Wild Woman Wandering

Whilst Panama is much, much more than the canal, you don’t come to Panama without it being a priority. And today that priority began with a visit to the Panama Canal Museum. But let’s rewind a bit first…

After a very pleasant afternoon/evening wandering around the historical heart of Panama City, I returned to my hostal thinking to take a refreshing shower prior to hitting the hay. But there was no water. A confusing, contradictory little sign hinted at water outages, but not at the hour I was wanting it. Hence, I went to bed without said shower planning on having one in the morning. Then around 5am a staff member came into my room, obviously looking for somewhere to crash, and left apologetically upon discovering the room was occupied. On awaking again and ready for my morning shower I discovered this elusive liquid was again off the menu. Upon enquiry, I was told that the water was out for the entire block and was provided with a couple of large containers of drinking water to have a slosh with. I waited it out for a while to see if the water came back on, but ended up having to use the bottled water.

Somewhat disgruntled, I found an overpriced cafe to brunch in prior to my Museum visit. Two cups of strong coffee restored my mood and fortified me for what ended up being an exceptional museum experience. Museo del Canal Interoceánico de Panamá is located in what originally was the poshest hotel in Panama circa 1875, which then became the headquarters for the French attempt at building the Canal. When the French eventually fobbed the canal off to the US, the building continued to be the Canal headquarters until the US moved their operations closer to the Canal itself. The Panamanian Government took it over until it was eventually restored in the 90s to become the world class museum it is today.

Two floors of air conditioned bliss starts the story right from the beginning when the idea of building a canal through Central America was first mooted. It then covers first the French attempt, then the subsequent American takeover and completion of the project. Historic artefacts and a fairly honest appraisal of the racism and cultural inequities were on full display. The story didn’t just end there though. With the Panama Canal a US territory, due to a deal agreed to by the respective governments of the day, a push for the Canal to be returned to the Panamanian people was rapidly gaining traction. This was ratified by both governments in 1977 to take effect in 1999.

In the meantime though, the US decided its former CIA puppet and Panamanian dictator, General Manuel Noriega, was persona non grata. So they did what they are famous for: attacked the country to remove its head. Only Noriega evaded capture by seeking refuge in the Holy See Diplomatic Mission. So the US employed what was without a doubt the most ingenious way to weasel him out. Noriega was an opera lover who detested rock music. The US set up a barrage of industrial speakers and blasted heavy rock and metal music around the clock for several days until he couldn’t stand it any longer and surrendered.

I had messaged Mike earlier in the day to let him know I was at the museum and had arranged to meet in the Square afterwards. We were going to go for a walk but as it was later than anticipated, decided on a bar crawl instead. A detour to my hostel to see if the water was back on, led me to confirm that my room was indeed not at all secure as I proved by opening the locked door with a nail file. And there was still no water. I only had one more night there so decided to suck it up and move on the following day.

My new travel buddy doesn’t do mornings if he can help it, so it was a delayed start heading to the ‘Big Smoke’. But the delay was most certainly worth it. If I thought it was spectacular heading up to El Valle from the east, it was completely spellbinding heading back down towards the west. The spine of Panama, the Cordillera Central, rises abruptly from near the Pacific coast in this region resulting in a narrow, tightly winding road traversing its steep slopes to gradually descend to the flatlands below. Alpine summits loftily cast deep shadows into valleys cut hundreds of metres beneath them. And the vista as our little minivan trundled along was as panoramic as it was magnificent.

All too soon though, we were back down coasting along the coastline. Well, near enough to it; the Pan American Highway a stark contrast to the tight mountain road which led to it. From here on, it was a speedy traverse on to Panama City. But not before we crossed the world famous Panama Canal on the majestic Bridge of the Americas. To the north, you could see shipping coming down the canal having just completed a tightly scripted 8-10 hour journey from the Caribbean. To the south were a myriad of shipping anchored waiting for their turn to traverse in the other direction. The busy Port of Panama City lay immediately in the southern foreground.

Mike and I stayed on the minibus until it reached its terminus at the Albrook Transport Centre. I had found a cheap hostel online in the old part of Panama City, while Mike had booked something way more salubrious in Amador near the canal. We lunched together at the modern mall next to the terminal, then Mike organised an Uber, dropping me off at my new digs along the way. With a promise to let him know what I was up to the following day, I bid him farewell and checked into my hostel.

Hostel Casa Relic was one of those hostels which sound amazing and just the ticket online, but fail miserably and spectacularly in reality. As I could get a private room for just a few dollars a night more than a dorm bed, I went for that option, paying for two nights. My amiable host showed me to a dank, windowless room with an unmade bed someone had clearly been sleeping in. I checked out the female dorm room and it didn’t have a window either. There was also only one female bathroom which contained the only toilet, however, I was assured I was the only female staying at the moment so it wouldn’t be a problem. I decided to stick with the private room, sourced clean bed linen, then went out in search of beer.

The hostel manager saw that I was interested in the heritage of the building and happily offered to give me a guided tour. Built in 1688, the building is one of the oldest in the now World Heritage Listed Site. Casco Viejo was established in 1673 after the original capital was attacked by that devastatingly dashing privateer, Henry Morgan and his motley maritime mates. Rather than hand over the loot to that moustachioed monster, the City Mayor decided to torch the place to the ground. Hence, a new city site was needed after the pesky pirates sulkily retreated from whence they came. Casco Viejo was the result two years later.

Casco Viejo is also where the Panamanian President resides and has his offices. In amongst crumbling ruins, superbly renovated buildings, cozy plazas and what seemed like a cathedral on every corner, Casco Viejo is certainly a juxtaposition of architectural saviour and decay. With the Presidential Palace and associated buildings carefully carved out from public access and tightly guarded.

After a wander through the cobbled streets and exploring Casco’s many narrow streets and alleys, it was time to find a sunset bar for cocktails and something to eat. This I discovered hidden at the rear of one of the many souvenir shops lining Casco’s thoroughfares. The bar, though small, opened out to an uninterrupted view of the black sand, tidal beach surrounding Casco’s peninsula. A perfect way to finish off my first day in the Panama’s capital.

Woke to find the street dogs that came back with us the previous evening had made themselves very comfortable over night. Cushions were scattered on the floor with one dog curled up on one, and another stretched out on the main couch. They didn’t budge an inch when I came out of my room which led me to believe it wasn’t their first such campaign.

El Valle’s most famous (and hence most popular…) hike is the India Domida; sleeping Indian. According to legend, a young Indian woman had the hots for a conquistador but papa said, “No way, Jose!!” So she topped herself. A formation that creepily looks like Sleeping Beauty is said to have resulted from her demise. I personally think it was one of those warning fables to ward young Indian ladies away from the skanky Spanish. As no self-respecting Indian chief wanted a Jose for a son-in-law.

I had heard that the India Domida trail was crawling with the town’s youngsters wanting to make a coin or two ‘guiding’ tourists. And that the trail itself was crawling with tourists. That was enough for me to look elsewhere for the day’s activity. I found a waterfall circuit hike on Komoot with a bonus offshoot up the caldera slope for a view of India Domida.

The trail took me to the outskirts of the tiny village that is El Valle and straight out of town. Almost immediately, I was now passing enormous estates with stately casas primarily built with expat coin; El Valle, being the Shangri-La for many US (and other) retirees. The road gently sloped around the southern side of the now extinct caldera which I was skirting to reach the waterfall.

I met a couple of girls who were heading on a climb which took in my planned offshoot up the caldera slope. It turned out I had met their aunts the day before when I arrived in town so we got chatting as we ascended the steep caldera slope. Unfortunately, the clouds were descending in full force so visibility of the India Domida was all but obscured, but it was still a magical view of the caldera floor and surrounding slopes. I left the girls to continue their hike up the caldera slope and made my way back down to rejoin where I had left my waterfall hike.

It would seem that the person whose land this hike detoured through had had enough of randoms trespassing and had erected fencing and signage demanding a cease and desist. Disappointed, but with no option but to retrace my steps back to the outskirts of town where I picked up the main road heading out which would take me to the waterfall.

Again, the universe appeared to conspire against me as I eventually reached my destination to find it closed with a barricade stating no entry. Just as I was about to turn around (again…), a couple rocked up and told me they had just crossed the barricade and went in themselves and that there was another family who had done the same. I decided to risk it and climbed over the barricade myself to walk down to the small river the waterfall was on.

A series of low cascades led to where the waterfall was further downstream, however, there wasn’t a path. To get to the waterfall, one had to rock hop over slick boulders on the edge of the cascades and hope for the best. As it was getting late and my knee was stiff from being punished, I decided not to venture any further. It was disappointing not to see the waterfall, but I had had an interesting hike nonetheless.

Back in town, I had a well-earned shower and changed ready to meet the girls I had met on the trail and their aunts for cocktails and dinner. Their hotel neighbour was also with them and as we were both heading to Panama City the following day, arranged to meet for coffee and breakfast the following morning prior to catching the bus.

The señor that checked me in last night was out front when I went to leave so I assumed he lived somewhere on the premises behind one of the few doors I didn’t have a sticky beak in last night. I asked where the bus terminal was to catch a bus to El Valle and he kindly offered to drive me there.

Crossing the Pan American Highway is an adventure in itself. Multitudes of vehicles ply its many lanes and there are no traffic lights. It’s a matter of seizing the opportunity to speed through a gap in the traffic to get to a merging lane on the other side. Then, after you’ve driven past your intended destination which happens to be back on the side you’ve just risked life and limb to leave, you move into an exit lane and repeat the procedure. All going well, you arrive with organs intact.

The most direct route from Penonome to El Valle happily encompasses a narrow road which winds its way up through verdant valleys and lush cloud-forested countryside. The route is slow, which gives plenty of opportunity to take in the scenery.

El Valle has the distinct claim of lying inside the remains of an extinct volcano. About 300 000 years ago, the volcano in question blew its stack. Quite literally. And left behind a 6km crater which gradually filled with rainwater to form a large lake. To the dismay to any duck in the vicinity, it then developed a crack and drained away. This, in turn, left something far more manageable for the local indigenous folk to put their shoulder to. Add a Spanish colonial incursion a couple of hundred years ago and you have the quaint little town of El Valle de Antón.

I got dropped off outside the local market and wandered off in search of coffee. I hadn’t manage to book any accomodation online as one of the hostels only had room for one night, and the other one was reportedly infested with bed bugs – I do draw the line somewhere! I thought I’d try my luck with the first hostal, but alas the story remained the same. Still unsure what to do, I decided to enquire about a hotel above some shops in the main street. To my surprise, I was offered a really nice room with ensuite for only $45pn, so decided to treat myself for a couple of nights.

Accomodation sorted, I decided to wander up to the visitor centre where I found an informative and attractive display of the region. It was getting too late to attempt any of the walks so decided to put that off until the following day.

Back at the hotel, I discovered that a tour group of 18-40 year olds had descended on the place. And the only communal space happened to be outside my room! I started chatting with some of them and ended up going out to dinner with them. Well, I drank $4.50 cocktails while they ate but you get my drift… We returned with three street dogs who threw up all the food they had begged off the guys, then made themselves comfortable on the couch in the common area for the night.

I was hoping to do a loop of the eastern side of the Peninsula de Azuero, but buses were scarce and I was starting to run out of time. I ended up just missing the mid morning bus that came through Playa Venao and had to settle for the midday one instead. I found a nearby hotel with a restaurant I could chill in for a couple of hours rather than waiting on the side of the road at the bus shelter.

The bus came by more or less on schedule and I returned back the way I came. Playa Venao-Pedasi-Las Tables-Chitre. I am yet to do a loop in this country apart from the one I did by sea in Bocas. It ends up being very time consuming as every leg has to be returned in its entirety. Still, the countryside is spectacular enough to warrant a second viewing and I have managed to see quite a bit of it.

Back in Chitre, I made enquires for a bus to Penonome which was en-route to En Valle, my next port of call. This whole next leg was on the Pan American Highway and hence a bus befitting that role was evidently required. A somewhat dated coach which had clearly seen better days was the only option available to me. I detest these forms of transport as usually the curtains are drawn so you can’t see out. I managed to find a seat next to a window though which gave me curtain operation privileges and which had the added advantage of being able to adjust the artic airconditioning. Then it was just a matter of kicking back and watching more of the countryside roll on by.

Even though we were on the Pan American Highway, which was as sterile as you would imagine it to be, the countryside we drove through was still beautiful. At one stage we were travelling close to the mountain ranges which offered up magnificent views of misty clouds rolling off the peaks.

I found an affordable accommodation option on-line in Penonome and booked it. Hostal Familiar Villa Nome was close to the Pan American Highway so I could walk from where I got dropped off as the bus was continuing on to Panama City. I was welcomed by a señor who showed me the facilities and my room, then left me to settle in. I had a peak at the other rooms as I soon realised I was the only one staying that night. It was a shared bathroom but I had no one I needed to share it with, so that was a bonus. And I could buy beer just down the road at a service station. Location, location.

And on the third day, it was open!! My last ditch effort to see Museo Herrera came to fruition. I sauntered in and was pleasantly surprised to find it was free entrance. Though, there most certainly was a price! It turns out very few foreigners visit Chitre, usually bypassing for more aesthetically pleasing tourist sites. And those who do venture into the bustle of this typical Panamanian city usually only leave their imprint on a hotel pillow. Thus, I was a novelty.

The two tourist police at the museum entrance were keen for conversation and a photo shoot, while an intellectually impaired young lady employed by the museum attached herself to me. She managed to stammer out a couple of words, then left me to look at the displays as she recorded me doing so on her phone. It was a bit unsettling and I felt like an animal on display at a zoo. Still, there was an interesting display of Panama’s mega fauna and pre-Colombian artefacts on the ground floor, including a mock burial site with artefacts displayed in situ.

I went upstairs to the colonial display and a museum curator came out to give a guided tour of the display. All the while, my little señorita continued her recording. She was having a lovely time and I can only assume what random feed this Wild Woman will end up featuring in.

It was now time to finally leave Chitre and venture further down the coast. I collected my pack and walked back to the bus station for the last time. I caught a bus to Las Tablas, then walked the few blocks for the bus further south to Pedasi. There, I had to sit on the side of the road for about half an hour for my last bus of the day down to Playa Venao.

I had found a hostel online en-route so booked it while the bus was negotiating the winding road. I was then dropped off on the side of the main road to walk down to find my hostel. This was one of those hostels where private rooms are only marginally more than a dorm bed, so I booked that instead. While the rooms were really cheap, they were also really basic. Small concrete boxes, though there was airconditioning. Very basic shared toilets and cold water showers in cubicles were on the verandah outside the rooms. The aroma of freshly choofed marijuana emanated from where I assumed dorm room was.

I dumped my pack and walked along the main road to Eco Venao where a 3km waterfall hike was mentioned in the guidebook. It was late by the time I got there so I didn’t have a lot of time to spare if I was to finish the trail before dark. It was a well maintained trail following a small river which needed fording across rocks a couple of times. The trail then lead to a small waterfall with a pool below.

From there, the trail led steeply up the hill to a lookout over Playa Venao itself. It was a surprisingly good view and completely unexpected from where you pop out. Then it was down and circling the hill around to the start of the trail. It was almost dusk by the time I finished and definitely dusk by the time I got back to my hostel.

By then it was time to source some dinner. Playa Venao is one of those up and coming expat resort communities, complete with upmarket beachside hotels and high rise condos jutting up above the jungle canopy. I eventually found a restaurant attached to one of those beach hotels that wasn’t too outrageously priced to while away the evening.

Google said the museum was open. And it was a Monday. So with optimism, I jaunted over the few blocks…..to find it closed. A vendor selling young coconuts from a handcart just in front of the firmly shut front door assured me it would be open the next day. I was only planning on spending one day in Chitre, two at the most, but really wanted to see this little museum so returned to my hotel to book another night.

Task completed, it was then the question of what to do for the day. The other thing that looked interesting and one I had considered the previous day was a visit to a local rum distillery in a nearby town. Google assured me it was open, but then again, Google assured me the museum was open. Nevertheless, I decided to hoof it back to the bus terminal for another jaunt into the Herrera countryside. Sometimes this Wild Woman just likes to roll the dice and see where it lands. One thing is for sure – it will be always be an adventure of sorts.

The little town of Pese lies about 30kms west of Chitre along one of the main arterial roads so despite the usual stop/start for passengers, it was a fairly quick trip. I stayed on the bus when it reached Pese as it weaved its way through the town and got dropped off on the outskirts to walk the final kilometre and a half to my destination.

Almost immediately, I was flanked by towering sugarcane. Large trucks overflowing with cut cane roared past hombres working in the fields. I eventually reached an impressive gateway, shortly followed by a gatehouse manned by security. I asked if they were open and that I was interested in doing a tour. A quick phone call later, and I was sent on up the road to where a guide was waiting for me.

It turned out that most tours are booked on line and are of a more formal nature, but my guide, Tito, offered to take me around on a personal tour for USD25. I jumped at the offer and so we began. Originally starting out as a sugar producing outfit, Haciendo San Isidro diversified into producing liquor in 1936. The company has been in the same family since 1908 and produces many high quality rums under the Abuelo label, as well as Panamanian grog staple, seco.

Tito took me around the whole processing plant, explaining how the different liquors were made. I was surprised to learn that the plant is completely self-generating as they burn cane chaff and other by-products to produce enough energy to not only run the plant, but also most of Pese. In addition, the company employs most of its workers from the town and is a large contributor to Pese’s prosperity.

It was then on to tastings in the vintage warehouses where the company’s most exclusive rums were being stored. Their flagship Abuelo rum starts out as a basic 5yo, then progresses to a slightly more mature 7yo. It is after this point though that the rums really start to come into their own. A range of 12yo and 15yo vintages aged in oak, then finished in casks which had previously aged different liquors (such as sherry, cognac or port) raised the bar before blowing it completely off the Richter with the Abuelo Centuria. This predominantly 30yo rum is replenished using a solera system where the original vintage is topped up at lengthy intervals with slightly younger vintages to maintain consistency and supply of what remains a highly prestigious and sought after rum.

My guide, Tito offered to take me to the founder’s house in town for a tasting of one of the 15yo vintages as I only had opportunities to taste the 5, 7, one of the 12s and the Centuria. I certainly got my money’s worth out of the tour as I ended up with five full shots of rum, including two of the Centuria which retails for USD135 a bottle! Plus I got a chance to see the beautiful founder’s house in town.

As Tito lived in Chitre and mine was the last tour for the day, he offered to give me a lift back to my hotel. All in all, a most memorable day as I left with a vow to bring home a bottle of exceptional Abuelo rum.

When I booked into Chitre, I was keen to spend the day visiting the little museum there. Alas, it was closed over the weekend. Then there was a rum distillery in nearby Pese that sounded interesting. That was also closed. My last option was visiting the little traditional town of Parita just north of Chitre.

I walked down to the bus terminal and found the bus that would take me there. Parita is one of those little towns that make you feel you should be wandering its streets in voluminous skirts with hair drawn back at the nape, such is its Spanish colonial authenticity. Parita’s baroque style church has been overlooking its traditional grassy town square and surrounding low, red-clay roofed casas since 1723. Vibrant, flowering plants and wooden rocking chairs adorn the tiled porches set just off the narrow streets.

I had a pleasant time wandering around the main town centre before deciding to take a road which led out of town and down to the river. Once there, I found three hombres fishing on the bank. I chatted with them for a while, before returning back to town using a different route.

By now it was time to return to Chitre. I bid pretty little Parita adios and caught the bus back to Chitre. Sometimes, the Universe throws you curve balls and just rolling with it gives you an unexpected experience. As was my day.

It was now time to leave the mountains again to head to the coast. This creeping ever eastwards, heading north before retracing my steps to head south, makes for slow going. However, I haven’t let it deter me and am seeing a good portion of the country regardless. I wanted to check out the western side of Peninsula de Azuero before heading further east again to work my way down the eastern side of the Peninsula. Unfortunately, this was another instance where it was necessary retrace one’s tracks or skip it altogether as there is no connecting roads between west and east.

Once back in Santiago, I found where the bus to Torio left and fortunately didn’t have to wait long before it left. It was a pretty drive down to Torio which was about half way down the coast. I could have gotten further down the coast on another bus, but didn’t have time to wait for it to leave. I had the annual Council meeting for the Australian Speleological Federation which I needed to zoom into by 6pm so wanted to be in the hotel room I had booked in Chitre before then.

I thought I would just get dropped off where the bus stopped in Torio, have a quick look around, maybe grab a cerveza, then jump on another bus back to Santiago. A whistlestop little detour of the area. Of course, it wasn’t as simple as that. The bus driver wanted to know where I wanted to get dropped off and when I told him just in the centre, he wanted to drop me off on the side of the road which didn’t consist of much at all. As there were other passengers on the bus not getting off and knowing that the bus terminated at Torio, I was somewhat puzzled. They said they were going down to the beach, so I decided to stay on board until the bus rumbled to a stop at a crowded, black sand beach. I asked when the bus left again and was told in 20 minutes time, so decided I would have a quick look then return on that bus.

As luck would have it, I soon stumbled on a beachside bar with icy cervezas which ticked that box. I had just enough time to down one and grab a couple of photos before heading off back to Santiago. By now I was most familiar with Santiago Bus Terminal as I had used it to transfer to Santa Catalina, Santa Fe, Torio and now Chitre. Such is the complexities of travelling through Panama. Fortunately, I managed to find a bus that went directly to Chitre, which saved me much needed time as the detour down to Torio had taken me much longer than anticipated.

The bus pulled into Chitre just prior to my meeting starting so I just had time to register. Then it was a matter of listening on while I bought some beers and walked the 1.5kms to my hotel. Checked in, I could finally relax and participate a little more fully until my bit had finished and I crashed for the last hour, waking up just before 1am when it was finishing up.

As many of you know, this Wild Woman likes to go wandering off the beaten track and that’s exactly what the day was beckoning. I decided to check out the indigenous community at Calovebora on the Caribbean coast. The road to Calovebora was only completed a few years ago, finally connecting the indigenous communities that live on the Caribbean side of the province with the rest of the country. Prior to this, community members had to take their chances by paddling up the Rio Calovebora, then traversing muddy tracks to get to civilisation. Now they have a sealed road which is regularly plied by local buses from Santa Fe.

The road to Calovebora heads north through Parque Nacional Santa Fe, threading through mountain passes and skating past small rivers cascading down heavily forested cliffs. The way is slow due in part to the numerous tight turns and steep climbs, as much as to the constant exchange of passengers along the road. Tiny, wooden shacks with thatched roofs house the indigenous families that live along the route. The women in traditional dress of simple, brightly hued smocks with contrast braid, usher their offspring on and off the bus.

After a couple of hours, the bus pulled up in a small community at the end of the road. The Caribbean Sea was just before us; its turquoise waters gently lapping the coffee coloured sand. I decided to have something to eat at the little fonda behind the bus stop and was served the tastiest fried fish I had had in a long time, washed down with freshly squeezed orange juice. There wasn’t anything else on the menu, but you couldn’t get any fresher than what I was given. I got chatting with the owner who told me about the impact the road has had on the community. He also confirmed what I suspected – very few foreigners venture out to these parts.

After lunch, there was time for a walk along the beach. Calovebora is situated at the mouth of the Rio Calovebora so it was only possible to go in one direction. Crossing a small stream which was disgorging its waters into the Caribbean, it was possible to walk about a kilometre along the beach before coming to impassable sea cliffs.

Catching the bus back to Santa Fe was just as enjoyable the second time around as I kicked back and watched the various lush scenes unfold before me. On arrival back in Santa Fe, I had planned on grabbing a couple of cervezas to take back to the hostal to sustain me while I wrote a long overdue report for the Australian Speleological Federation, but was startled to learn that no alcohol could be sold that day. On enquiring, I discovered it was because it was the Day of Martyrs. I could fully appreciated a day of mourning, recognition and remembrance for the poor souls who lost their lives fighting for a cause deep in their nationalistic soul, but was unsure why it was necessary to be made to feel a martyr myself. Fortunately, back in the hostal, upon hearing of my plight, a kindly visiting señora gave me a cerveza from her own personal stash. And so the report could then be written.