Panama July 2009

14 July 2009

“Bocas City has changed,” we were told by a 60ish looking dark skinned man sitting next to our table. He was wearing a baseball cap and he had just finished his beer. He said they called him”Papayillo,” but his name is really Hector. He over heard Maria and I speaking English, between our sips of cold Panamanian beer, while we waited for our lunch. He said he knew a place where we could stay in Bocas . . . cheaply. Well that last word got my attention. His friend whose niece just opened a place called “My Home,” will welcome us. Her name is Inez but they call her “Tortolita” which means “little turtle”. I bought him another beer.

Bocas has changed. I see tall wooden skeletons of what will become high priced high-rise hotels that I’m sure will entice comfort seeking westerners. I was last there five years ago in 2004 and it was an idealistic paradise with treats of sweet juicy pineapple slices, ice cold beer, and hot lazy carefree nights under star filled skies silhouetted by slowly swaying palm trees. If you were away from the noise at center of town where most of the bars are filled with drunken loud tourists, you can relax to the hypnotizing lullaby of the roaring in coming tide. From the looks of the building boom, Bocas will need its first traffic light soon.

15 July 2009

We awoke to sluggish rumbles of thunder and a sneaky drizzle of rain making the street below our room almost empty of foot traffic. The few umbrella toting pedestrians were prepared for the weather; even the bike riders. Panama has two seasons - dry and wet. This was July the wet season. We can expect several small showers everyday.

Bocas City is on the Island of Colon, apart of an archipelago in the Bocas Del Toro province in the northeast part of the country on the Caribbean side. A lot of the natives are of Indian or West Indian descent. You will see jet black hair, straight, curly, or coarse and various skin tones of the brown hue.

After a quick American breakfast of crisp bacon and fried eggs at a restaurant in “el centro,” we took a ten minute water taxi to Isla Bastimentos, the island where most of my Panamanian friends live. The waters were a little rough this particular morning, probably because of the earlier storm. The ride was bumpy and at some points we were airborne, hydroplaning and crashing with a big BAM-BOOM down upon the sea. Maria was not fond of this bucking bronco water ride and she let me know, so I asked the driver to slow down. After we debarked, she was glad and said she did not want to do that again. I reminded her that where we were staying was on the other island and we would have to go back the way we came. She said she would wear a life jacket.

Like Bocas, Bastimentos had changed a little also, but not with high priced, high-rise hotels. It changed with firmly structured brightly painted wooden homes, some stilted on the water. A good change for the residents. I remembered weather beaten shacks that look as if you leaned on them, you would reduce them to a pile of firewood. The pastel homes and painted sidewalk poles gave this community a gleaming fresh breath. It seems the natives are putting money back into their paradise.

I asked a group of men working on a house did they know where I could find Roberto. They looked at me very puzzled and said they did not know a “Roberto.” I used his other name of “Chocó,” but that name did not click either. With two strikes and one more to go, I decided to describe him, short, dark, including the fact that he talks a lot. “You mean Robert!” a few of the men said in unison. “We call him Robert not Roberto and Chaco for his other name.” Well I was close by a few letters, but miles off from pronunciation. I’m working on my Spanish.

***

I knocked on the door and this voice asked, “Quien es?” “Roberto, this is Mike the photographer from Chicago,” I said. The door slowly opens and this shirtless dark-skinned middle aged man peeks through grinning with an ear to ear smile. “This is a wonderful surprise! I was thinking of you the other day,” he said.
After hugs and an introduction to Maria, Roberto excused himself and returned in 5 minutes with his waterproof windbreaker, backpack, and no shoes. Roberto walking outdoors shoeless amazed Maria, especially because where he lives, the ground is scattered with broken pointy branches and jagged rocks.

Roberto made a few phone calls and within five minutes, we met Jose at the pier. He would be our boat driver and Roberto our guide. After a little negotiation, we hired him and his boat for the entire day just $60; actually $40 because he gave Roberto $20. I would later give Roberto an extra $10 making his total $30 for his services.

About a 45 minute trip later, Jose steered carefully as we putted through the jungle river looking out for huge tree branches spearing upward of out the water that could damage the hull of the boat. Roberto stood on the stern looking ahead occasionally pushing off when we drifted too close to the river bank or near menacing trees. Except for it being daytime, it was kind of eerie slowly creeping with mangrove roots half submerged in the water and twisted vines dangling above as if waiting to snatch and strangle us. I could imagine something hiding behind the giant leaves or up in the trees looking down at us – the Swamp Thing or the Creature from the Black Lagoon. We would see random abandoned dugout canoes on the muddy river bank.

A young Indian man appearing in his early 20s came out of the hut wearing rubber knee-high boots and a short sleeve shirt. It was drizzling so his black hair was getting wet and began to plaster to his head with the occasional Alfalfa strands sticking up. When Roberto introduced us to Carlos and told him the purpose of our visit, he returned to his hut and came out with his flash light and machete. Off we were.

The walk along the path was wet, very muddy and filled with Cacao trees. Carlos said he saw a sloth feeding on Cacao earlier, so our focus went upward searching the trees for the camouflaged slow moving creature.

After a 30 minute trek through the muddy grass, we came upon an opening with a mass of grass covered rocks and boulders pitched into the earth. This was the entrance into the cave. Roberto said that he always brought scientists and a few curious hikers here, but he’s never ventured in himself . . . nor did he have the desire to do so now. When Maria heard there were bats inside, she shrieked opposing, “No way! They will get in my hair!”(This memory was something she experienced in Puerto Rico as a young girl). So it was me and Carlos to do the Lewis and Clark thing and explore and discover.

When we entered, the bats were flying around making us duck a few times. Carlos shined his light on the ground, bent down and grabbed some brown stuff. He held it out to me, shined the light on his hand and said something in Spanish. He was explaining that the bats eat and their feces cover the ground where we were walking. I was like, “Okay, bat shit.” With his flashlight pointing upward, he focused on a slit in the rocks above. Between the stalactites you could see a group of brown bats huddled and clustered and right in the middle was an albino. They were hanging up side down and appeared to be attentive to our movement. I know some bats are blind and others can see, but I don’t know about this species. It was kinda eerie because they seem to be looking at us.
We walked deeper into the cave and the chilly water began to rise covering my sandals to my ankles, and finally to my shins. It was getting deep! That was a sign to turn around and go back. The water was getting too deep and the wet rocks were slippery. All I needed was to slip and douse my camera equipment in cave water filled with bat shit.

Roberto and Maria were standing on a small hill just outside the cave entrance. It was still drizzling and they were content not to enter the cave, nor to even to get out of the rain. They could tell by the look on my face that I was pleased. They missed seeing a natural wonder still in its natural state, undisturbed before mankind inserts hand railings or wooden steps, and a robotish attendance saying, “This way folks. That will be $8.50. Watch your step.”
This was my first cave adventure, and I was in awe by the beauty of the subterranean world.

Carlos waved as we putted away from the pier in Jose’s boat. The trip out of the jungle was uneventful except for the occasional squawk from an unseen bird. It had been cloudy and rainy all morning, but the clearing brightened as we reached the open sea.


16 July 2009

Unlike yesterday, Maria made sure she wore a life jacket on the trip to Bastimeintos. She was not taking any chances in case the ride bucked us around like young cowboys on old bulls. I assured her there was no need for the jacket today because the seas were calm. She still wore a life jacket.

Wearing the white Barack Obama t-shirt I gave him the day before, Roberto was waiting for us as we moored the water taxi next to Roots restaurant. He announced today we are taking a hike through the jungle to see the other side of the island. Bastimeintos is only 8 miles long and not even a fourth of a mile at its widest point, so the hike should be quick and easy.

Walking up a hill we came to a scattered group of small cinder brick houses. I remember being interested in one of those dwellings when I visited in 2004. It is abandoned and falling apart so I thought the owner would gladly part with it. It has three jail cell size rooms and the rusty zinc roof has collapsed. I could tear it down and rebuild it with termite proof wood. The yard already has a banana, avocado, mango trees and some other trees. I would clear another group of trees to expose a beautiful view of the Caribbean Sea. I imagined it would be wonderful to wake up, walk outside with a cup of coffee, eating a banana from my own tree and see the ocean. The owner did not want to sell it.
I let Roberto and Maria walk ahead of me so I could show perspective on the path. By then, we had walked a good distance from the village where we came upon a Asian lady pointing up in the trees. She said, “There was a sloth around here earlier.” We stopped in our tracks, tilled back our heads and searched the trees. After about 10 minutes we spotted it. There it was at the top of some trees camouflaged. Sloths move very slowly, so the only thing stirring were the trees from the wind blowing. Luckily for me it was in an opening between branches so I could take a clear photo. From my urban eyes, it was weird to see a familiar “captured” zoo creature free in its natural environment.

Soon we happened up a fence letting us know we were on deeded land. Roberto said the property belonged to an Argentinean couple and they have been living here for about 5 years. They had two cozy looking cabins for rent that faced the ocean that sat across the path from their house. Their place was a short walk off the path, passable only by a chain link gate. Roberto hollered hello just to let them know we were coming up their walkway because they had yard dogs. Big yard dogs he emphasized.

The one dog I saw was huge. I think it was a Mastiff hound, but it was slobbery. It raised its huge head, looked at us very lazily with blood shot eyes, wagged it’s tail and went back to sleep. I guess it was too hot to give us a proper sniff and lick. The only other animal was a cat curled up and asleep in a chair. It didn’t even open its eyes.

The man of the house was not available, but his wife, their two children, the Panamanian house keeper and her children were all there. The woman was tall, friendly and had not much of a tan. Actually I thought she was kind of too pale to be living in a sun soaked environment. Anyway, they turned their outdoor porch into a small café/general shop where she sold old wore out books, organic jewelry, homemade insect repellant, fresh fruit, and other nick knacks.

We looked around and decided to buy insect repellant. Maria and I ordered lemonade and a fruit tray, and Roberto a brownie. In ten minutes she returned with our food and drink.

The lemonade was cold and wet and the fruit was sweet. We paid and thank her for the hospitality and continued with our journey leaving the huge head dog and the sleeping cat where we found them.

Like tropical clockwork the rains began to fall before we left the Argentinean’s place. The sun was absorbing the moisture making the environment a green steam bath. Roberto led us on a round-a-bout route where we happened upon a group of Indians taking a break from working in a make-shift plant nursery. There were small grocery size plastic bags filled with infant plants piled up ready to be shipped to would be buyers most likely in the United States. Roberto and Maria exchanged Spanish pleasantries with the group, while I photographed a frog on a lily pad.

We came upon a clearing where a little pond with huge elephant leafed plants were dangling on either side. The plants dwarfed us as we cautiously walked across a deteriorating wooden bridge. Up ahead there were some small children playing around a dugout canoe. The only fully clothed child was a little girl about age six or seven. The younger boys were either shirtless, pant less, and one toddler with his thumb in his mouth was totally naked. We stopped for a few minutes and talked and photographed the children ripping and running around just being children.

The afternoon sun was out and it was scorching hot, but within minutes the rains came again and we took refuge at Roberto’s friend’s restaurant. Within 15 minutes the rains stopped, the sun reappeared and the water taxi driver began scooping water out of his boat. I gave Roberto $50 for the tour and he was so happy, he hugged and kissed me on the neck. We said our goodbyes, got in the boat and left for Bocas. Each time before when I would leave Bastimeintos, I felt sadness in my heart. This time it was different. There was no sadness.