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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.