Hostal Un Mundo is owned by an expat Austrian, Thomas, and his Colombian wife, Iris. After chatting with them over coffee, they offered me a lift to Santiago as they were heading that way themselves. I gratefully accepted as it saved catching two buses and an extra hour of travel.
On approach to Santiago, Thomas asked if I would like to join him and Iris for lunch at a favourite Turkish restaurant of theirs. I was happy to as I enjoyed their company and was learning more about Panama.
After lunch, I bid my new friends goodbye and caught a bus to San Francisco. I thought I might stay at this off-the-grid little place overnight, however, soon found out there was no accommodation in town. Still, I decided to explore a little and ventured up to see Iglesia de San Francisco de la Montaña, a stone church built in 1727. Evidently the local artisans who built this church inserted their own faces into religious scenes and onto cherubs’ faces. Unfortunately, the church was locked up, however, I was treated to a bell ringing on each of the church’s three bells by an hombre in the church’s belfry.
Another church, which appears to be the ones the locals are now using, stood loftily behind its ancient counterpart. A group of señoras were quietly chatting in the shade as I entered it. An hombre was practising a song on a guitar high up above the nave. I sat in the cool of the church enjoying the music until I noticed a gathering at the main door. It soon became apparent a funeral service was about to commence. Not wanting to gate crash a funeral, I left the mourners in peace and walked back to the man road to catch a bus to Santa Fe.
Climbing from the sultry flats up into the mountains, the air became fresher and less dense. The bus groaned its way up steep inclines and rushed along when unencumbered. Passengers boarding and alighting at frequent intervals slow down the journey but gives opportunity to glimpse into everyday rural Panamanian life.
The hostal ended up being only a block away from where the bus dropped me off in the centre of the little town that is Santa Fe. Primarily, the obligatory church and town square and little more other than a small covered market, a supermarket, a handful of fondas (local eating places) and roads leading in a multitude of directions further into the countryside.
The hostal señora greeted me at the entrance and showed me to the back of the property where a concrete building was situated. This was divided into two dorm rooms, one of which was currently being used by a French backpacker. I assumed I would be sharing this room, however, the señora had other ideas. Her husband cleaned out the other dorm room which had four bunk beds crammed into it, leaving only a narrow space to access the bunk closest to the door. There were no windows, only a few high, unmeshed concrete vents giving the whole room a cell-like feeling. To top it all off, an entire can of insect spray had been emptied into the space rendering breathing impossible. I asked to see other options and settled on a lovely private room upstairs in the main hotel for only $10 a night more.
Wild Woman Wandering 