Returning Home to a Place We'd Never Been
Date: 27 July 2013
Location: A comfy couch at Mama Hakim's, Panama City
The electricity was in the
air. A wrathful flash of light setting ablaze the width of the heavens
was all it took to keep me from slipping into a lullaby slumber, cradled
in a cotton hammock overlooking a lush cove. How could anyone wish to
sleep indoors when a radiant atmospheric performance was being played
out directly overhead? The night enveloped the jungle in a blanket of
pitch darkness, with intermittent bursts of light and energy revealing a
dense and mysteriously dark terrain below. Apart from the orchestral
chirps and clicks of a symphony of critters, alongside the gentle ebb
and flow of the tide, the night was surprisingly silent, without
frightening thunder to accompany the bolts that pierced the sky above.
The last time I had slept in a hammock in such a setting was
15 years ago in the Venezuelan amazon. The only difference between these two
surreal experiences was that the native tribal hut back then was now
replaced with an ultramodern whitewashed house, perched high up on a
forested hill overlooking the beach.
Panama has been a
delightful conundrum to me since I arrived with my friends (aka, "The I-Crew"), a little
group adventure in the making since the beginning of this year. The
juxtaposition of its developed capital and the untamed forests that
surround it had me baffled from the minute I stepped out of Tocumen
International. A conflict of ancient and modern, natural and synthetic,
seemed to develop with every turn of the head. Skyscrapers shot into the
skies in numbers as dense as the trees that they replaced, with all the
sights and sounds one would expect of a glitzy cosmopolitan city and
regional economic hub. But as exciting as Panama City appeared, I still
found myself longing for the remote and rural that Central America prides itself upon. Nevertheless, I felt so
fortunate to have been able to experience the capital in a way that
would make any budget backpacker red with envy. Yaron's parents happen
to live off the coastal-hugging Avenida Balboa in the heart of the city,
graciously opening their spacious tenth-storey flat for our use as a
home base amidst a variety of excursions. To house a group of nine close friends, providing bedding,
food, and washing amenities for everyone, was a feat of generosity,
endurance, and patience that only the Hakim family could manage to pull
off. Mama Hakim's lavish 5-entree, hand-tailored dinners were an absolute
treat for the taste buds, giving this trip a truly wonderful familial
facet unlike any of my previous trips. For the lengths she went through to accommodate and nurture our group, that woman deserved so much more than our limitless gratitude. Additionally, this was my first
exposure to group travel (more than three people), and I eventually faced every aspect of
the emotional spectrum as a result of it.
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| Old and new blend harmoniously in the rising Central American capital |
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| The glee of recovering lost baggage |
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| Mama Hakim and the dazzling residence we called "Home" |
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| The old colonial Casco district |
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| Avenida Balboa at night |
Piling into a
twelve-seater van with our backpacks and beers, we set off down the
famed Pan-American Highway towards the Azuero Peninsula, a hotbed of
quaint seaside towns and surf spots. With Yaron behind the wheel and the
rest of us squeezed into the cabin, we meandered at a leisurely 60 km/h
through jungles, grassy plains, and green rolling hills where
weather-beaten Panamanian herders set their cows out to graze. A full
range of musical genres, both American and foreign, was blasted as our
multicultural group bounced its way down the narrow two-lane road. The night on the move was eventually spent at a tiny motel where the seven of us managed to
cram into four small beds, oddly reminiscent to me of a family of refugees
or illegal immigrants taking shelter in a foreign land. After a late
dinner of fried chicken, pork, yucca root, and plantains at the only available
diner in a nondescript roadside town, we passed our first evening on this surf-bound
road trip with charades and laughter, excluding only Ross, who quietly
passed out on his bed, a can of beer still clenched tightly in his hand. Following a simple breakfast of fried fish in what appeared to be a converted airplane hanger, our arrival at Playa Venao
the following afternoon was marked with great anticipation at the sight of a
beautiful cove with rolling waves, bordered by coconut palms and
flowering trees shimmying to the swing of monkeys. Much to my surprise,
the simple cabanas that I was expecting to spend the night in were
spontaneously changed by a unanimous decision to a secluded hill-hugging house with full amenities, including a kitchen, formal
dining room, and a covered patio sporting three hammocks overlooking the
entire cove. At a mere thirty dollars per person, we basked in the
pleasures of living in our own private tropical paradise. As a group of
distinctly unique individuals suddenly thrown into an isolated house, I
could not overlook what kind of reality TV show our situation could
potentially emulate. To add to the intimate qualities behind
the setting, we spent our dinners at the flat, with Yaron, Ross, and
Ankoor generously setting the kitchen alight with the sound of frying
oil and the scent of simmering stews. With a provided stereo system and
no surrounding neighbors, nights transformed the quiet house into a
makeshift discotheque, as Allie and Sophie graced us with delightfully
obnoxious song and dance numbers that filled the space with the unfaltering
energy of a pop concert. Sitting around a dining room table of home-cooked food, I felt
so blessed to be a part of the Irvine Crew that I've truly come to adore
and cherish. Despite being offered my own comfortable bed in an
air-conditioned environment, the power of nostalgia ultimately overcame
me upon seeing a hammock out in the lush garden and overhearing Ross
contemplate a night under the stars. Upon rigging my mosquito net, I
sealed myself into the hammock like a cocoon, watched the sky burst with
electric radiance, and then was finally lulled to sleep by the patter
of a warm, equatorial rain.
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| Cruising down the Pan-American Highway |
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| Some of us got more sleep than others |
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| The Playa Venao house, perched on a hill overlooking the beach |
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| I-Crew family dinner on a warm tropical night |
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| Spending the night on the patio, awakened by lightning and lulled to sleep by rain |
I surfed. These two words
still baffle me when I recite them. Given a life of so many fantastic
experiences already, it seemed strange at first that I still hadn't
checked this endeavor off my list. Growing up and traveling mostly with
my parents, our intrepid activities centered on trekking and trucking,
camping and caravaning. Apart from kayaking around northern Vietnam or
snorkeling the shallow reefs of French Polynesia, the ocean and most recreation associated with it remained relatively absent from my
repertoire, likely a result of my father's inability to swim and my
mother's fear of waves. Playing in the world's oceans never occurred
without first getting lectured about undertows and rip tides. Much to my
parents' disapproval, I vowed to try surfing, even in spite of my own
underlying hesitation. After coming back from a fruitless, albeit fun
snorkeling practice with Matt and Allie, I set off again with Matt and Yaron to learn
how to ride the waves. It was far more labor intensive than the movies
render it, as I struggled to paddle out against the inward current while
lying flat on my stomach, an awkward position that none of the muscles
in my body were accustomed to. Turning the board to face the shore, the
task of finding the right swell was next on the protocol. Finally, the
challenge of riding the wave and being able to rise up without loss of
balance proved to be the fine line between surfing and coming to a
violently wet crash-and-burn. With a plethora of unsuccessful tries, my
heart sank upon hearing Yaron exclaim that we were stuck in a rip.
Reality dawned on me when his typically nonchalant demeanor turned
serious, along with the fact that my persistent paddling back towards
the shore quickly proved futile. Matt finally swam out to help Yaron
push me and the board out of the current and back into prime waters.
Saved by my friends and riding a wave of surging confidence, I finally
was able to stand for the first time, gliding over the water for a
decent four seconds before wiping out near the shore. It was a thrilling display for the likes of
me, although from the perspective of those on the beach, it probably looked like a naive child standing soldier-stiff and utterly finesse-less, all
the while shrieking like a complete idiot. In the end, it was a truly rewarding
experience, and while I did not get a chance to adequately express it, I
am so grateful that Yaron and Matt were there to teach me this
fascinating art form and come to my aid when I truly needed them.
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| Boards for rent... unless there's no one watching |
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| Surf's up, dude! |
Returning
to Panama City, we engaged in the Canal tourism scene, marveling at its
history and ingenuity while watching the slow passing of cargo ships
through the Miraflores locks, as well as chuckling during the somewhat
tacky 3D film that accompanied the tour. A night of drinking and
socializing in the old colonial Casco district with the archetypical "hostel crowd" was also thrown into the mix per standard travel procedure,
a social success easily marked by Sally's unprecedented speechlessness by the
following morning. The next major chapter of the trip opened with a 5am
departure from the capital out into the jungle highlands in two 4x4s. A
majority of the group was rattled by the slightly nauseating combination
of winding roads and Panamanian driving, however, I took complete
delight in the ride as I found it highly reminiscent of past 4x4
experiences through Africa and Southeast Asia. The positive aspect of
this journey was that the El Llano-Carti road was relatively new and
paved, as well as the fact that the trip was only two hours in duration,
already far more than some could apparently handle. Yet no matter how
rough the ride proved to be in testing one's physical endurance, the
destination at the end provided a dose of mental relief that all could
appreciate. Envision a narrow river snaking its way through dense
foliage, with the nine of us and our backpacks traveling around its
bends in a motorboat like a group of amateur National Geographic
interns on assignment. Obviously, I may be excessively romanticizing that
part, however, the sight of hundreds of small, coconut palm islands
floating peacefully on the undulating Caribbean seascape surely needed no
embellishment. Like the freckles on Priel's arm, the islands dotted the
clear green ocean as far as the horizon's edge. Each island sported
clusters of coconut groves coupled with a handful of thatched huts and
could easily be circumnavigated in less than 10 minutes. One island in
particular was so minute that it supported merely seven palms sprouting
from its surface. Weaving between them in a motorboat, we sped across
the sea until we finally pulled into Isla Robinson, another small island
whose width was so narrow at one point that the sea on one end could be
seen from the opposite end. The island contained six simple thatch
cabanas for visitors, sharing the rest of the land with a small Kuna
village of several family groups. Robinson himself proved to be a
distinguished older Kuna gentleman, foreign educated, quick-paced, and
pleasantly comical. Assisting him in running his beach hostel was
Andrew, an American graduate student of anthropology whose complicated
story I will spare you the details. Working at Robinson's hostel for the
summer, Andrew took the job of helping to bring visitors to and from
the island, organizing their accommodation, serving as an excursion
guide, and offering massages to women weak in the legs from the journey
(or quite possibly from his physique, as I was told by some). Our twenty
dollar per night stay in a simple Kuna hut included three meals, which
to my surprise were actually quite substantial and savory; breakfast
consisted of a small omelet with fried coconut dough, lunch involved a
stew of smoked fish with rice and lentils, and dinner finished the day
off with a either king crab or lobster, straight from the sea to the
pot.
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| Casabooboo entranced by the fluid passage of a steel beast |
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| The Crew you desperately wish you were a part of |
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| Docking at Isla Robinson in the Kuna Yala |
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| Beach clean-ups became a form of island entertainment in themselves |
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| Sustainable Sally spearheading the clean-up initiative |
For theoretically being stranded on the tiny
island, as our excursion boat could only depart in the afternoon, our
activities were rather diverse for being leisurely. An average day for
me began with my rising at dawn, as I gathered my toiletries and headed
off to the small, reed-walled outdoor shower behind my cabana. Following
a trickling rinse, I walked myself into wakefulness with a barefoot
stroll through the coconut grove, observing Kuna women in traditional
beaded attire start their morning routine. Breakfast was typically
announced by the discordant sound of a conch horn, when my fellow
islanders would hypnotically trail in like ants towards the open-air
kitchen and dining hut in search of food. As an island "community", we
would all dine together, each comically taking turns trying to keep
Andres the pet parrot from finding his way to the table and snatching a
piece of our eggs. Breakfast was instantly followed by a plunge into the
clear azure waters and lounging on the white sand, while midday
highlights included walking along the beach, watching the natives chop
down coconut palms, and snorkeling in the shallow reef around the
island. As approved by Sustainable Sally, helping in small-scale beach
cleanups likewise became a therapeutic activity in itself, as we raked
and cleared the beach of organic and synthetic waste that frequently
washed ashore. Various excursions were made following lunch, with Matt
finding an opportunity to observe Kuna spear fishing while the rest of
us boated off to Isla Estrella to frolic in a lagoon of brightly colored
starfish, whimsical sea snails, and the slightly less than aesthetic
sea cucumbers. Returning to Isla Robinson, the group resumed the arduous
tasks of lounging, reading, and chatting until the sound of the dinner
conch. Evenings on Isla Robinson were the hours when activities became
even more colorful, if not hilariously wild. Classic I-Crew games of
Bavarian Uno and Mafia were enhanced even further with the addition of
other foreign hostel members and the flow of Abuelo rum, as a tipsy Sophie was so generous
to demonstrate. Sitting on the beach to watch nightly displays of
phenomenal lightning from distant tropical storms had become virtually
routine since arriving in Panama at the peak of its wet season. And
while I do not see it becoming routine anytime soon, skinny-dipping in
the warm waters under a full moon for the first time was likely one of
the most random and invigorating decisions I've ever made as a result of
peer pressure. And to think that Allie of all people initiated that
little number. Having said that, I’m so thankful for Allie's presence on
this trip, as I am unsure how I would have coped with an unforeseen
personal breakdown without her support and empathy. I can only pray that
my support was just as comforting for her when she experienced the
sudden misfortune of falling off a palm tree that I had set out to
climb, a persistent and painful back injury that I can't help but feel
responsible for.
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| Splashing around in the azure waters |
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| The Panama Diaries is proudly sponsored by Herbal Essences: Indulge Your Senses |
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| An iconic scene from the Caribbean seascape |
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| Sharing the island with friendly members of the Kuna tribe |
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| Romantic island evenings |
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| Andrew, the American Kuna |
Our time in the Kuna Yala was a blast,
however, it surely would not let us depart without one final blast of
typhoon-like proportions. In the midst of our last night, I awoke to the
howling maelstrom of wind, rain, and water shooting through the
crevices in the reed walls of our cabana, drenching our mattresses and
belongings. To add to the utter chaos, the cabana door violently burst
open, channeling the gale and deluge in a path directly towards Sally's
and Carole's beds before culminating into a flowing river through the
center of the hut. The only available electricity was in the air, as
lightning provided second-long, strobe light flashes of visibility in an
otherwise pitch-black night. Completely disoriented and soaked, I
attempted to hold the door shut to prevent the girls from getting wet
before ultimately giving up out of exhaustion, curling up into a wet
ball on my bed. To add to the terror, the intermittent flashes of
lightning illuminated what I believed to be a figure hovering over my
bed, nearly stopping my heart dead. "
Quien es?", I exclaimed over the
wind's roar. There was no response. Was I imagining things? "
Dime quien
es?!", I yelled again. "
Mikoo", a voice creaked. Before I knew it, the
apparition had vanished. With water droplets dripping from my face and
flea bites itching all over my body, I ultimately faded into sleep out
of both weariness and indifference. By morning, it looked as if a
hurricane had passed through Isla Robinson, strewn with plant debris, personal
belongings, and overturned plastic chairs. The midnight mystery intruder turned
out to be an Argentinian visitor that was vainly trying to locate a
hammock and escape the rain, stumbling into our cabana out of his own
confusion. I later found his brother sleeping under a table in the
dining area after his tent became entirely waterlogged. As rough as the
night passed, it was surely a memorable experience that had us all
laughing over breakfast amidst soggy and sandy guests.
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| Our Kuna cook shows me the catch of the day |
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| My mini outrigger model |
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| Freshly caught lobster dinner |
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| I-Crew cruising the Caribbean in style |
With
an unforgettable storm behind us, the next leg of the journey witnessed
our return to the exquisite jungle that Panama prides itself upon, this
time further within the highlands west of the capital. Relying on local
transportation for this overnight excursion returned to me a sense of
travel familiarity that I had long missed on the trip - the local bus. We set off from
the Hakim residence with our backpacks in search of the clichéd
microbus, complete with popular cumbia and reggaeton tunes blaring to the bounce of stereotypically
erratic driving. Catching the bus to El Valle was a simple yet engaging
delight, as I synched my iPod’s salsa playlist to the stop-and-go motion
of the trip that took us over rolling emerald mountains of dense
foliage into a wide valley snuggled quaintly into the crater of an
extinct volcano. The sleepy town was dreamlike in nature, a cool
highland retreat of bicycle-filled country roads and charming houses
situated on large jungle-enveloped acreage. Our evening was spent
roaming the only main road through town, snacking in cafes and checking
out the local crafts market before returning to Don Pepe's hotel to
converse from the comfort of ubiquitous hammocks. Dinner proved to be a rather comical
incident, as everything had closed by the time we set ourselves in
motion again (which has proven itself on this trip to be quite a
challenge, obviously expected of large group travel). We filled the only available
restaurant in town, which gave us the colorful choice of either fried or
grilled chicken. A breakfast of grilled liver, onions, and fried bread
was far more satiating the following morning, after which we set off on
foot along the narrow back roads into the denser jungle areas beyond the
town, an adventure-seeking mission our top priority. The walk provided a vast
smorgasbord of flora and fauna iconic to the jungle regions.
Re-triggering old memories, my excitement reached its zenith as I
recognized the many plants that Eduardo had taught me during my hikes
with the Piaroa tribe in Venezuela. Orchids, bromeliads, lianas, and banyans - my
heart raced with excitement in a manner no different than my
ten-year-old self back at Autana Tepui.
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| The ubiquitous Central American hammock |
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| A quaint, family-oriented, bike-friendly valley town |
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| Amazing street food cooked to order along the main road through El Valle |
While Yaron,
Sophie, and Ross jumped at the thrill of zip lining through the canopy,
Matt, Allie, Ankoor, Carole, and I settled for a more intimate encounter
with the forest floor, sharing our walk to Chorro El Macho with
metallic butterflies, arachnids, and crawling centipedes. The stroll was
brief though certainly not disappointing for me, set along a rather
glorified path with suspended bridges maintained by Panama's booming
tourism industry and culminating at a canopy-covered lagoon built from
rocks with fresh diverted river water. Submerging ourselves in the cool
crystal waters was nothing short of cathartic given the heat and our
bite-ridden bodies. Matt discovered a small trail that reconnected to
the main river, above which hung large, tempting vines. His hesitation
reminded me of my first time encountering these massive organic cables
that disappeared into the tree cover overhead. Remembering how Eduardo
and I used to play with them, I grabbed a hold of one and took a wide
swing over the river below in a moment more riveting than any zip line
could possibly provide for me. Unfortunately, my excitement quickly shifted to
shock as Matt followed and took a swing, slipping and falling with a splashing thud on the
river rocks. I panicked for him and he for his camera, which took me by
surprise given how painful the drop appeared. Soaked with a dislocated
shoulder and non-functioning camera, I once again could not help but
feel guilt for the frightening accident. And as tough as I know Matt to
be, this incident in combination with Allie's injuries back on the island made me question
whether my propensity for bad luck had been gradually rubbing off onto
others during this trip, and if its continuance would eventually prove
itself fatal. All in all, our hasty jaunt in the jungle covered a full
range of feelings, from the tranquil to the tragic.
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| The jungles around El Valle |
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| Intricate webs of emerald banyans |
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| Chorro El Macho falls |
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| Carole in her forest shoot - "Savage Beauty" |
The
final chapter of our Panamanian excursion had us venture by ferry two
hours south of Panama City into the Pacific, towards the renowned
Archipelago de Las Perlas. A haven for affluent expats and vacationing
tycoons, Yaron's parents happened to own an alluring three-storey
townhouse in a tiny, cozy neighborhood tucked within the jungled center of the small island of Contadora. The island sported a stunning
coastline of small coves and private beaches, interspersed with dense
vegetation through which emerged an occasional, multi-million dollar
mansion. Disembarking the ferry, the group was greeted on white sand by
Jason, a middle-aged expat who manages the Hakim property amongst many
others, and an adorable yet rusty micro-pickup into which we all piled.
The Hakims' island residence was similar in quality to the Venao beach
house, yet with a more personal feel. The remainder of the afternoon was
spent strolling along the quiet island roads, occasionally being passed
by members of the small community on their ATVs and golf carts, as well
as swimming around Playa Ejecutiva. Like in Panama City, I felt a
resurgence of curiosity, particularly at the sight of a pristine,
forest-engulfed beach that happened to be nestled between the mansion of
a Spanish plastic surgeon and the villa of the late Shah of Iran. Yaron
and Sophie spent their time together with an intimate snorkeling
session while Ankoor made the best of his inability to swim through creatively crafting tribal weaponry from whatever natural and synthetic
materials that happened to wash ashore. I joined Matt, Carole, and Ross for a riveting
reconnaissance mission that followed the coastline, climbing with crabs
along layers of coral and geological formations, and swimming to private
beaches with tantalizing tide pools. And as mundane as it may have been,
walking back barefoot along the quiet road with them was
deeply sentimental, invoking some surreal vision of myself
walking with timeless siblings in search of discovery.
Convening with the rest of the group at the trunk of a giant mango tree
was all too rewarding, with Matt perched in its
branches to shake the ripe harvest that plummeted into an outstretched beach
towel held by Yaron and myself. Ankoor's spicy mango chutney would later prove to be the highlight of a candle-lit dinner. The walk home at dusk had never before
possessed such a sweet aroma.
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| The Crew on Contadora |
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| Captain Matt picking mangoes |
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| Yaron prepping freshly caught mahi mahi steaks |
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| The moment it occurred to me I was no longer eating with friends, but rather, with a newly found family |
While the first day on
Contadora showed us the serene side of island life, the second day threw
us literally into a sea of action. Jason had arranged for us to
undertake a boating excursion under the service of a young bad-ass
boatman, Omar. In addition to visiting exquisite reef sites and taking
first steps onto "disappearing" islands whose existence changed with the
tides, Omar took us to witness the highlight of Las Perlas - a cluster
of mating humpback whales. Rising and submerging from the water's
surface in a most graceful manner, these monstrous creatures put on
for us a stunning display of spinning fin play and blowhole waterworks,
all the while silently encroaching below toy boats in a sea-size
bathtub. The entire observation was exceptionally close and intimate
with the animals themselves, completely superior to my previous whale
watching experiences in Alaska. In one astonishing and intimidating
episode, an adult whale had resurfaced directly alongside our boat veritably within arm’s reach, blasting us with an unexpected and forceful
spray from its blowhole. The frantic sensation of such a close encounter
threw everyone into a reel of excitement and laughter as we wiped our
faces of salt water snot. And just when the day could not appear to get
any grander, a tug on our fishing line yielded a beautifully aquamarine,
three-foot, fourteen pound mahi mahi that required the strength and
contribution of everyone on deck to retrieve. To think that my second
fishing experience would aid in catching such a magnificent and stubborn
beast gave me a buzz of shared accomplishment. Nevertheless, the fish
truly lived up to the Hawaiian meaning of its name. That evening, we
strolled home with a box of freshly fileted fish steaks, more freshly
picked mangoes, and all the necessary ingredients for an epic
hand-caught, home-cooked dinner among friends. Yaron's ex-sushi
restaurant skills provided the finest and freshest sashimi I had ever
tasted, delicate and sweet enough to instantly derail my train of thought
pertaining to the prices of mahi mahi entrees back in the States. With
Ross grilling the lime-spiced filets and Ankoor simmering a sweet mango
chutney, dinner quickly transported me into a gastronomic bliss.
Ultimately, however, I realized my comfort did not reside solely in the
savory food and candle-lit ambiance of that wonderful evening, but
rather with the cherished company I have been so honored to share the
table with. We concluded our time on Contadora, and essentially our last
day in Panama with a final group stroll through the island's jungle
trails, past beached ship wrecks and dilapidated hotel ruins, reclaimed
by the forest in some post-apocalyptic scene. Back in Panama City, a
late and last-minute evening of billiards and pina coladas on Calle
Uruguay with great friends and rising Panamanian musicians seemed like
the most fitting way to bring the two-week long party to a final close.
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| The massive whale as it approached our tiny boat |
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| Omar showing off the mahi mahi we all helped proudly pull from the sea |
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| Exploring a shipwreck |
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| I-Crew bringing the ship DOWN! |
While
Panama as a destination has succeeded in supplying a satisfying array
of unforgettable times, I have come to discover that the real Panamanian
experience for me actually lay in the interaction and involvement of
such a dynamic group of travel companions. Despite my initial
hesitation, traveling with so many unique people has had a surprisingly
positive and distinct influence on this undertaking in particular,
reviving past memories and forging new ones nearly simultaneously. In
light of both calm and tense moments, the group stood to maintain its
cohesion, building upon its colorful differences and skills with each
person contributing towards the trip's overall depth and significance. It is
neither where you are nor what you're doing, but rather who you're with,
that ultimately defines the journey. In the end, I question whether I
was traveling with old friends or if I was in fact traveling with a new
family.
