Day 1 - Saturday August 30th 2008 - Dublin to Newark to Panama City
After what seemed like months of post-booking anticipation and waiting, the CentrAmp got under way at 7.15am with a taxi-drive from the Lighthouse Apartmental Complex in Dublin's leafy and verdant Eastern Wall. I have had many trips tainted by obnoxious taxi-drivers huffing about themselves, the state of the nation, foreigners and such-and-such, but mercifully today's chauffeur was a perfectly pleasant gentleman. I recalled about 3 hours later that he said he had 2 daughters, aged 18 and 21, yet he looked about 28 and I most probably should have afforded him a compliment in this regard, but the mind was desperately slow, due to 3 previous nights on the town and work stressings. Such slowness combined with sleepiness saw that it took me 3 attempts to fill out the U.S. Immigration Form, delighting the sadistic bitch-operative. "You only work in a shop, darling, you can spare me the attitude", I said, confining my speech to the inner-mind for fear of deportation before arrival.
The first leg of the journey was a 7 and a half hour flight with Continental Airlines to Newark, and a highly pleasant affair it was too. The ContAir crew are a quirksome bunch and delivered quips like, "The destination of this plane is Newark - those who are not intending on heading there should probably make themselves known to a member of the cabin crew right now." Hilarious! Delightfully, I had a window seat with no middle-seat companion, and the aisle seat was occupied by a student-lady whose frazzled hair suggested neurotic-tendancies that mercifully remained suppressed during the flight, possibly due to the thorough lack of dramatic incidents. My usual tendancy to drink like a fish during long-haul flights was curtailed, partly due to the early hour but mainly because of the €4 per drink tariff - pththththth! None-the-less the time flew by, through readings of The (super Soaraway) Sun, the Irish Times, the Daily Moan (nee Mail) and The Guardian, coupled with bouts of Sudoku and Solitaire on the in-flight games console.
The first person to greet us upon disembarcation in Newark was a "customer service" official whose seemingly-simple task was to guide Dublin and Shannon passengers to the immigration-cleared aisle on the left, and all others to the aisle on the right. Naturally, she decided to fuck the task up royally by barking rabidly at anyone in her path, thus forgetting to provide the very simple 50-50 choice of direction.
Alas, a 6-hour stopover was required before the connecting flight to Panama City, and this time was spent wandering aimlessly around the concourses. The food choices on offer were less than award-winning, and I ended up awarding the franchise for my meal to the Golden Arches Brasserie, and sampled the succulent third-pounder Angus (even the quarter-pounders are bigger in America), honey n mustard chicken wrap, fries and refreshing lemon and lime cordial - all for the low, low price of $9 (€6.50). I ordered my meal from what initially appeared to be a portly African-American lady but who was in fact a mass-manufactured automaton, designed to emit standardized utterances but with no ability to interact with the customer.
After further interminable wanderage, the clarion call came to board the five hour Copa Airlines (which seems to be just another name for Continental Airlines) flight to Panama City. Delightfully, the plane was just half-full (I'm not a half-empty guy), meaning that I had the three seats all to my very self. To celebrate, I broke my solemn 45-hour period of alcohol abstinence and enjoyed a brace of thoroughly delightful $5 (€3.50) Gin and Tonics. The imbibements were highly effective in warding off the pangs of fear that could have accompanied the violent turbulence during our journey through Hurricane Gustav.
The "meal" was served towards the flight's end, and the air hostess, with whom I had been trading flirtatious yet intrinsically vacuous looks, offered two choices of sure-to-be mouth-watering sandwiches - turkey and beef brisket. "What's beef brisket?", I enquired with a cheekily flirtatious yet vacuous smile, for I genuinely had no inkling of its culinary nature, apart from the fact that is was highly likely to be beefy. "It's got a laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaadda cheese!" came the cheerily flirtatious yet vacuous reply. "I see," I rejoined, "Well in that case I'll try it." It was entirely vile, naturally.
Post-disembarcation and a lengthy walk, we arrived at passport control which had one aisle with no queue for Panamaniacs and one aisle with giant queues for bleedin' foreigners. Hilariously, a Panamaniac gentleman entered the wrong aisle and rather than quickly reversing, he grunted at his wife (in the correct queue) to come and join him, preferring to wait half-an-hour in the long queue rather than lose face. What a blissfully happy marraige that must be for both wedlocked parties!
Eventually I reached the end of the queue, where an unsmiling lady stared at my passport for a while, and then as she was handing it back, looked at my face, thrust the passport back towards her as if to say “that’s not you in the picture!” My lack of flinching seemed to reassure her and she handed the passport back.
Onwards to baggage claim and my rucksack was there to greet me, which was unsurprising, given the delay at Passport Control. Delightfully, I now needed to join an even lengthier queue to clear customs. Once negotiated, it was time to brave the slew of shysters that inevitably gather at the arrivals area of an airport, seeking to unmercifully rip off Johnny von Rich-Foreigner. My Central American Lonely Planet bible stated that taxis cost about $35 into Panama City, as the airport is some 40 kilometres away. Once outside, I asked an official-looking chappie with a clipboard how much to the Hotel Centroamericano and he said “$28”. This was most acceptable so I put my luggage in the boot of a Sedan, got into the back seat and waited for the off. A minute later, I was jolted by the sound of the boot reopening. I jumped out of the car to see a young lady’s mass of luggage being added to the boot’s contents, and voiced protest to the driver. “$28 por un colectivo? (shared taxi),” I questioned. “No problem, just $15 now,” he said, which was fine with me, although I got that distinct feeling that the discount would not have been offered to me had I not asked.
During the journey, the driver and young lady-passenger blathered away to each other, totally oblivious to me – the first of many instances during my visit that drew me to conclude that inhabitants of Panama City are on the whole, not particularly friendly.
On arrival at the hotel, which seemed situated in a ramshackle dilapidated area (one of many in the city), I was greeted at reception by a charmingly unsmiling employee – no particular harm, as I wasn’t in the mood for chit-chat at this stage (it was now 12.30am Panama time, 6.30am Dublin time). I handed her a sheet confirming I had pre-paid for 3 nights at €18 per night, and she handed over a key. I headed up the stairs to the 3rd Floor and got to my room – a spartan but functional affair, with bed, wardrobe, TV, air-con and bathroom with shower. Despite blaring traffic outside, I was asleep before hitting the mattress!
Day 2 – Sunday, August 31st, 2008 – Panama City
Sleep was fitful, probably due to subconscious anxiety – I awoke at 4.20am, convinced that it was 4.20pm, and woke several more times before deciding to get up at 9.30am. For a duet of reasons, I decided to head to an English pub that was recommended in the Lonely Planet guidebook – to see the Aston Villa versus Liverpool match and to mix with the local ex-pats to gain pearls of tourist wisdom. Firstly, I nipped across to the 24-hour pharmacy across the road for some suncream and mosquito repellant. While doing so, it became clear that I should get a taxi everywhere, as the area was every bit as kippy in sunlight as it was at night. Thankfully taxis were plentiful though, and one stopped for me within a minute. Panama taxis don’t have meters so you need to establish the price before setting off, which should be between $1 and $2 if staying within city limits – using broken Spanish, a price of $1 was agreed. The driver needed to ask directions to the pub, but we got there within 10 minutes. Upon inspection, the pub was well and truly closed, so it became quickly clear that Central America did not cater for Premiership match-viewing in the way that Asia did.
I headed into a French cafe and had a very tasty mozzarella, tomato and basil bruschetta (the lack of Frenchness of the dish is duly noted) and a much needed water, all for a reasonable $3. The official currency of Panama is the US Dollar – although they call it the Balboa, the notes are exactly the same as those used in the US.
The guidebook recommended heading off the beaten track and going to Contractors’ Hill, 20 kilometres outside of the city, as it offered a magnificent view of the Panama Canal. An old taximan was stationed ouside the cafe and I bargained a $10 ride there and back with him. After a quiet start, we were soon engaging in a decent conversation, all in Spanish. Most of the time I was guessing what he was saying, but it seemed to work out. I learned the following :
Panama won its first gold medal in 60 years at the Beijing Olympics.
Petrol was $5 a gallon in Panama and Senor Taximan was most surprised to hear that it was $8 per gallon in Ireland.
Baseball is the national sport of Panama, with basketball quite popular too.
Senor Taximan wouldn’t be voting in the upcoming Presidential election (there were posters everywhere) – not because he thought, as I suggested, that they were all crooks, but because he couldn’t see any difference between them. The current President was doing an okay job, though.
With Contractors’ Hill in sight, the road turned into a dirt track and we eventually had to stop at an army checkpoint, where we were informed that the Hill was on Canal-Zone territory that couldn’t be accessed. I now recalled reading a comment online that the Panama Lonely Planet was hugely misleading on many counts but had dismissed it at the time as an isolated rant. Senor Taximan should probably have known the score too, but anyway, I negotiated that we head back into town, drive up the other side of the canal and go to the Pedro Miguel Locks, for a further $10. With only 1 bridge across the Canal on the Pacific Ocean side, there was no shortcut available, bar running into the Canal Zone and swimming across.
It was all worthwhile though, because as we pulled up to the Pedro Miguel Locks, a giant Chinese container ship was busily inching its way through. I watched fascinated as it was pulled along by a dozen tugboats before making it through to a wider stretch of the Canal, and heading onward to the Caribbean side.
After what seemed like months of post-booking anticipation and waiting, the CentrAmp got under way at 7.15am with a taxi-drive from the Lighthouse Apartmental Complex in Dublin's leafy and verdant Eastern Wall. I have had many trips tainted by obnoxious taxi-drivers huffing about themselves, the state of the nation, foreigners and such-and-such, but mercifully today's chauffeur was a perfectly pleasant gentleman. I recalled about 3 hours later that he said he had 2 daughters, aged 18 and 21, yet he looked about 28 and I most probably should have afforded him a compliment in this regard, but the mind was desperately slow, due to 3 previous nights on the town and work stressings. Such slowness combined with sleepiness saw that it took me 3 attempts to fill out the U.S. Immigration Form, delighting the sadistic bitch-operative. "You only work in a shop, darling, you can spare me the attitude", I said, confining my speech to the inner-mind for fear of deportation before arrival.
The first leg of the journey was a 7 and a half hour flight with Continental Airlines to Newark, and a highly pleasant affair it was too. The ContAir crew are a quirksome bunch and delivered quips like, "The destination of this plane is Newark - those who are not intending on heading there should probably make themselves known to a member of the cabin crew right now." Hilarious! Delightfully, I had a window seat with no middle-seat companion, and the aisle seat was occupied by a student-lady whose frazzled hair suggested neurotic-tendancies that mercifully remained suppressed during the flight, possibly due to the thorough lack of dramatic incidents. My usual tendancy to drink like a fish during long-haul flights was curtailed, partly due to the early hour but mainly because of the €4 per drink tariff - pththththth! None-the-less the time flew by, through readings of The (super Soaraway) Sun, the Irish Times, the Daily Moan (nee Mail) and The Guardian, coupled with bouts of Sudoku and Solitaire on the in-flight games console.
The first person to greet us upon disembarcation in Newark was a "customer service" official whose seemingly-simple task was to guide Dublin and Shannon passengers to the immigration-cleared aisle on the left, and all others to the aisle on the right. Naturally, she decided to fuck the task up royally by barking rabidly at anyone in her path, thus forgetting to provide the very simple 50-50 choice of direction.
Alas, a 6-hour stopover was required before the connecting flight to Panama City, and this time was spent wandering aimlessly around the concourses. The food choices on offer were less than award-winning, and I ended up awarding the franchise for my meal to the Golden Arches Brasserie, and sampled the succulent third-pounder Angus (even the quarter-pounders are bigger in America), honey n mustard chicken wrap, fries and refreshing lemon and lime cordial - all for the low, low price of $9 (€6.50). I ordered my meal from what initially appeared to be a portly African-American lady but who was in fact a mass-manufactured automaton, designed to emit standardized utterances but with no ability to interact with the customer.
After further interminable wanderage, the clarion call came to board the five hour Copa Airlines (which seems to be just another name for Continental Airlines) flight to Panama City. Delightfully, the plane was just half-full (I'm not a half-empty guy), meaning that I had the three seats all to my very self. To celebrate, I broke my solemn 45-hour period of alcohol abstinence and enjoyed a brace of thoroughly delightful $5 (€3.50) Gin and Tonics. The imbibements were highly effective in warding off the pangs of fear that could have accompanied the violent turbulence during our journey through Hurricane Gustav.
The "meal" was served towards the flight's end, and the air hostess, with whom I had been trading flirtatious yet intrinsically vacuous looks, offered two choices of sure-to-be mouth-watering sandwiches - turkey and beef brisket. "What's beef brisket?", I enquired with a cheekily flirtatious yet vacuous smile, for I genuinely had no inkling of its culinary nature, apart from the fact that is was highly likely to be beefy. "It's got a laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaadda cheese!" came the cheerily flirtatious yet vacuous reply. "I see," I rejoined, "Well in that case I'll try it." It was entirely vile, naturally.
Post-disembarcation and a lengthy walk, we arrived at passport control which had one aisle with no queue for Panamaniacs and one aisle with giant queues for bleedin' foreigners. Hilariously, a Panamaniac gentleman entered the wrong aisle and rather than quickly reversing, he grunted at his wife (in the correct queue) to come and join him, preferring to wait half-an-hour in the long queue rather than lose face. What a blissfully happy marraige that must be for both wedlocked parties!
Eventually I reached the end of the queue, where an unsmiling lady stared at my passport for a while, and then as she was handing it back, looked at my face, thrust the passport back towards her as if to say “that’s not you in the picture!” My lack of flinching seemed to reassure her and she handed the passport back.
Onwards to baggage claim and my rucksack was there to greet me, which was unsurprising, given the delay at Passport Control. Delightfully, I now needed to join an even lengthier queue to clear customs. Once negotiated, it was time to brave the slew of shysters that inevitably gather at the arrivals area of an airport, seeking to unmercifully rip off Johnny von Rich-Foreigner. My Central American Lonely Planet bible stated that taxis cost about $35 into Panama City, as the airport is some 40 kilometres away. Once outside, I asked an official-looking chappie with a clipboard how much to the Hotel Centroamericano and he said “$28”. This was most acceptable so I put my luggage in the boot of a Sedan, got into the back seat and waited for the off. A minute later, I was jolted by the sound of the boot reopening. I jumped out of the car to see a young lady’s mass of luggage being added to the boot’s contents, and voiced protest to the driver. “$28 por un colectivo? (shared taxi),” I questioned. “No problem, just $15 now,” he said, which was fine with me, although I got that distinct feeling that the discount would not have been offered to me had I not asked.
During the journey, the driver and young lady-passenger blathered away to each other, totally oblivious to me – the first of many instances during my visit that drew me to conclude that inhabitants of Panama City are on the whole, not particularly friendly.
On arrival at the hotel, which seemed situated in a ramshackle dilapidated area (one of many in the city), I was greeted at reception by a charmingly unsmiling employee – no particular harm, as I wasn’t in the mood for chit-chat at this stage (it was now 12.30am Panama time, 6.30am Dublin time). I handed her a sheet confirming I had pre-paid for 3 nights at €18 per night, and she handed over a key. I headed up the stairs to the 3rd Floor and got to my room – a spartan but functional affair, with bed, wardrobe, TV, air-con and bathroom with shower. Despite blaring traffic outside, I was asleep before hitting the mattress!
Day 2 – Sunday, August 31st, 2008 – Panama City
Sleep was fitful, probably due to subconscious anxiety – I awoke at 4.20am, convinced that it was 4.20pm, and woke several more times before deciding to get up at 9.30am. For a duet of reasons, I decided to head to an English pub that was recommended in the Lonely Planet guidebook – to see the Aston Villa versus Liverpool match and to mix with the local ex-pats to gain pearls of tourist wisdom. Firstly, I nipped across to the 24-hour pharmacy across the road for some suncream and mosquito repellant. While doing so, it became clear that I should get a taxi everywhere, as the area was every bit as kippy in sunlight as it was at night. Thankfully taxis were plentiful though, and one stopped for me within a minute. Panama taxis don’t have meters so you need to establish the price before setting off, which should be between $1 and $2 if staying within city limits – using broken Spanish, a price of $1 was agreed. The driver needed to ask directions to the pub, but we got there within 10 minutes. Upon inspection, the pub was well and truly closed, so it became quickly clear that Central America did not cater for Premiership match-viewing in the way that Asia did.
I headed into a French cafe and had a very tasty mozzarella, tomato and basil bruschetta (the lack of Frenchness of the dish is duly noted) and a much needed water, all for a reasonable $3. The official currency of Panama is the US Dollar – although they call it the Balboa, the notes are exactly the same as those used in the US.
The guidebook recommended heading off the beaten track and going to Contractors’ Hill, 20 kilometres outside of the city, as it offered a magnificent view of the Panama Canal. An old taximan was stationed ouside the cafe and I bargained a $10 ride there and back with him. After a quiet start, we were soon engaging in a decent conversation, all in Spanish. Most of the time I was guessing what he was saying, but it seemed to work out. I learned the following :
Panama won its first gold medal in 60 years at the Beijing Olympics.
Petrol was $5 a gallon in Panama and Senor Taximan was most surprised to hear that it was $8 per gallon in Ireland.
Baseball is the national sport of Panama, with basketball quite popular too.
Senor Taximan wouldn’t be voting in the upcoming Presidential election (there were posters everywhere) – not because he thought, as I suggested, that they were all crooks, but because he couldn’t see any difference between them. The current President was doing an okay job, though.
With Contractors’ Hill in sight, the road turned into a dirt track and we eventually had to stop at an army checkpoint, where we were informed that the Hill was on Canal-Zone territory that couldn’t be accessed. I now recalled reading a comment online that the Panama Lonely Planet was hugely misleading on many counts but had dismissed it at the time as an isolated rant. Senor Taximan should probably have known the score too, but anyway, I negotiated that we head back into town, drive up the other side of the canal and go to the Pedro Miguel Locks, for a further $10. With only 1 bridge across the Canal on the Pacific Ocean side, there was no shortcut available, bar running into the Canal Zone and swimming across.
It was all worthwhile though, because as we pulled up to the Pedro Miguel Locks, a giant Chinese container ship was busily inching its way through. I watched fascinated as it was pulled along by a dozen tugboats before making it through to a wider stretch of the Canal, and heading onward to the Caribbean side.
After heading back to the Hotel (through some absolute slums) and having a wee surf (thanks to free wireless internet on offer), I took another taxi ($1.50 this time) to Plaza de Francia in the old colonial district of Casco Viejo, a small peninsula jutting out into the sea. There were very nice views of the skyscrapers of the business district across the bay, and of the many ships queueing for entry to the canal but the place itself was shabby and run-down. An old man came along and struck up Spanish conversation that started on the subject of my Brasilian soccer shirt and inevitably soon asked for a dollar for food. Disgusted at his masquerade, I flatly said No and bade him Good Day!
I walked a few blocks to Luna’s Castle, the back-packers hostel of choice in the city but upon arrival it was deserted. The quest for company and meeting people was not going particularly well! I walked a little further, seeking a restaurant, but entered a horrificly dilapidated ghetto. Luckily, a taxi manifested itself quickly and I directed him to bring me to the more fashionable El Cangrejo district. There I espied a decent-looking micro-brewery pub and said “That’ll do!” As forewarned, beers in Panama City aren’t as cheap as elsewhere, but the $4 pints of home-brewed “Colon” lager and “Chiriqui” ale were well worth it and they were well accompanied by a chicken burrito ($4). An election rally passed by, consisting of about 60 cars blaring their horns and waving Panamaniac flags, with a bored-looking candidate and his (presumed) wife at the head of the cortege standing and wearily waving, in the back of a pick-up truck.
I headed home at about 6pm via yet another $1.50 taxi-ride to freshen up and avail of the hotel´s free wi-fi, and headed back out at 9pm to check out the city´s famous casino scene. I got into a taxi and asked how much it would be to the InterContinental Hotel - when he said "$5", I said "No" and when he refused to accept the $2 that I was offering, I got him to stop the car. 15 seconds later, I hailed a taxi-driver who refreshingly was content not to try and rip me off. Once again, the Panama Lonely Planet was unmasked as a sham when I turned up at the InterContinental Hotel (which houses the city´s best casino, according to the guide) only to be told that they do not have a casino and never did. The kindly concierge directed me to a casino which was just a 10 minute walk away. The place was fairly big, with about 30 blackjack and roulette tables, and hundreds of slot machines. I played some blackjack, starting with $30 of chips, rising to $60 and falling back to $30 again. All tables seemed to be populated by local blokes who actually played, and obnoxiously loud fat young ladies who didn´t play but hoovered up free drinks. Their "good luck charm" (smacking the table and shouting "Yiiiiiiii" at top volume before the dealer dealt his cards) got on my wick pretty quickly, so I amused myself with some slot-machine action, losing a whopping $6 over the space of an hour. The taxi back to the hotel was with a guy who freely admitted to not really knowing where he was going but Hotel Centroamericano was finally reached.
Day 3 - Monday, September 1st, 2008 - Panama City to Bocas del Toro
This is always a special day - the first day of the holidays when you are normally at work. To celebrate, I had a leisurely but simple breakfast of Spanish Omelette and water in the restaurant beside the hotel, all for a splendid $3. I then booked a flight online to Bocas del Toro - islands in the Caribbean Sea off the coast of north-west Panama, which had received some rave reviews. Although I had booked 3 nights in Panama, I hadn´t the appetite to stay there any longer.
The taxi-driver was speedily smacked down from $5 to $2, and we were on our way to Albrook Airport, located near the city centre and servicing domestic flights. The terminal was not a grand affair, with check-in area and the 2 boarding gates all within 10 metres of each other. After a 30 minute delay, the Boarding Gate (a sliding door) was opened and we headed out onto the tarmac to board a 30 seater Shorts (made in Belfast) plane, whose age was belied by masking tape on the wings and visible bolts protruding from all its surfaces.
Despite initial apprehension, the hour-long flight was most pleasant, offering views of the Pacific Ocean, the lush Panamaniacal countryside, the Canal and the Caribbean. The landing was one of those affairs where you are convinced that you are going to crash into the sea until suddenly, with 4 metres left to ground, dry land appears. The disembarcation process was magnificent - open plane door, get out, grab bag, walk 20 metres to airport exit, walk a further 100 metres to the guesthouse.
After the slummery of Hotel Centroamericano, the Casa Amarillo was literally a breath of fresh air - cool owner Dennis from Denver, sizeable room with blastingly-cool air-con, cable TV, fridge, free wi-fi and safety deposit box - a snip at $30 (21 Euros) per night.
After much wallowing in this new-found luxury, I took a walk further into the town, which had the vibe of what I reckon Bali would have been like before it was ruined by hordes of greedy street-merchants/conmen. I awarded the night's dinner franchise to Om Cafe (an Indian restaurant which declared "there's no place like Om!") and it proved to be a magnificent choice. The starter was an interesting Raitu, with cinnamon-like naan, and spicy potatoes and chickpeas, and the main course of Chicken Vindaloo was flavoursome and spiced to perfection. Washed down with 3 bottles of Balboa beer, the total bill of $15/€11 imply couldn't be quibbled with.
After that, I headed back to the Casa to do a little surfing and watch CNN's highly over-dramatic coverage of Hurricane Gustav.
Day 4 - Tuesday, September 2nd, 2008 - Bocas Del Toro
As a fully paid-up member of the International Slumbering and Lie-In Association (ISLIA), I am truly amazing myself with my early risings thusfar, continuing today with a swift and chirpy bed-exit at 8am. Yes, the benefits of gaining 6 hours of time last Saturday have still not worn off.
It is a scorchingly sunny day, so I decide to hire a bike and have a leisurely toddle around the locality to see what it has to offer. There are a row of bikes at a nearby corner with a "Se Aquilar"/"For Rent" sign, although no-one seems to be claiming ownership of them. After a trip to the nearby golf-cart-hire shop and the supermarket on its other side, I am directed to a house behind the bikes, under which two locals are hiding - possibly from the sun or from life in general. Having established that they are indeed the bike-hire operatives, a princely day-loan fee of $10/€7 is handed over, and I set about the task of deciding which bike to choose. The decision-making process is made easy by the fact that all 20 bikes are exactly the same model, though in varying colours. I choose navy blue, and head off down the road.
After about 100 yards, I notice that the bike has no brakes, just fairly high handlebars. Adopting the thoroughly laid-back attitude of the island, I decide that this is not a problem. I will simply go fairly slowly. However, after about half-a-mile I back-pedal and discover that to be the braking mechanism - Eureka! I have already reached the town limits and after hugging the turquoise-blue sea thusfar, the road takes a turn inland, accompanied by a sign saying "Boca Del Drago 18km". With no other pressing engagements on the day's agenda, I ditch the leisurely-toddle plan, and adopt the "40k King of the Mountains Tour" plan instead.
Getting some exercise for the first time in months was thoroughly exhilarating, and the cycle-breeze complemented the 90 degree heat wonderfully. The scenery was fantastic - unspoilt forest and jungle on either side. Traffic was very light, apart from the odd dumper truck which seemed to suggest that some construction development is afoot, and what prime location it is for a holiday dwelling. The road was fairly severly potholed, so concentration was required to avoid carnage, especially going down the hills.
Halfway across the island, there was a sign (the first to be encountered for 10 kilometres) inviting entrance to La Gruta (The Grotto) for a dollar, so I decided to have a gander. I walked up a longish path, locked the bike (for which there was really no need, as there was no-one else there) and came across what seemed to be an altar, with steps nearby leading down to a stream and a cave. I recalled reading about it in the Lonely Planet, saying that you could go into the cave and wade waist-deep through the river to see sleeping bats. I inspected the cave but decided against further penetration due to darkness and bat noises.
Coming back up the steps, along came the caretaker of La Gruta. He quickly brought up the subject of the $1 entry fee and I handed it over with a cheery "Absolumente!" He asked if I had been in the cave and I said (conversing all the while in ever-improving pidgin Spanish) that I hadn't, not elaborating why. He said that he had a flashlight, and he duly went off to get it. He returned and handed it over (all part of the hefty $1 entrance fee, it would seem) so off down the steps I went again, up the stream and into the cave. The water did indeed reach waist-deep at times - its cool temperature was most pleasant, and before long, bats were screeching and flying over my head in numbers, understandably displeased at the intrusion during their time of sleep. As light at the end of the cave came, I could see them fleeing towards me, flying overhead into the darker reaches of the cave. I knew where exactly they slept by the guano (bat-dung) on the ground beneath.
So that was that, mission accomplished. To dispel an old wives' tale, none of the bats got stuck in my hair. There was a short mucky path back to the grotto, where I handed back the torch to the caretaker, thanked him for his hospitality, and was on my cycling way again.
About half an hour later, I made it to The Other Side, and the beach and crystal clear sea made the trek utterly worthwhile. There wereabout 10 people in total on the entire stretch of beach, which winded around a couple of corners, so it looked even more deserted. I headed straight into the water, which was very warm, and just sat down in it and gazed at the beauty around. A shoal of small clear-pigmented fish gathered around me in curiosity, edging bravely ever-closer until I moved slightly, at which point they would retreat and begin the brave-edging process anew.
I could have stayed for longer but after a couple of hours I decided to head back, as all my drinking water was gone and the deserted beach was shopless - usually a refreshing trait but not in this instance. By the time I made it back to La Gruta (there was only one road across the island, so I returned via the same route) I was utterly parched, and luckily I remembered that there was a tap outside the house at the La Gruta entrance. It dispensed water at a rate of about 10 millilitres per minute but the hydration was precious! The lady of the house emerged to see me use her tap but she was less than enraged and I wouldn't have cared anyway! Freshly rejuvenated, I headed back to base before which there was time for one more incident, where I couldn't avoid a potholed area whilst hurtling down a hill and my hands slipped off the handlebars. Luckily I managed to cling onto the front-centre of the bike before coming to a stop and remarking to oneself that that was a close one.
The bicycle returned, I walked the short distance back to Casa Amarilla and headed straight to the shower. Entirely ravenous, I headed back to Cafe Om for some further Indian goodness, and it tasted even better the 2nd time, as did the Balboa beers. I had planned to then go to Mondu Taitu - the backpackers' hang-out, but approaching the front door, I was offered drugs by some natives, and it put me off, so I had a relaxing night back at the Casa instead.
Day 5 - Wednesday, September 3rd, 2008 - Bocas Del Toro
Another day, yet another early rise and yet another glorious sunny morning. For a sub-continent that is supposed to be in its rainy season (hurricane season, even), things are going extremely well on the meteorological front. Today's breakfast venue is Miss Lilli's Cafe which is on a harbour boardwalk in the town, to which speedboats (all of whom seem to be American-owned) call in. Judging by the very good Spanish omelette, fresh fruit platter, toast and coffee that was served up for $5 (€3.50), it was easy to see why.
Walking back to the Casa, a young local beseeched my attention by initially calling out "Brasil!", as dozens other have in the past few days whenever I'm wearing my Brasil soccer top - those seeking attention in Central America must get themselves one immediately. Pleasantries were exchanged and it transpired that his name was Jesus, which is nothing sacreligious in Latin America, it would seem. As usual, a sales pitch shortly followed, and Jesus was peddling boat trips (speed boats though, not pedal boats :-) ). As fortune would have it, I wanted to head to the well-acclaimed Red Frog beach on the nearby Isla de Bascimentos so I told him that I would return shortly. This I did after a leisrely foray back to the Casa to cream-up and assemble the few necessaries for the day.
I came back to Jesus (snigger) and disappointed him greatly by only being prepared to pay the standard $5 (€3.50) boat trip fee rather than a rip-off $20 fee. Lord help the trusting-soul tourist who visits Panama, for they get fiscally violated in the most alarming manner. I shared the short 15 minute high-speed ride with two couples, one of whom I chatted with. Liam from Jersey and Selda from France were here for a few days for a couple of reasons - they lived across the border in Costa Rica and needed to leave the country every 90 days in order to renew their visas, and coupled this need by playing a few gigs in the locality, for Liam was part of a rock-star sensation combo.
We docked at the entry pier to the beach, paid the $2 entry fee and walked through a forest in order to reach the beach, which was sensationally gorgeous - turquoise blue water and a mile-long stretch of golden beach, with a solitary shaded bar at its rear. After some flaking out and bronzage on the beach (pinkage is probably a better term in my case), I headed in for a cooling dip and before long I was playing frisbee with a gang of gringos including Sarah from Oz and Aidan Shaughnessy from Minnesota (he was African-American, naturally). Sarah in particular was having a splendid time, with a bottle of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other whilst in the water, although this did impede her frisbee prowess somewhat.
A retreat to the beach bar was eventually signalled, and $1.50 (€1.05) beers were ordered with aplomb and downed with gusto whilst rocking on the swings that served as seats around the bar. Hours later, sunset approached, so the bar shut down and we retraced our steps back through the jungle to the jetty, to get a boat back to the main island. On the journey back, we espied an army of leafcutter ants, each of whom was bringing back a leaf to its colony. An American gentleman was conveniently on his way back to the jetty at the same time as us, and kindly fielded several questions from us - among the pearls of wisdom garnered were that ant colonies have very intricate architecture, with rooms for mating, crechery and food cultivation. The leaves themselves are not eaten but are stored in the food room and become fungus that the ants chow down on. Fascinating stuff!
After a quick foray back to the Casa, it was finally time to head to the backpackers' hang-out Mondu Taitu without fear of assailment by drug pushers. I arrived in time for Happy Hour, where delicious bottles of Balboa beer were retailing at half-price - $0.35 (€0.22)! The place was full of gringos - Americans, Australians and Irish in the main, so the craic was excellent. Many people said that they saw me on Red Frog bach earlier and admitted to being very concerned (sniggering) at my lobster-pink bodice. Fuckers! After Happy Hour followed Cocktail Hour, where the cocktails were half-price (a whopping $1.50 each) and the alcoholic measures were insane. At 11pm, the clarion call came to head to the locality's most happening nighterie - The Aqua Club, which required a jovial mass-parade to a nearby jetty, and a speedy $1 boat over to the club. Despite it being a Wednesday, the place was hopping. The venue was an outdoors affair, with a swimming pool for those fancying a shark-uninfested nocturnal dip, and the music boomed across the bay. We were reunited with the mainland via speedboat at about 2.30am, and some rather tasty $1 kebab skewers were grabbed on the way back to the Casa.
For the next instalment, mosey along to the Costa Rica blog!
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