Panama 2022/2023

From Jamaica To Panama Via A Drama

Our money policies when it comes to travel include never carrying too much hard cash, using a bank card wherever we can and keeping amounts in that “live” account relatively modest. And above all, checking the account at least once daily. It’s a good job we stick to our policies, as you will see.

With the Jamaica roads as they are and journey times unpredictable (and significantly longer than Google tells you), we opt to spend our last night on the island in Montego Bay to ensure we are close to the airport. Making our way first along the south coast from Treasure Beach and then across country, the views on the drive are consistently stunning.

Montego Bay is as welcoming today as it was on our day trips here from Falmouth, though we were right about the noise after dark – the “hip strip” is a place which parties long into the night and never really falls silent. Our own night out is good too, once our drama has subsided a little: we enjoy an excellent curry goat and have one last session on the Wray & Nephew rum, taking it as the locals do….which is to acquire a small bottle, plus a bottle of mixer and two glasses. Add more rum as necessary because the mixer (tonight’s is grapefruit) lasts longer than the rum (coconut). 

Earlier though, having again enjoyed the beautiful crystal clear waters of Mo Bay, we have a last couple of Red Stripe beers before heading back for a shower. At least that’s the idea….until, true to form, I check the bank account, and the drama begins. Something is seriously wrong, a whole heap of money has gone walkies. It takes a few minutes to twig what’s happened – I had told the barman to round the beer bill up to 3000 JD so as to include his tip…but he’s charged me, wait for it, three thousand AMERICAN dollars instead of Jamaican! Three thousand dollars for five beers!!

We race back to the bar, where their reaction makes it obvious that it’s a genuine error, and the apologetic boss lady keys in a refund and tries to reassure us that it’ll all be OK. But, inevitably, the money’s gone out in double quick time, while the refund….isn’t here. And we are due to leave Jamaica in the morning.

The lady gives us a phone number and an email address for head office, she gives me the original receipt and the refund receipt. We feel reassured to a degree….but it’s not like having the money back, is it. Morning comes and there’s still no sign of it. I email head office and, again reassuringly, get an instant response confirming the refund has been processed and “should land within 3 days or so”. 

And so we leave Jamaica with a big hole in our funds and the ongoing worry that this could become a long distance and long winded saga.

Hours later we hit Panama City, where due to our host’s agent being involved in a minor car accident we can’t get into our apartment for nearly 3 hours, during which time we can’t get a decent enough signal to check the bank account. Finally – finally – he arrives with the keys, and we’re in. And guess what: so is the money, all nestled back where it belongs smiling at me from the ipad screen, just 24 hours after it disappeared.

Our relief is palpable. We start to count our lucky stars that a) we checked the account when we did, b) we hadn’t yet left Jamaica and moreover c) we were only yards from the “offending” bar when we discovered it……this could so, so easily have happened just before a 3-hour drive across the country, or something similar. At least we could sort it out in person. And, of course, we’re grateful that the bar manager lady was quick and efficient and her head office likewise. All’s well that ends well, huh.

Under normal circumstances, kicking around Plaza Bolivar with our backpacks for nearly three hours in the sweltering heat would have been the day’s drama – not this time! But, you know, even in these circumstances, Panama City looks instantly spectacular.

The cab ride from the airport to the oldest part of the city, Casco Viejo, passes through the flamboyant new city with its impossibly high and crazily narrow skyscrapers in all shapes, sizes and designs. It’s as if a whole load of inventive architects have been allowed to let their imaginations run wild. Looking back towards the new city from Casco Viejo is almost akin to viewing the Manhattan or Hong Kong skyline from across the water.

But the appeal of Panama City doesn’t end with the new. The beautiful Casco Viejo (aka San Felipe) district is positively bursting at the seams with grand and delightfully restored colonial buildings sporting balconies, balustrades and graceful windows. Now a UNESCO world heritage site, this district was, not so long ago, a neglected and decrepit neighbourhood with a reputation for lawlessness. These days, plush hotels and cool restaurants stand shoulder to shoulder with the beautiful Spanish style buildings so pleasing on the eye.

Elsewhere in this amazing city, man made causeways and low slung viaducts carry the city’s traffic to its islands and harbours, reaching like outstretched arms across the sea. There are gleaming shopping malls the size of small towns, underpasses and flyovers, manicured green spaces and those futuristic skyscrapers which all give Panama City the look of an exciting modern metropolis – yet buried in its older quarter are plazas, cobbled streets and ancient churches which could be in any old town in Spain. So many contrasts.

Music is everywhere, just as it is throughout Latin America, and it doesn’t take much to get these guys up and dancing. Joy, beauty, the modern, the ancient, the lively and the peaceful: it’s all here. And we’ve only been here a couple of days.

But, of course, there is one further paradox. Not all of Casco Viejo, let alone all of Panama City, is gentrified: wander down a wrong street from Plaza Santa Ana and you’ve entered a no-go area for tourists which is regularly described as “dangerous even during daytime”. And the more we wander the streets, the more we notice the disturbing clues.

Now and again between the beautiful buildings are the derelict shells of former houses awaiting restoration, and look up above the grand facades and sometimes the upper floors of swish buildings are decrepit, crumbling and roofless. A dirty sheet may hang from the brickwork, a child may sit on a ledge gazing into the street below, people emerge from or disappear into these voids: all evidence of the deprived and poverty stricken families who live in these awful conditions within a stone’s throw of the smart restaurants.

Casco Viejo teems with a heavy police presence, uniformed officers standing in pairs on many street corners. Their aim is to prevent visitors from wandering into areas occupied by the poor – and vice versa. It’s effectively a police cordon encircling the gentrified centre. As local people impart advice on where not to go, they use extreme bigoted terms to describe those in poverty.

It’s early days but yep, this is certainly a city of contrasts.

The Mighty Panama Canal

The narrow, eel-like shape of the isthmus which is Panama, plus the layout of its network of roads, means that we will be passing through the capital city several times over the next few weeks, and no visitor can come here even once without taking in one of the 20th century’s greatest engineering achievements.

Of the several available ways to experience the mighty Panama Canal, the best is reputed to be to pass through the locks on what is known as a transit boat. Be prepared to commit a day to it though: the operation of the locks is a slow process made even slower by waiting for the larger ships to join the transit boat and pass through the locks together.

In the end we are on board for over five hours, travelling just one way by boat and the other by bus; we would strongly recommend other travellers do the same rather than a two-way boat transit which would involve far too much waiting time. Those five hours are filled with fascination though, watching the colossal operation which sees ships safely through this amazing passage.

Briefly, it works like this. Ships are guided very slowly along the canal towards the mouth of each lock by pilot boats, fore and aft and on each flank – then, as the ship approaches the first lock gate, the captain and crew have to surrender control and let canal staff board the ship and take over. This is the only place in the world where a ship’s captain is required to surrender control. 

Next comes the remarkable sight of a series of odd looking heavy locomotives on a rack railway on the piers either side of the lock, being attached to the ship to guide the vessel slowly through the lock. Before coming here we hadn’t realised that the guide vehicles were land based rather than water borne, and it’s somehow mesmerising watching the shining silver hulks slowly pull the ship into and through the lock chamber.

As these powerful locomotives trundle forward (they cost around 2 million US dollars each, by the way), gently pulling the giant vessel through, the clearance either side of the ship between its hull and the lock walls, is often a matter of a few inches each side. It’s a fantastic sight to watch the whole major operation go through its various stages.

(Note – what we’ve described above is how the smaller locks work, though as you can see from the photographs these still involve some pretty large vessels despite being the smaller locks. The giant ships pass through different, larger locks, and are guided by pilot boats all the way through).

Construction of the canal has always represented a war between enterprise and environment, with some historians citing it as “the greatest liberty Man has taken with nature” and others proclaiming it the “greatest engineering achievement in history”. The Spanish conceived it but didn’t progress it beyond the drawing board, the French then commenced works but a combination of incompetence, misplaced funding and ignorance of tropical diseases brought about both financial collapse and a horrific death toll amongst workers.

Finally abandoned by the French in 1889 amid scandals of bribery and corruption which saw the project leader ultimately imprisoned, the project was relaunched by the Americans 14 years later. After considering but rejecting an alternative route through Nicaragua, the USA picked up where the French left off but with one fundamental difference: the concept of the locks system rather than the sea-level route with which the French had been obsessed and which had been a significant contributor to their failure.

The entire project was completed in just over 10 years, meaning that the first vessel through the locks made the historic journey just as WW1 was breaking out. Ensuring ongoing control of the Canal Zone, the USA operated the canal right up until the last day of the 20th century when operations were handed to Panama. 

The history of Panama is inextricably linked with the Canal, including its very independence from Colombia, subjects we will most likely revisit in later posts. We have also not touched on the treatment of different classes of workers during the canal’s construction, another subject worthy of further commentary later.

Statistics regarding anything from cost to tonnage to amounts of spoil to volumes of water are all staggering, but perhaps the most intriguing is that almost all of the original elements are still in use today – the technology has survived more than a century of progress. But here’s just a few of those numbers….

56,000 workers employed during US construction period

22,000 workers died during the French period

205 million cubic metres of earth removed to create the canal

15,000 kilometres of sailing round the Cape saved by its creation for every single shipment

84 feet is the difference between sea level and the highest water level over the 51-mile course of the canal.

But let’s get contemporary with some numbers. The toll for transiting the canal is calculated by tonnage, with different rates for freight and passenger ships, and for empty (“ballast”) freight ships. The average fee for a container ship is between 250,000 and 300,000 US dollars per transit – and around 36-40 ships pass through, every day. The profit cheque handed over to the Panamanian Government in the financial year ended October 2022 was 2.3 billion USD, a more than significant contributor to the country’s GDP. That’s the American “billion”, too.

Our modest transit boat (canal fee 1600 dollars per transit) passes through the single chamber Pedro Miguel Lock and then the double chamber, and larger, Miraflores Locks, before heading out towards the Pacific. With one final, wonderful moment, we pass under the majestic and evocatively named Bridge Of The Americas.

Of course, construction of the canal cut the country of Panama in two, with the only means of access between the two halves being a series of ferries, right up until this colossal bridge was opened in 1962, some 48 years after the canal was completed. Nowadays there are three bridge crossings, but the Bridge Of The Americas, the first of the three, is spectacular enough to live up to its illustrious name.

Our other intended Panama Canal experience was the restored Panama railroad train which runs along the eastern bank of the canal through jungle and mountains from Panama City to Colon, but unfortunately we find that it is currently out of service – just like the Lezard Rouge train was in Tunisia earlier this year. Two major intended train journeys both thwarted by circumstance!

We finally disembark the transit boat just after 5.30pm and head back from the Flamenco Marina across the city to Casco Viejo, travelling by “uber” as the yellow taxis are not deemed to be totally safe for tourists. Apparently something like 1 in 5 yellow taxi journeys for visitors end in some form of crime against the passengers (robbed, overcharged, threats of dropping in unsafe areas unless extra fee is paid…and even the occasional kidnapping) and, as we’ve already chanced our arm and had two successful yellow cab rides, we feel we shouldn’t push our luck any further.

As it happens, the “uber” driver takes a route home which passes through one of the no-go areas for tourists….our mouths drop open and we fall silent as we watch the crumbling, lawless, dangerous streets roll by. Not sure even we have ever seen anything quite like this. We are stopped by the police as we leave the district – and once the officers see that the car is carrying two travellers and not “undesirables” trying to enter the tourist area, we are waved through.

Less than a block later, smartly dressed young things spill out of swanky bars and fill the streets with chatter and laughter. It’s inconceivable that these two scenes are less than 100 hundred metres apart, separated only by the thin line of police presence.

We have of course seen cultural clashes on our travels before. But never quite like this. 

Exploring More Of Panama City

Once inside the Iglesia San Francisco de Asis in Plaza Bolivar, the lady behind the cluttered desk motions us towards a door at the side of the church and explains that the nativity scene within is a permanent display, not just for Christmas, and is one of four in Casco Viejo. It’s an extensive and impressive display, but passing through the next door we are cast into some sort of ethereal, pretend world.

In this ante room there is, in working model form, an entire replica of an American town at Christmas time. Fairgrounds are alive, music ekes out from various venues, the Big Top issues sounds of a crowd….lights twinkle, the fallen snow glistens, street lights shine through the gloom. The town in question is, it seems, a provincial town in Minnesota (sorry, we’ve forgotten which one) and it’s all a bit odd seeing it reproduced inside a Catholic church, the result apparently of a visit to the town by a group of students who evidently liked what they saw and brought home the ideas.

A walk around Casco Viejo can easily take in a large amount of the worthwhile sights, so compact is the old city. The unusual facade of the cathedral dominates the main square, Plaza Mayor, its brown sandstone face flanked by gleaming white towers in turn topped with mother of pearl. Just around the corner is Iglesia San Jose where the main eye catcher is the floor to ceiling golden altar. Legend tells us that when the infamous Welsh pirate Henry Morgan brought his rampaging mob through the city, the enterprising congregation quickly covered the entire altar with mud to hide its value, and Morgan, most uncharacteristically, left empty handed.

Now and again on our strolls we emerge from the tight streets out to a view of the Pacific, always punctuated by La Cinta Costera, the low slung viaduct which carries traffic around the old city and across the water in a crescent shaped bypass. Cycle ways and walkways join in to take visitors to vantage points from which to view the skyscraper skyline, the fishing fleet, or the sunset. Construction of the roadway was, as ever in these parts, shrouded in controversy, with UNESCO at one stage threatening withdrawal of Casco Viejo’s heritage status if it was built.

In the event, it was completed, and heritage status was retained, but controversy didn’t go away and the construction company Odebrecht was the subject of the world’s largest ever corruption case, culminating in a 2.6 billion dollar fine and a file for bankruptcy. Its former CEO admitted that the Company had an entire Department committed to negotiating bribes with senior officials throughout Latin America.

At one end of La Cinta Costera is the rather wonderful Mercado de Mariscos, where it is possible to follow the progress of the daily catches, first where the fishing fleet unloads on to the wharf, next in the bustling, lively market itself where locals flock to buy every type of seafood imaginable, and finally to the long row of plastic chair cafes turning the fresh catch into delicious lunches. The Panama version of ceviche differs from Mexico or Costa Rica, in that the curing process uses pickles rather than citrus. Different but just as refreshing.

The seafood is just one aspect of the truly cosmopolitan food scene in Panama City, with restaurants in Casco Viejo and down on the marina islands offering between them just about every conceivable world food – and in our limited experience of the last few days, the quality is high.

Just on the edge of Casco Viejo, just before one of the no-go areas, is Cafe Coca-Cola, a Panama City institution which has been serving local staples to eager clients since 1875, making it the oldest cafe in the city. Dining here makes it easy to see why this place continues to thrive: plain, lively, uncomplicated and by some distance the cheapest place we’ve eaten here. Oh, and the food is so, so satisfying.

Within the safety cordon that protects Casco Viejo from the outside world there is an air of welcome and a spirit of friendliness which means that every wander around the streets takes longer than we expect – everybody wants to talk. And not just those trying to make a sale, either…they just like to stop and chat here. Even the couple in a neighbouring apartment keep engaging us in friendly banter.

“Hola, bueno’ dia’”, they all shout in unison as we walk in to the breakfast cafe with its aromas of coffee and baking.

“How long in Panama?” asks the waiter at the Finca del Mar restaurant as he jigs to the Latin beat while taking our order.

“Oh wow….from Inglaterra, welcome to Panama”, says the shopkeeper as he tries to sell us a hat each (hats are ubiquitous – this is Panama after all). 

“Stay on the big roads and you will be OK”, says an old guy in a green T-shirt, “it is plain you are visitors and I want you to be safe”.

December 20th, our last day on this first sojourn in the capital city, is a public holiday, the National Day Of Mourning when the country remembers those lost on this date and the following days in 1989 when the USA mounted its largest military operation since Vietnam and sent in the troops to oust the President, General Noriega. In a move condemned by the UN General Assembly as a “flagrant violation of international law”, Noriega was indeed ousted and was to serve most of the rest of his life in prison for a variety of crimes committed during his period as de facto dictator.

The Day Of Mourning makes no reference to the former President but instead remembers the many civilians and military personnel who lost their lives during the invasion. Flags fly at half mast and the city is noticeably and significantly quieter, until evening at least when families gather for convivial meals out.

As with many such days throughout the world, the sale of alcohol is prohibited for the full 24 hours of the Day Of Mourning, providing us with a quiet time ourselves on our last night here, perhaps conveniently given our very early start tomorrow on our onward journey to explore the rest of Panama.

Drug Barons, Michaela’s Knee And An Island Named Accountant: Days In Paradise 

We have to admit that we’ve been a bit self-indulgent for the next seven days – well, it is Christmas after all. From now until 28th we’re on the ridiculously picturesque island of Contadora, out in the Pacific about 90 minutes on the little ferry boat from Panama City – a ferry boat which, with echoes of how Greek ferries used to be, crams as much goods and produce into its limited space as it does passengers.

An early departure time means we’re down at Flamenco Marina before daylight and disembarked and checked in to our room-with-an-incredible-view on the island shortly after 10am. Before coming here we’d read that the ferry is unable to dock and it’s necessary to wade through the waters on arrival, but this is no longer the case as they’ve installed a floating pontoon – tricky to negotiate when loaded with backpacks but better than being knee deep in the Pacific.

Contadora really does translate as “accountant”, or “counter” (as in one who counts things) or, if you like, stocktaker. And the name comes from precisely that – when the Spanish first did their thing and came over to the Americas to plunder riches and do their damnedest to wipe out indigenous civilisations, they were so successful with the plundering aspect that they needed somewhere to count up the riches and assimilate the values of their ill gotten gains. Remote islands free from combative natives was the answer – and Contadora was one such, a place to sort out the rich stuff before sending it home to the motherland. Isn’t it remarkable and just a little amusing that the name survives to this day.

Panama isn’t an old country in the great scheme of things, yet studying its history and trying to present a précis is a bit of a challenge. Rife with complexity, connivance and contradiction, filled with espionage, exploitation and embezzlement, trying to understand Panama is like trying to unravel a huge bowl of spaghetti and then finding there’s four other bowls, one of which is tagliatelle. 

But let’s have a go. This tiny slip of land was always bound to be coveted – a land bridge between the two halves of the Americas and the shortest route between the two great oceans. Early dwellers here were most likely decimated if not wiped out altogether by eruptions of Volcan Baru.

The 16th century sees the area which is modern day Panama occupied by the Spanish who meet some fierce resistance from indigenous peoples but plunder and bulldoze in their usual way nonetheless. Piracy threatens Spanish rule with Henry Morgan’s rampaging visits destroying the old metropolis and triggering the creation of Panama City. But they conquer the threat and the Camino Real becomes the main transit route for the plundered riches of South America heading for Spain: then later, as this route falls into decline, so do the fortunes of the region.

Independence from Spain, effectively as a province of Colombia, precedes another economic surge as South Americans flock in numbers to the California gold rush, a rise in fortune which brings about first the Panama Railway and second the desire to build the canal. In 1903, sensing an opportunity for ROI and creation of a tax haven, the USA, with the major US Banks allegedly influencing Congress’s decisions, seizes on France’s failure to build the canal and backs Panama’s independence from Colombia in a deal which ensures the USA retains control of the canal.

Relations between USA and Panama are at times strained but endure until the 1980s when Noriega becomes President and eyes a different route to greater riches through alliance with drug barons rather than the US. 1989 consequently sees the American invasion and removal and imprisonment of Noriega. Ten years later, on the last day of the 20th century, ownership of the canal is handed by the USA to Panama. With significant control over the generous proceeds from the canal, Panama both invests in tourism and works towards granting increased rights to indigenous populations such as the Ngabe and Guna who have previously been persecuted and marginalised. 

So there you have a 3-paragraph history of Panama which misses out much of the skullduggery and intrigue which is so difficult to unravel but hopefully has some context and orientation. All the more amusing though that this island retains the name Contadora to this day, still recognising the historical need for the Spanish to have a safe counting house 500 years ago despite all that has happened in this region since.

And what a beautiful little paradise island it is, so small that you could walk around the whole thing in about an hour if there wasn’t so many things to make you stop and stare. Eleven picture perfect beaches form a soft golden border between the green and the blue, the undulating interior is heavily wooded, bringing both shade and birdsong to the scene.

Contadora is also an extremely quiet haven; with a significantly limited number of beds on the island this is a peaceful, get-away-from-it-all corner of the world where even the best beaches are virtually empty. The tidal sweep narrows the sandy shores to thin strips twice per day, and brings surprisingly strong cross currents on the flow tide. A little flurry of morning activity heralds the daily docking of the ferry, solitary fishermen arrive on dinghies late afternoon carrying tonight’s dinner for everyone, neighbouring islands protrude from the blue seas like settings for Robinson Crusoe.

Mostly hidden by trees and shrubs, a once proud three-storey building lurks sulkily behind the beautiful Playa Larga where an abandoned ferry rusts on the golden sand. This large, rambling place was once a 5-star hotel attracting the rich and famous (think Elizabeth Taylor, Sophia Loren, John Wayne, the Kennedys) but now just adds to the intriguing history of Contadora, having been owned by an extremely wealthy Colombian said to have had strong connections with the biggest of the drug barons.

When that owner, one Carlos Arango, was killed in a mysterious plane crash, the hotel fell idle, giving rise to a general suspicion that the whole thing had been a cover for money laundering. As one report puts it, “fictitious guests don’t pay the bills”. Such things might just explain why this remote and unassuming little island has an incongruously well maintained landing strip for light aircraft.

Life for us here has no such complication. Our days start with glorious sunrises, pass through twelve hours of cloudless skies and end with the classic paradise island sight of palm trees silhouetted against the evening sky. Then it’s time for stargazing with the milky way clearly visible from our balcony.

Or at least that’s how it is until Michaela is involved in An Incident. Playing in the waves at the beach close to our room, we are body surfing and having fun being dragged around by the powerful currents when a large unseen log, carried by the crashing wave, smashes into Michaela’s knee. Cue instant bruising and, the following day, a pronounced limp and real difficulty bending the joint. Even walking is suddenly an issue.

It’s around ten days till we reach the serious hiking part of this trip. Ten days for her to recover….

Paradise Lost: Time To Move On

Michaela’s coming together with the floating log necessitates hiring a golf buggy to explore the island rather than going everywhere on foot, primarily because her oh-so-slow walk gives her a gait which brings both John Cleese and Jake The Peg to mind at the same time. She climbs steps as a toddler would, carefully assessing next move before lifting the first leg and then placing both feet on each step.

Golf buggies are slightly odd too: at first the combination of a top heavy centre of gravity and uneven road surfaces with an ever changing camber makes us feel as if the thing will topple at any moment and we’re going to have more than just a bad knee to worry about. But, like anything, we get used to it quickly and are soon bombing round Contadora like we’ve driven golf buggies since ever.

By Christmas morning the knee is a lot more mobile. Whether this is down to the ice packs kindly provided by hotel staff, the passage of time, or last night’s admirable concoction of Balboa beer, caipirinha and Argentinian Malbec all coming together to act as a painkiller is a matter of conjecture.

Boxing Day brings a change as we engage a local boatman, aptly named Marino, to take us on a tour around a few of the neighbouring islands. Contadora is just one of the circa 300 islands constituting the Islas del Perlas (Pearl Islands), so named not, as we first thought, because of their undeniable beauty, but because when the Spanish first arrived here they could scarcely believe the quantity of pearls – in oyster and conch shells, on the beaches and around the necks of the natives.

Even amongst these paradise islands there are some which are jewels in the many crowns, perfectly gorgeous tiny islands with pristine beaches, some like sand dunes rising out of the sea, others with the palm trees and greenery of that idyllic desert island which exists in all of our minds. Most of the Las Perlas islands are uninhabited: these amazing beaches are the preserve of locals like Marino and boat-owning Panama City dwellers. Most of the islands have no buildings; many have no name.

Marino takes us first to Saboga, the only nearby island with an authentic village, where most of those who work on Contadora reside. Wandering amongst its dirt roads and houses feels so different from its more popular neighbour, a village looking after its own rather than looking after visitors. From Saboga we head on to Chapera, Mogo Mogo and finally the ridiculously gorgeous sand and waters of Boya Arena.

At each of the last two, the sand stretches across the island to the opposite side: these are beaches with two shores. Mogo Mogo, it seems, has a claim to fame as the location for TV shows known as “Survivor”. Appearance wise, it’s no surprise that these sumptuous, perfect islands are TV stars in their own right – unfortunately for us though, we unwittingly time our visit to coincide with low tide on the day of the lowest tide of the cycle, so rocks and shingle are exposed where normally there would be the perfect sea for swimming.

Then, later on, out of nowhere and without warning in comes Montezuma hell bent on revenge, in comes Delhi with his belly, in comes Gut with his rot. One minute I’m eulogising the fish dish I’m eating and the next it’s 4am and I’m parting company with what feels like everything I’ve eaten in the last three weeks. Sometimes these things just take over – and there are moments through the course of the day when curling up and dying seems like a decent option. I make a few forlorn trudges down to swim but by early evening I have to admit defeat and give in. Ah well. You win, Monty.

And so our time on the paradise island of Contadora ends not with a bang but with a whimper, as we board the ferry back to Panama City with me feeling a little fragile after the blitz and a long stretch without food and Michaela nursing her badly bruised but rapidly improving knee. In a sense though, that’s not all.

On the last morning on Contadora, in that awkward spell after checking out but before it’s time to catch the ferry, Michaela looks up and poses a question.

“Is it me, or has this trip gone a bit flat?”

“It’s not you, it has”.

We have a little chat about it and we’re quick to realise we’re having the same thoughts: this trip needs a kick up the backside. Suddenly it feels too long since we had an adrenaline rush, since we climbed a mountain, since we explored ancient monuments, since we trekked a jungle….spotted wildlife….suddenly it feels like too long since….excitement.

There’s absolutely nothing wrong with either Treasure Beach or the Pearl Islands, they are exotic and romantic and the stuff of dreams, but there’s only so many times you can go “wow” at the same views, only so many days that a peaceful paradise is enough.

And we’re at the end of that time, ready to move on and explore a whole load more of the mainland. Panama here we come…

Across Panama To Pedasi: Into Cowboy Country

The heavy cloud which tends to envelop Panama City every afternoon is visible from the ferry some time before we reach the marina, large grey smudges marking cloudbursts and darkening the skies behind the lines of tankers and container ships waiting for their turn to pass through the Canal. Even the Bridge of the Americas looks dark and brooding rather than majestic.

Passing through Panama City again – the second of four times we’ll be here due to the shape and layout of the country – we are now very ready for the next stage of this adventure as we collect the hire car and head out of town. Our brief stay this time provides an opportunity for that rarest of photographic pairings: a vulture and a jacuzzi…

As the 6-hour journey evolves, leaving Panama City behind and heading north west along a long stretch of the PanAmerican Highway, we start to feel liberated. Starting off with a feeling of stasis and still struggling a bit with the after effects of “gut attack”, the long drive is anything but gruelling and as we make our way up country we can feel the sense of freedom growing and our spirits lifting.

Once off the Highway we head out on to the hefty Azuero Peninsula, the road forging through cattle ranches, corn fields and even rodeos on its journey down towards the southern extremity. We are treated along the way to glimpses of an ancient New Year tradition in these parts, and it’s a real source of amusement.

As the end of a year approaches, the locals build effigies of anyone who has caused them – individually or collectively – angst during the past 12 months, and stick those effigies in a public place. These are known as “Judas dolls” and  tend to be public figures rather than private enemies. As midnight on New Years Eve approaches, the locals stuff fireworks inside the costumes of the Judas dolls, set them alight, then stand back and watch that person’s image get confined to history, signifying that a new year may bring something (or someone) better.

We don’t spot a single Putin amongst the sacrificial dolls, more’s the pity, and we don’t recognise many…..but there’s a fair few in Arab dress with a “FIFA 2022” label, and the most regularly seen figure is, surprisingly….. Lionel Messi. The Press back home would have us believe that all of Latin America is united in joy at Argentina’s success, it’s clearly not the case!

And so we enter our next base, the small town of Pedasi in the province of Los Santos. This modest little town, built around a quaint square with its undersized church, is gloriously rural – agricultural, even. Cattle ranches surround the town, livestock trucks trundle through, cow hands mounted on horse back really do still strut around the villages, round up cattle, stop for a beer, all the while sporting a look which is somewhere between John Wayne and gaucho.

Pedasi is a truly lovely little town, full of friendly and welcoming people and clearly still reliant on farming as the main source of income. A handful of American expats live here but, despite that, very little English is spoken by staff in bars or shops, adding to the warm feeling that its unassuming and rural character exudes.

A huge poster photo of Mireya Moscoso greets you as you enter Pedasi and her statue adorns the little square, she is this town’s undoubted heroine. Born into one of the six founding families of Pedasi but born nevertheless into rural poverty, her father died when Mireya was just ten years old, leaving the family with a desperate fight for survival. Improbably, this remarkable woman – she must have been one powerful individual – followed her passions for equal rights so vehemently that in 1999 she became Panama’s first ever female President and was to serve in that role for a 5-year term which included handover of the Canal from the USA. No wonder Pedasi is so proud. (Note: the Presidency didn’t go terribly well, but that’s another story…).

Driving around the lanes of the peninsula is so very enjoyable, the scenery is lush and beautiful without ever being dramatic. Leafy lanes wind through rolling green hills, cattle graze on deep lush grass, deciduous trees sit comfortably next to tropical plants. It’s a bit like driving through a stretch of English countryside – Devon perhaps – with a load of banana plants and palm trees thrown in. 

Dotted throughout are charming, agricultural villages, usually centred around a small church and a basketball court (no really) – we could describe these villages as “peaceful“ if it wasn’t for the fact that there’s always at least one household blasting out Latin music at ear splitting levels from speakers the size of a caravan. 

It’s New Year’s Eve. In each village, trestle tables are being strung together, plastic chairs arranged in semi circles, beer crates unloaded, the first firecrackers lit. More speakers – even bigger and needing four men to lift each one – are positioned just a few feet from the plastic chairs. The party is about to start, in every village.

Back in sedate Pedasi, every second household seems to be doing the same thing and, as we move closer to midnight, rockets and firecrackers are the only sounds which can be heard over and above the incessant party music. There is little in the way of “ooh” and “aah” here though, Panamanian fireworks are all about the ears rather than the eyes, on this evidence.

It all reaches its predictable climax at midnight, firecrackers echoing off the buildings like machine gun fire, but no way does it end at that point, bangs and crashes continuing through the night and well into the following day. Earlier, in a fonda (inn) called Smiley’s, a very capable rock band play to a mixed crowd of partying locals, American expats…and us two Brits.

After working impressively through some strong blues numbers, a bit of country, a Doors track or two, their second set gets right into a 90s rock groove and suddenly we’re listening to Nirvana, White Stripes, Kings of Leon, and then, as we enter the world of the surreal, Radiohead. This is all mighty fine by me, but watching the bemused locals and the silver haired expats chew on their steaks as the lead singer squeezes out “you’re so f***ing special” is just a tad bizarre.

Ah, those little moments…..

Northwards To The Picturesque Town Of Boquete

“No ingles, solo español”, says Jose as we climb into his slightly battered looking speedboat. It takes Jose a good eight pulls on the cable before the motor finally bursts into life rather than coughing and spluttering, and we are off across the waves towards Isla Iguana, although the occasional phut-phut noises make us wonder if we’re going to make it.

Despite the name of the island, iguanas, though they are here, are not the main reason to take an excursion to this dot of land out in the seas off Pedasi, and nor are the tens of thousands of crabs which make it look at times like the ground itself is moving, such is their number. No, the reason we want to see this island is birds: Isla Iguana is home to around 4,000 frigatebirds.

Most of the island is off limits for reasons of conservation, but a narrow trail leads through the trees to the opposite shore where a bit of clambering on the rocks buys us a vantage point from which to watch these fantastic birds both roosting and in flight. The colony comprises two types: the pigeon frigatebird and its more illustrious cousin, the aptly named magnificent frigatebird. Majestic and beautiful in flight with their elongated forked tails draping behind them, this is also the species in which the male has that remarkable bright red pouch on its throat.

During the mating process, the males puff out these red balloons in the most spectacular fashion in order to attract a female partner: these pouches are an amazing and improbable sight in terms of both colour and size. We are treated to a wonderful display and Michaela is able to capture some terrific shots. Standing on the rocks with these spectacular birds circling above us is a mesmerising and spine tingling experience and for a considerable time we just can’t tear ourselves away.

When we do, after some three hours on the island, Jose is dutifully waiting, lifejackets at the ready, the Yamaha motor coughing and spluttering like a chain smoker at breakfast. Just as we reach Pedasi, it gives one last whine, one last phutt, then falls stubbornly silent forcing four of Jose’s buddies to wade out to pull us ashore. We hand Jose his dollars and leave him to wonder how and when he’ll be able to make his next trip.

By mid morning the next day, we’ve left Jose and Pedasi well behind as we start our next journey, away from the rolling green hills, out through miles and miles of flat sugar cane plantations until eventually the bold peaks of the Chiriqui region start to appear. It’s around 3pm as we pull around the final curve and drop down into our next location, the town of Boquete.

There’s a degree of swoon about us as we take our first look around this riverside town. Boquete is a love-at-first-sight kinda place. The white water fast flowing river cuts a swathe through town, bounded by gardens and nurseries packed with brightly coloured flowers, quaint buildings clinging to the banks of the river. Above and all around are the green jungle clad mountains: gazing past the river and up at the scenery is a recipe for instant contentment.

The main street shows much evidence of tourism and expat influences – tour operators are everywhere, opportunities for adventure abound, there’s an American themed restaurant named Big Daddy’s – but none of it detracts from its instant appeal. Later, as we wander down for our first Boquete evening, it’s not cicadas or crickets which serenade us, but a tumultuous and highly amusing frog chorus which has us laughing all the way to town.

Equally constant is the sound of running water; streams cascade down the rocks from every direction making their way towards to the delightfully pretty river, gurgles and splashes and babbles filling the air. As first impressions go, Boquete has probably racked up a 10 out of 10.

If Boquete itself is lovely, then the surrounding scenery is even more perfect and picturesque, and as we make our first explorations around the area and its rolling hills we are constantly stopping to stare. Resplendent flowers bring colour to gardens and hedgerows alike, sudden rock faces paint black patches among the greenery, frothing streams bring life and sound, and all the time the green mountains tower over the whole scene.

With much to do here, some of it requiring guides and pre-booking, our first job is to get everything sorted and in the diary. Once done, our first adventure is a self-guided hike on the Lost Waterfalls Trail, a relatively short hike of about 3 hours’ duration but with a significant elevation gain and some tricky underfoot conditions.

In fact the going on the trail is not easy at any time: but it is a whole load of fun. Heavy mud, large tree roots, rocks and boulders, streams running along the trail route, all play a part – and in several places the climb is so steep that it’s necessary to haul yourself up, or down, by rope. The trail takes us to three separate waterfalls, each one worthy of the climb in its own right.

We’re not sure why the waterfalls are “lost”, but they certainly are spectacular, crashing on to the smooth dark rocks with a constant roar, the white foam clashing beautifully with the volcanic black. Standing in the roar, feeling the cool of the spray on our faces, watching the cascading spectacle, is ample reward for the hike before we head back down. 

After weeks of balmy evenings, dusk brings a chilly wind here in Boquete and it’s back to sweatshirts and long trousers to watch the live band and sip our well earned beers. The evening atmosphere in the town is a little similar to La Fortuna in Costa Rica: visitors unwinding from the day’s activities, American expats chatting with staff, local youngsters enjoying a drink or a romantic hour on the bridges.

Our time in Boquete is all about experience and adventure, with some much anticipated adrenaline rushes to come over the next few days. The bonus is this delightful little town. 

Zip Wires, Rafting & Hanging Bridges: The Adrenaline Flows In Boquete

The first clue is the bus: this military-looking heavy beast is clearly built to cross difficult terrain, yet there is little clue as to what’s next as we climb the mountain roads through the extensive and orderly coffee plantations. Then, without warning, we are off the road and on to something which would resemble a river bed if it wasn’t for the steep incline – and for over 30 minutes we rock, roll and bang our way up the volcano.

This is Finca El Oasis, primarily a coffee farm but these days bringing in extra cash from a zip wire trail, with eight lines heading down Volcan Baru from a start point way above the clouds. Having done this before in Costa Rica, we are free from nerves and full of excitement as we mount the first platform and look along the first wire which spans the deep valley and disappears into the trees opposite.

It is, though, quite a different system from last time, with an altered body position and a completely different braking mechanism. As far as the zip experience itself goes, it is every bit as exhilarating though – there are few feelings quite like seeing the land drop away beneath you as you speed like a bird across the valley, the whole world seemingly miles below. For anyone who hasn’t done it, we can tell you that zip lining is a brilliant, thrilling experience.

So good in fact that after the last wire – the longest of the eight at 550 metres – neither of us want it to be over and would happily go back up the volcano and do it all again. It’s a long time before we stop smiling.

After the trekking (land) and the zip wire (air) it seems kind of logical to get on the water for the next adrenaline fix – and what a fantastic fix it is. Like the zip wire, this isn’t our first time white water rafting but oh wow this one is so much better than last time. Whilst our first experience, some years ago in Montenegro, was relatively tame, this one is absolutely action packed with Grade 3 rapids every few minutes along the river’s course.

With a brief mid term stop for picnic lunch, the ride is a whacking four hours long, a constantly thrilling and exciting battle against the churning waters of the Chiriqui Viejo River. There are four punters in each raft, and four rafts in the convoy, each with its own skipper or guide – ours is the fun loving Julio, but then all four skippers seem to be having at least as much fun as we are.

Julio is fast and firm with his commands….”forward” means paddle, “forward hard” means paddle like crazy, “back” is obvious, “up” means don’t paddle, but “down” means we have to dive from our sitting position into the bottom of the raft, hunkering down and holding paddles aloft to avoid being thrown into the raging waters. This usually means half the river is going to flood into the boat too. Some from the other dinghies don’t get it right and get thrown into the river, but our team of four come through unscathed and without a dunking – although this kind of rafting is pretty much the same as getting a dunking anyway.

We can’t overstate how good this is. Exciting, daring, fun, hilarious, even shocking at times, the whole experience is a fabulous adrenaline rush and, in terms of this kind of adventure, is one of the best things we’ve ever done. The sense of achievement when we get back on the bus is immense; the sense of thrill is still buzzing round our veins. For the second day in a row we just can’t stop smiling.

After the fountains trail hike, the zip line and the rafting, the hanging bridge walk through the forest canopy on our fourth day feels rather tame, apart from the panoramic views across the treetops to the volcano and a fleeting glimpse of a fabulously colourful bird, the collared redstart (no photo – they’re too quick!). Ironically the most exciting bit is right at the end, where hummingbirds hover around the flower heads long enough for Michaela to capture a few shots of these beautiful little birds.

Boquete is nearly done. It’s been extremely exciting here – had terrific adventures, seen wonderful scenery, got to know a gorgeous little town and met some great people. And that’s without mentioning the very decent restaurants (spoilt for choice) and our evening venue of choice, the Boquete Brewing Company bar with its excellent beers, brilliant music selection and live bands every night. Every evening, downing those beers, listening to that music and mulling over our day and all we’ve done, has felt like the best of travel days.

After the lethargy of the paradise beaches, Boquete has been as full on as it gets, from dawn till long after dusk. We have loved it. 

Boca Chica: Sometimes Panama Needs A Mute Switch

It’s Day 47 of this trip when Michaela’s fitbit throws in the towel and responds to each request with a blank screen, then slides from 100% charge to under 10% in less than an hour. Not so interesting, except that this is the fifth fitbit in 3 years to follow this route. When we retired, Michaela decided that a fitbit would be a useful travelling companion, helping to record, in particular, our walking distances. Five have now bit the dust, not one of them lasting twelve months and four of them failing to complete their maiden journey. Every single one has failed whilst abroad. Any ideas what’s going on, anyone?

Before we finally leave Boquete, minus one piece of gadgetry, we take a drive up to El Parador, a viewpoint which offers truly stunning views back across the beautiful scenery to Volcan Baru: a brilliant place to bid farewell, and not a terrible place to have breakfast, either, as it happens. Swallows, or maybe martins, swoop around us as we enjoy the fabulous views.

A couple of hours later we pull into our next destination, the rather unusual village of Boca Chica on the Pacific coast, tucked between the green and the blue. There’s just the one half-made road in, which forks into two as it enters the village, each branch then reaching the waterfront within a couple of hundred yards. Boatmen at the jetty call out looking for their next fare, pelicans wait patiently for their next catch, the islands of Golfo di Chiriqui call enticingly from across the water. A couple of small restaurants peep out from between the modest houses, a small chapel nestles in the trees, there is little else here apart from the village’s amazing setting.

Yet Boca Chica is by no means a silent backwater, not today anyway. It is a gateway to the beaches on the numerous islands in the gulf and, as this is another Panamanian public holiday weekend, city dwellers from David are passing through in numbers and the boatmen are raking in the dollars. La Costa, the small restaurant next to the jetty, is doing brisk business as returning sunseekers grab some fresh fish before heading back to the city.

Uphill from, and about a kilometre away from, the village, our base here in Boca Chica is perfect, a small private lodging way above the water, with two sensational aspects – 1, the view across the surrounding islands out in the gulf, and 2, a sumptuously well placed infinity pool to enhance those views. It’s so peaceful here, the silence broken only by birdsong, monkey calls and the distant sound of motor boats ambling across the water. Our very accommodating and gregarious hosts Herbie and Erika – South African, been here 6 years – are great company at breakfast and at any other time we are up for conversation. 

The treetops around us is a haven for birdlife….multi coloured tanagers, oropendola, woodpeckers, parrots and a host of other colourful birds flutter and feed amongst the dense greenery whilst vultures and raptors circle overhead. It’s beautifully peaceful, and then next morning at first light we awake to the calls of the howler monkeys and the strange squeaky-wheel calls of the oropendola. These are the sounds of peace and tranquility. It feels wonderful, detached from the world, yet at one with nature, all at once.

Monday morning is the third day of the long weekend public holiday and so we feel compelled to join those city dwellers and head off on a small boat over to the islands. The calm of our temporary dwelling has lulled us into thinking that peace is a King which rules around these parts – gotta be right, yeah? Errr, no.

Bum chigga bum chig….bum chigga bum chig….That’s pretty much the rhythm of every song on every sound system in Panama…and in Costa Rica too for that matter. As our boat approaches the first island, Bolaños, the incessant beat is literally bouncing across the water towards our boat. Bum chigga bum chig…. bum chigga bum chig…..the beach is full of families barbecuing under the shade of the palm trees, speakers the size of small houses pounding out the “music” as if there’s an award for the loudest. Bum chigga bum chig…bum chigga bum chig..bum chigga bum chig…

What’s more, there’s nowhere else to go. The tiny island has only dense impenetrable forest, no trails, and rugged rocks framing the beach. And the next two islands are the same…except Parida, the second one, also has a beach bar which also plays music that goes bum chigga bum chig…. bum chigga bum chig…. just ever so slightly louder than the giant speakers of the families on the beach.

After three islands of ear splitting music we are desperate for the tranquility of “home”. And of course it delivers, birdsong to listen to and summer lightning over the Pacific to entertain us, the chief howler monkey hauntingly calling his troupe back together for bedtime. We speak with Herbie in whispers so as not too upset our mammal neighbours.

As we drift off to sleep listening to the sounds of jungle wildlife, something, somewhere in the back of my head, something like a nightmare earworm, is speaking to me, taunting me…..going bum chigga bum chig…… bum chigga bum chig….. bum chigga bum chig…bum chigga bum chig…

By Tuesday morning it’s over, they’ve all gone back to their day jobs and Boca Chica has returned to what we assume is its normal character. Far fewer boatmen populate the jetty, La Costa waits for diners, silence reigns where yesterday there was manic activity. We take a water taxi over to Boca Brava, wander along the attractive “sendero” through the forests to a beach where we are at first completely alone until just a handful of others set up camp under the trees. They don’t have a giant speaker; this time there’s nothing to drown out the gentle lapping sound of waves on the sand. The Pacific waters are unbelievably warm, particularly in the shallows; it’s like lounging in bath water.

When we return to base after a few hours of blissful peace, we find there is an opposite change of dynamic back at the Eco Lodge and as Boca Chica quietens down, so our haven inches up in the other direction. Having shared the place with only our hosts and Dennis and Alice from Alaska for a couple of days, there is now an influx of German voices and the decibel levels have ramped up, and for a while the Eco Lodge becomes the Echo Lodge as harsh Teutonic consonants bounce back off the walls in just about every direction. The howler monkeys sense too much competition and go to seek refuge somewhere in the darkness.

The night before the German invasion, we had listened transfixed as Herbie and Erika had described to ourselves and Dennis and Alice the challenges of life in South Africa, and how much safer they now feel having put distance between themselves and their own homeland. They detail a troubled and volatile political climate back home; the conversation is illuminating and revealing, not to mention shocking. Unfortunately it does nothing to bring South Africa higher up our wish list.

We end our time at the Lodge in just the way we’ve come to love over these last few days, once again exchanging stories with Herbie and Erika, and with Dennis and Alice – not least because everyone, absolutely everyone, has a story to tell. In Alice’s case, it’s the fact that this lady has survived not one but TWO helicopter crashes in her life…what are the chances!? It’s just a little bit hard to drive away from here, not necessarily because Boca Chica has offered anything particularly special, but because our time at the Lodge has been so very good. Herbie and Erika are the definition of good hosts and after only three nights here it’s a bit like saying goodbye to family.

But once again it’s time to head across country, eating up the miles on the PanAmerican and racing towards our next, very different, destination. Every now and again we pass a roadside cafe, or a homestead, where speakers the size of small houses go….

Bum chigga bum chig…bum chigga bum chig…bum chigga bum chig…

El Valle: A Town Inside A Volcano 

Panama is the 23rd country of the world in which we’ve driven cars and there’s no way we could ever describe it as one of the hardest. Away from the most rural roads which can be a bit sketchy, the highways and even B-roads boast good quality, smooth surfaces and very little traffic compared to home. At times the PanAmerican resembles an empty Scalextric track as it rolls over and around the hillsides.

Our next destination, El Valle de Anton, is reputedly the largest settlement in the entire world which is located inside the caldera of a volcano, and as we make our approach on the steeply dropping hairpinned road, the shape of the caldera is clearly visible in the line of towering hills which encircle the town.

It’s fair to say that our time in El Valle does not get off to the best of starts. Our accommodation, at first impression, is a sizeable step down in quality from the last few and, as we take our first walk through town, it’s a game of running from shop canopy to shop canopy as the frequent heavy showers bucket down. A bland meal served by fiercely disinterested restaurant staff is regularly interrupted by the need to shoo off yet another stray dog – there are an awful lot of them wandering the streets and casting cow-eyed gazes at those with food. Dogs that is, not restaurant staff.

Sensing potential issues, we’d fumigated the house with our reliable bug spray before going out: now on our return the bed is peppered with the tiny black spots of dead flies, small enough to be barely visible but if these things bite then we’re in for a rough ride here. Sitting on the bed chatting, we can see more and more of these minute creatures mooching around the room and we start to feel less and less comfortable. The insect screens on the windows don’t quite fit and the little horrors have a clear route in.

Just as we are debating how serious our error of judgment may be, Michaela leaps up from the bed with a squeal and a face of total disgust: a giant cockroach has just crawled out from under her pillow right next to her shoulder. Now, we know by now with all our experience that bugs are an occupational hazard for the traveller, and encounters with unwanted intruders is hardly uncommon, but the thought that cockroaches may have overnight access to our bodies is a step too far and we know we can’t stay here.

It’s too late to change anything tonight, so we sleep fitfully, fully clothed and inside our “nod pods” (thank God we brought them), waiting for daylight. By mid morning the next day we are relocated into the Golden Frog Inn which is every bit as lovely as its name, set in gorgeous gardens in the foothills of the caldera and affording great views of these remarkable surroundings. Drama over.

El Valle is hiking country – you don’t have to clock the clothing of too many visitors here to work that one out – so our first full day is spent tackling two of the more popular trails. The first, the India Dormida Trail, takes us up the steep mountainside past a succession of waterfalls until we emerge above the tree line and out on top of the ridge way above the town. From up here, the views are absolutely fantastic, not just of El Valle itself but even more so of the circle of mountains all around.

It is a classic, perfect caldera, an almost complete ring rising above the plateau in which El Valle sits – so perfectly circular that as you look around, it’s absolutely possible to imagine the gigantic volcano collapsing in on itself over a million years ago. Standing up on the ridge soaking up this remarkable and unusual view is genuinely awesome, just thinking through the colossal seismic events which shaped this land, the legacy of which is the fertile ground which is El Valle’s raison d’etre. The volcano is of course long extinct: the population here is in no danger from future eruptions. 

India Dormida, by the way, translates as “sleeping Indian woman” and it doesn’t take too much of a stretch of the imagination to see why. Study the line of hills in this photograph – can you make out the shape, the lady’s head to the right?

Supposedly, the “Indian lady”, named Luba, prostrated herself on the grassy savannah upon realising she had fallen in love with the wrong man – a Spanish soldier and thus a figure of revulsion to her own people – the mountains turning her to stone and subsequently taking on her shape to warn others of the consequences of fraternising with the enemy.

The trail is tricky in places, probably more tricky coming down than climbing up, due to the wet and slippery conditions underfoot, but the second trail, the Arboles Cuadrados (Square Trees) Trail is by comparison short and easy, and apparently the best place to spot the golden frog indigenous to this area and from which our new “home” takes its name. We don’t see any, and we’re not sure why the trees are called “square” either.

With good fortune the rain holds off for the duration of both hikes, then comes pounding in with typically tropical force just after we reach the refuge of our new home. Good timing. The pattern of our first two days here – hot sultry mornings followed by torrential afternoon rain – is apparently typical of the rainy season which is normally over by mid December. It’s hanging around a bit longer this year.

Unfortunately our hiking in El Valle ends there, partly due to finding trails inexplicably closed and barricaded off, partly due to a main road being resurfaced and access to the trailhead being in the closed section of road, and partly due to the fact that the tourist information centre has no trail maps and there seems to be none anywhere else in town. Oh, and a trail which you can only do with a guide and, according to the man at the gate, there are “no guides here today”. All a bit surprising for a place with a reputation for good hiking.

There’s a decent craft market in town though, but what will probably be our lasting memory of El Valle (apart from the cockroach in the bed) is just how heavy the rain is when it blows in, as it does regularly. This is pretty wet as dry seasons go.

As for El Valle’s restaurants….well, night one was, as we said, a bland meal served by disinterested staff. Night two, different venue, I only ordered the steak because Michaela fancied red wine with her meal and steak and red wine had a certain feelgood after hiking: it turned out to be a genuine contender for the worst, most inedible steak I’ve ever been served anywhere in the world, no exaggeration. Want to know how good the red wine was? So do we, because it never did arrive at our table despite chasing it numerous times.

Whilst picking my way through the obstacle course which is supposed to be a steak, half of the insect population of El Valle is, we discover later, munching on the flesh around our shins and ankle bones. There’s at least one fly round here who has eaten a lot more red meat than I have tonight.

We awake on our last morning in El Valle to torrential rain, winds battering the windows and bending the trees, and a noticeable drop in temperature (although such things are relative – it’s a “chilly” 23C) and cloud cover which obscures the mountains. To our dismay we also wake up to this….

With the help of the staff at the Golden Frog and the fast and efficient guys at the local tyre place we are soon on our way and only 4 dollars out of pocket. We leave El Valle without too many boxes ticked – this town is in a terrific setting but it managed to give us few other reasons to be cheerful, what with its heavy rain, disappointing mealtimes and inaccessible hiking trails.

Next to the Canal Zone and the small town of Gamboa…

Gamboa: Life In The Canal Zone

Drive something like twenty kilometres down a dead end road, deeper and deeper into the rainforest, the Panama Canal to your left, until eventually you reach the waters of the Chagres River. Cross the narrow, low slung bridge over the river….and enter Gamboa.

Gamboa is a place with an unusual history which is absolutely tangible as we walk past the mostly empty, odd looking box shaped timber houses, through the sultry, dripping rainforest yet feeling almost as if we’re in a residential street. Jungle sounds are all around, agoutis scurry past our feet and howler monkeys call overhead yet we could just as easily be walking through American military quarters. Some places are steeped in ancient history, some are more modern: Gamboa is neither, or maybe a bit of both, a recently constructed town which is now all but deserted after a short yet important lifespan.

This is the point where the mighty Chagres River feeds the Panama Canal, the point where the valleys were intentionally flooded to form Gatun Lake during the canal’s construction. Gatun Lake is the widest part of the canal and effectively the water source for the canal itself and so its creation was essential for the success of the project, despite the need to submerge several tribal villages in the process. “Mighty” is an appropriate adjective for the Chagres as nearly 60% of all the run-off water of the entire country ends up in this one river.

So what are those houses, what exactly is Gamboa’s unusual history?

Before construction of the canal, the nearest settlements to Gamboa were Santa Cruz and Las Cruces, homesteads of the indigenous Embera people living deep in the rainforest and alongside the river. When the Panama Railway was completed in 1855 and the area was first mapped in detail, none of the maps show any trace of a town in the place where Gamboa now stands.

It was, of course, construction of the canal which gave birth to Gamboa, first built to house the so called “silver roll” workers and their families. The “silver roll” workers were essentially the non-white, non-American section of the canal workforce, paid around half of the amount paid to American whites doing precisely the same work, provided with minimal medical care and given sub-standard food whilst their white colleagues enjoyed a completely different, more elevated lifestyle. It’s a truly shocking fact that the reason that there is no official tally of the number of deaths during the canal’s construction, is that only the deaths of whites were recorded – deaths among the silver roll were not considered relevant enough for records to be kept.

When the canal was completed in 1914, Gamboa’s population moved on, leaving just 173 inhabitants behind – until, that is, the Canal Dredging Company moved its HQ here in the 1940s. And now the town had its heyday, the population rising to 3,853 by 1942. New multi-family dwellings, those unusual looking houses which look so out of place here, were constructed using timber from the sequoia trees of Northern California, the new inhabitants (by decree, whites only) building a railroad station, a civic centre, a school and no less than five churches together with, reportedly, a strong sense of community.

This resurgence of Gamboa was to be short lived. Over the next few decades, much of the dredging company’s operations were moved to the capital, and those timber houses and civic amenities, so recently constructed, were steadily deserted and the population once again dwindled. Now, in 2023, the strange former town sits mostly in silence, a shadow of its former self. A short-lived, once thriving community with its slightly strange communal houses now stands largely, but not totally, uninhabited, the houses like small scale apartment blocks deep in the sweltering rainforest. It’s an incongruous sight.

But here’s another twist. Improvement of roadways and the upswing in Panama’s economy since acquiring control of the canal mean that this remote-feeling corner of riverside rainforest is nowadays only just over half an hour’s drive out of Panama City – and suddenly an ideal location for creating a visitor destination. And so the Gamboa Rainforest Resort came into being.

With the mighty Chagres alongside, the Canal, Gatun Lake and the Panama Railway on the doorstep, yet surrounded by largely uncharted rainforest jungle, this place offers a fabulous opportunity to see a fantastic natural menagerie of birds, mammals and reptiles. A very civilised place to stay, deep enough into the rainforest to explore all that the jungle has to offer but without going rustic. We would also say that whoever designed the main building of the Resort should have won an award – the magnificent central atrium with its giant glazed facade looking out across the river, its restaurant with amazing views and its second restaurant at the waterside a few hundred yards away, just ooze welcome and comfort.

That second restaurant, Don Caiman, is brilliantly positioned right at the junction of river and canal – meaning that we can watch turtles and crocodiles feeding at the same moment that a giant container ship passes by just a hundred metres or so away. Not to mention the eye candy which is the railroad bridge.

We know very quickly that we are going to enjoy our stay here, and after an initial wander around the area which brings a healthy amount of early wildlife spotting, our first activity here is the “aerial tram”. The aerial tram is a kind of ski lift affair which lifts us up through the trees, up above the canopy and eventually to an observation tower with great views of the river, the canal and the forest.

There’s a rather serene feeling to drifting slowly up through the greenery and gently swaying beneath the cables, catching occasional glimpses of birds darting between perches. Serene becomes surreal at the top of the observation tower – no matter how often we see it, the sight of a towering and heavily laden container ship ambling silently past these jungle scenes still makes us rub our eyes. It really is odd.

If the aerial tram impresses, then the Gamboa Rainforest Reserve continues to do likewise. As if the location, the wildlife, the scenery and the building itself aren’t enough, the food turns out to be delicious too, and after little more than 24 hours here, this place feels like a very acceptable blend of comfort and adventure – rainforest and all that goes with it right on our very pleasant doorstep, yet a welcoming and comfortable place to stay.

There are adventures to be had here – hiking, jungle trekking, boats on the river, birds, mammals, reptiles….it’s not going to be hard to fill our days.

The Joy Of The Jungle: Gamboa Delivers

The chunky little bus that takes us on the night safari is called The Night Chiva. Absolutely no prizes then for guessing which Bee Gees song is in our heads as we peer into the darkness hoping to see something incredible. Apart from a pair of jewels which we are assured is the eyes of a caiman staring back at us, and some algae moving because the turtles are stirring below, we see nothing but darkness and the guide’s flashlight. So humming 80s disco music while eating dinner is tonight’s high.

But who cares if the brief (and free with room reservation) night trip doesn’t deliver: pretty much everything else at the Gamboa Rainforest Resort does. The Resort provides opportunities to ride the aerial tram above the forest canopy, take a boat trip to Monkey Island, get up early for a birdwatching walk, hike trails with guides, hike trails without guides, visit an Embero peoples’ tribal village, wander off alone into the jungle or into Gamboa town, see mammals, insects and reptiles, eat good food and drink decent Chilean red. With the exception of the tribal village tour which sounds a bit exploitative, we decide to set about doing all of it.

One of the joys is, you don’t have to work too hard to see great sights here, being in the heart of the rainforest means that exotic flora and fauna is right outside the door. And unlike that cockroach in El Valle, it stays outside the door.

Having already experienced the serene feel of the aerial tram and with a number of short hikes already completed, it’s time to hit the water with a boat trip which is described as a “trip to Monkey Island” but is in reality so much more. Out from the river jetty, under the low road and rail bridges and out on to the canal, our little motor boat is quickly in the company of several of those giant container ships as we make our way across the water.

We do indeed see monkeys on the islands, both capuchin and howler monkeys, and in fact witness what surely is a fairly uncommon sight, two howler monkeys busily copulating up In the trees. “Oh my God, are they f***ing!?”, shouts an American girl, decorum in absentia, obviously.

The Rainforest Resort has a butterfly garden and a frog pond, each packed with free ranging colourful specimens, and a sloth sanctuary where rescued young ones are reared in the hope of rewilding – though those which are injured and too old to return to the forest will spend the rest of their days here. All three places are good, but you can’t beat the joy of seeing sloths in the wild, which we also do on our hikes.

It is those hikes which are the biggest highlight. Although the guided ones are good, we actually have even more joy in terms of bird and mammal spotting on the walks on our own. Some set trails exist, but they are fairly short, and the real fun we have is in following sketchy, unclear trails deeper and deeper into the forest, and it’s on these unguided, unplanned hikes that we see some of our best sights, including the sloths.

Walking through the dense forest our senses are alive: the sounds, smells and sights of the jungle are continuously stimulating – and, in fact, our sixth sense is alive too, as is there is the constant unshakeable feeling that animal eyes are upon us, following our every step. Each hike brings these sensations, each hike brings something special, right up to the last one – they also bring a considerable amount of toil and sweat and the cold Balboa beer at the end, as we study our latest collection of wildlife shots, is always so welcome.

Talking of those shots, we have no intention of listing what we’ve seen, not when Michaela’s photography does the talking for us….

Gamboa Rainforest Resort has without doubt been the biggest highlight so far in this whole tour of Jamaica and Panama. We’ve seen some wonderful places over these last eight weeks, but Gamboa surpasses all of them; it’s been absolutely great here. And so we’re off now for one last leg for the final week of this trip, something which once again promises to be very different.

San Blas And The Guna Yala

Surely Daniel Defoe must have seen the San Blas islands before creating Robinson Crusoe. Surely every cartoonist who ever drew a joke picture of a man stranded on a desert island saw some of these places before putting pencil to paper. These islands of various sizes are almost amusing, so like the stereotypical image of a desert island that they are virtually a self parody.

The San Blas islands and the neighbouring mainland territory is the preserve and the home of the Guna Yala, indigenous peoples of Central America with very distinctive looks and, for the women, equally distinctive clothing. After decades of poor treatment, modern times have seen the Guna Yala given more and more rights and more and more freedom. Passing from Panama into this territory is a full blown border crossing – passports for travellers, ID cards for Panamanians, and a 20USD entry fee for all, despite the fact that you’re not leaving Panama.

Once across the quasi border, we are inside a region self-governed by the Guna Yala, there is little input or influence from central Government here, either legally or financially, this is pretty much a self sufficient and independent race. The way these very traditional people of unusual beliefs and character have adopted tourism as a source of income has made visiting here a slightly strange experience – more of that later.

There is essentially only one way to get to the San Blas islands, which involves transport to and from Panama City. Hence we are collected at 5am in a smart 4×4, taken first on the toll road and then on to a 90-minute rally along an unmade track, through giant potholes, tight curves and roller coaster slopes; no wonder the “road ferries” are all 4x4s. The instructions for the trip include the line: “Do not eat breakfast before travel if you suffer from motion sickness”. You get the picture.

An organised chaos ensues at the waterfront as travellers are allocated to the various boats which then race across the choppy seas, completely soaking every passenger in the process. Little motor boats scatter in all directions: there are many different tour itineraries available and to get all passengers on to the right boat is an exercise in extreme logistics. It looks like chaos but is obviously anything but.

Our choice of itinerary is a four-day, three-night stay, each of the three nights on a different island: we are to stay on Pelicano, Aguja and Perro Chico. This is rustic stay territory, small shacks on the beach, shared bathroom facilities, and no backpacks as we are limited to the bare minimum of luggage. It’s day bags only for four days, all our other possessions left back in the city.

Our itinerary consists of exploring various of these exquisitely picturesque islands by boat, though many are absolutely minuscule; a hike up to a waterfall; swimming in a “natural pool”, which is a kind of not-quite-island where the sea is only a couple of feet deep despite being miles from the nearest land. Moving from island to island inevitably includes calling in at other islands and by the end of the stay we have called in at ten or so. With the exception of Rio Sidra (more below) every one is a picture perfect palm-tree-and-sand desert island.

But this is a strange little world. Our Guna Yala hosts busy themselves but communicate sparingly – particularly the women who barely say a word. Here they are, occupying these paradise places, governing their own lives and following their traditional beliefs, yet watching large numbers of tourists and travellers traipse through their islands every day, pouring through their territory then moving on. They sweep sand from the cabañas before the next lot arrive, prepare the set meal for everyone nightly, go out and catch enough fish to feed everyone, and all the time keep themselves to themselves. Eye contact is rare, smiles yet more scarce.

The various itineraries include day trippers too, meaning that some of the islands selected for visits see large numbers of travellers during the day, most of whom disappear around 4pm to leave just a handful of hardy overnighters like us to have the island to themselves. The Guna Yala disappear into their shacks straight after evening meal and the island falls into dark silence as visitors, with nothing else to do, fall asleep early. Walking to the bathroom meets the same dark silence whether it’s 10pm or 3am. Nights are timeless.

In truth there is a beauty in this dark silence. Warm sea breezes kiss our cheeks in the darkness, palm trees rustle and the waves seem to break more quietly so as not to disturb the peace. Grackles fall silent and only occasionally does a gecko call out in search of a mate. Above us the sky is sequinned by a curtain of sparkling stars, while across the water the distant lights of neighbouring islands create jagged reflections on the sea. Palm trees cast eerie moonlight shadows. 

En route to the waterfall hike we make a stop at the one built up island, home to most of the island dwellers within the San Blas. Rio Sidra is a fascinating little island village, home to the islands’ governing council, the only hospital of the islands (one doctor, four thousand population), the one school of the islands and as many houses as it is possible to squeeze on to this small patch of land. Regrettably, there is a strict “no photography” rule on Rio Sidra so we have nothing to show you.

Unfortunately the guide speaks no English so we have to rely on the bits we pick up ourselves and the snippets translated for us by others in the group, a great shame as he talks for a long time and the small bits we get are fascinating. Remarkably the Guna Yala on the island are split into two tribal factions which until recently were physically separated by a concrete wall – only creation of the school for all and an adjacent basketball court has brought integration through the children mixing.

Such factionism is all the more surprising when we learn that the Guna Yala are a heavily matriarchal society – the women are in charge of everything, including allocation of jobs to all the males. If you’re a man, you don’t choose whether you’re a tour guide, a fisherman or a boat builder, the women tell you what your “career” is – and then you hand over the cash for the women to manage. And it’s all cash, there’s no plastic currency on San Blas.

Shockingly in these circumstances, there is no Guna Yala law regarding the age of sexual consent – young girls are available for sex when Mum decides they’re ready, which is even in some cases before puberty. The biggest village parties are held whenever a village girl has her first period. This is, we understand, all part of women retaining power, odd as it may seem to us.

On the islands, our temporary homes, the three cabañas, are as rustic as we expected, two on an upper floor and one at ground level with the sand as our floor. The food is understandably basic – you can’t store much on islands as small as these – and again this is what we expected. However, the bathroom facilities are….well, in the words of some of our fellow travellers, “grim”, “gruesome” and “scary”…we don’t need to add anything to those accurate descriptions.

We are also surprised at the numbers of visitors. Having pictured lazy silent islands, the sheer numbers of day trippers mean very busy beaches from mid morning till 4pm, a percentage of whom (all too common these days) seem to think that everyone on the beach wants to listen to their choice of music. The nights may be silent but the daytimes are definitely not peaceful.

Our itinerary clearly stated “English speaking guides throughout” – we don’t find a single one who speaks English throughout the four days. It also stated that we would have the opportunity for kayaking on two different islands, yet each of those islands has one single kayak and a beach full of day trippers, so not much of an “opportunity”.

Despite those disappointments, the islands are of course undeniably beautiful, the experience of “almost camping” right next to the lapping waves is great, and the camaraderie with others overnighting on the islands is really stimulating – we meet some terrific fellow travellers and have enormous fun exchanging tales of travel and advice on destinations. That was undoubtedly the high point of our time on San Blas – although we have to say the boat journeys were great fun too, all of them.

In the end we aren’t too gutted when it’s time to leave the islands, retrace our route across water and along unmade roads, and return to Panama City for the last two days of this Jamaica-Panama adventure.

Postscript to this article. On the Saturday, we awoke to an awful WhatsApp message. Our good friend Emma who looks after our house while we are travelling, died suddenly and unexpectedly the night before. Heart attack at age 54. Goodbye Emma, rest in peace and thank you for everything. The world has lost the kindest of souls.

Nudity, Numpties & Numbers: Back Home Once Again

A few years back in the Canary Islands, we (or rather Michaela) suffered a moment of extreme embarrassment which you can read about HERE. But wow our last few days in Panama so nearly brought another…

The sound of the door closing behind me was the first sign that I’d made something of an error of judgment. Long before going to bed it had started to dawn on me that the draught beer in The American Bazaar in downtown Casco Viejo was considerably stronger than I had realised, not least because the flat paving slabs had somehow become just as difficult to walk on as the cobbles – they just wouldn’t stay flat.

So a few hours later, when I awoke with the inevitable need to use the bathroom, the confusion brought on by a combination of being in our eleventh bed of the year when it’s still only January and the effects of too much craft beer, led me to lose bearings and go through the wrong door. To my disbelief and horror I suddenly found myself out in the corridor of the hotel, stark naked. Cue total panic and instant sobering up.

What a terrible sight it must have been – fortunately one which no one was forced to share – my 65 year old naked form frantically hammering on the door in order to rouse Michaela from her own cocktail assisted slumbers. You have no idea of the measure of my relief when that door opened before any other door did.

As we prepare to pack up and end this latest adventure, the humid sunshine is once again disappearing behind the clouds which creep over Panama City each afternoon. It’s still raining every day here, and it’s January 25th. In most years the rain ends in mid December and the month of January sees absolutely no precipitation at all. Not this year though, and everyone from hosts in Boca Chica to hiking guides in Gamboa to the lady who cuts Michaela’s hair in Panama City is raising their palms and asking what the hell is going on.

It is, evidently, highly unusual for the rains to be hanging around some six weeks after they’ve normally called it quits and headed off elsewhere. These aren’t, of course, wholly wet days, they are “only” showers, but boy these showers carry a significant liquid tonnage and are capable of flooding Casco Viejo’s streets in seconds – literally, in seconds.

Our time is done and another adventure is over. With no direct flights between Panama and the UK, it’s a lengthy haul via Amsterdam to make our way back to the cold of England. It’s a 21-hour journey from door to door and one which drops from 34C to 7C in the process – not as cold as recent days have been here in England but it sure feels cold to us.

During the course of the journey we see three familiar characters: characters who seem to crop up on every trip even though their actions are mystifying and maybe a touch absurd. Firstly, there’s the person – I hesitate to say woman, but in truth it usually is – who suddenly feels the need to open their suitcase on the floor of the airport terminal and rifle frantically through its contents until their neat packing is turned into a laundry bundle. And then they stuff it all back in, as if they have at last established that the favourite pair of beach shorts is indeed still in there and not left behind in the bedroom.

Secondly, here is the man who wanders too far down the aeroplane aisle until he is several yards past the correct row and has to turn and walk against the tide to retrace his steps. It is, it seems, beyond him to work out that the incremental increase in row numbers is by 1 each time, and therefore it is pretty likely that if your seat is in row 24 then it will be immediately behind row 23.

And last but not least, the “wrong seat” merchant, who, having stowed his or her case in the rack above and settled in with all long-haul paraphernalia in the correct place, is confronted by someone clutching a card with that precise seat number on it. The interloper’s response is, invariably, to achieve a facial expression which suggests that, in their world, matching your seat number to the one on your boarding card is a wholly alien concept.

Who ARE these people?!

It’s nine weeks since we ventured out into Kingston, Jamaica at the start of this trip, nine weeks since kicking off with that great visit to the Bob Marley museum and the first platefuls of jerk chicken. Breathing in the fresh air of the Blue Mountains and chatting with Rodger and his team at Lime Tree Farm seems some time ago now, but sticks out as one of the highlights – but then there were many of those.

Happily, it won’t be anything like nine weeks until we’re off again.