New York!”
The ride from the beach to Isla Tigre, which lasted maybe an hour and a half, ended up being the first hairbrained thing that we got ourselves into on the trip (unless you count showing up at Playón Chico itself, maybe). The lighter, styrofoam-plugged boat turned out to be considerably faster than the other boat. As we sat in the front of the boat, we had been perplexed to notice that two young girls, who had gotten on behind us at the beach as passengers, were holding small umbrellas. We could not discern the purpose of the umbrellas. The umbrellas, it turned out, were to be held forwards as protection from the ocean spray breaking over the boat. And, as a matter of fact, we were thoroughly drenched within roughly ten seconds of leaving the shore. As we whipped over the waves, they broke over the edge of the boat directly onto us. When waves slapped up against the side of the boat, a considerable amount of water crashed through a large horizontal leak in the side directly onto my lap. M. and I were unable to stop laughing for about half an hour. The spray was so intense that I had I hide my eyes under the brim of my hat and I almost lost my contact lenses a couple of times. By the time we got to Isla Tigre, we had very sore asses, we were drenched, and we had enjoyed an hour or so to contemplate our mortality and our swimming ability.
Isla Tigre
We reached Isla Tigre, another puny island, and we were greeted by the master of ceremonies, a wonderful, warm-hearted lady named Efigenia. As soon as climbed out of the canoe and she took us, we knew that Isla Tigre would be a considerably more relaxed and enjoyable destination than Playón Chico.
Efigenia, M., and other fair damsels at Isla Tigre the morning we left
Efigenia was an excellent cook. She cooked a lot of pollo guisado (stewed chicken), which had an orange sauce to it and was something of a staple throughout Panama. Upon our arrival she made preparations for an excellent soup and we were extremely appreciative of her no-nonsense attitude about the meals, which involved asking at the termination of each meal what we wanted for the next one.
Compared to Playón Chico, Isla Tigre was a booming tourist center, since there were two other visitors! My guess was that they were from Columbia but we never got around to talking. The second day we were there, a couple of boats pulled up and they yielded some Americans who were on a permanent cruise around the world, not unlike some form of modern-day semi-legal pirates.
We paid $10 a night for our cabin. It was on the beach, equipped with a charming oil lamp and an awesome hammock out back on the water. The first day we swam a bit in the water – though there wasn’t much real beach and we were wary of stinging creatures – and we ate and we rested and debriefed on the horrors of Playón Chico. For a while we lay in one of the hammocks and I argued that networked artificial intelligence would become a reality in the 21st century and that it might pose a threat to human society.
Our cabins and Efigenia’s restaurant were on opposite coasts of the island, facing each other from the sidelines of a soccer field. (That gives you an idea of how narrow the island was!) Altogether it comprised a tourist area that was set apart from the Isla Tigre community itself. After a night of rest and a morning of emotional conversations about our relationship, we were ready to experience the community.
Walking in was like entering a town in the Wild West where everyone knew we were coming and was waiting for us at each corner – only, rather than shooting us, they were hanging molas to sell to us. Molas look sort of like cloth placemats with animals or geometric patterns woven on them. There were various sublime aspects to our shopping trip. We were the only people buying, and hence the only reason anyone was out on the street selling. We cruised down the street a bit fast at first, but as we retraced, more and more houses pulled out their molas and hung them for us. Later, as we lingered a bit long and had rejected people too many times, they began putting their wares away and we had to scramble to make our purchases without crying wolf too many times.
...That's all I've written so far. It was about the first 4 days of our trip, which lasted a month. Some of the later parts are much more intense, so I will surely include them at some point.
3 comments:
yes. please continue and be as thorough as possible. I know it would take a while, but it is very entertaining.
Do you have the Efigenia phone number to contact her???
contact me at angel_jm13@hotmail.com please
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