Softball-sized cane toads lethargically make their way across the road, while bats swoop just beyond the reach of the car. Everything we read says that you’re not supposed to drive at night, and perhaps this is why. The road really comes alive when the sun goes down. Horses, cows, goats, dogs, cats, and pedestrians of all sorts litter the edges of the twisty road, but we press on. Headlights don’t seem to work quite as well when the road goes up, down and around while shrouded in the cover of large tropical trees that remove the faintest hints of light cast by the sliver of a moon. A real traveller has no set plans, no deadlines, and so we find ourselves screaming across the Panama landscape at night, precisely what we were told not to do.
Earlier in the morning we had taken Nicole to the bus stop for her trip to San Jose, and then on to Liberia. Upon our return trip to the hotel to pack up our own gear into the car, I had noticed a couple of surfers unloading at Salsa Brava. Not ten minutes later we had returned, and I told Denielle that we could watch the infamous wave for a while, as the swell had apparently picked up, and Panama undoubtedly could wait another ten or fifteen minutes. I didn’t mind eating my words about the big wave not living up to its reputation during our brief trip, as it was quite a sight to behold the tiny incoming waves undergo metamorphosis into eight foot barrelling giants in the span of a few seconds from the safety of the reef’s edge next to the road. We waited until we saw a few larger sets come in, and saw a couple of the surfers get barrelled and emerge victorious on the other side. Then we were back into the car and Panama bound.
Soon leaving the rough potholed roads of Puerto Viejo, we were on the number 36 highway south towards Sixaola, deep through the heart of banana country. As the car followed along the edge of a valley, you could look to your left to see vast fields of banana trees as far as the eye could see. If someone were to get malaria in Costa Rica, this is probably the best chance you would have. Just before ten thirty in the morning we arrived to the edge of a very large train bridge that marked the entrance to Panama. A very large black man gestured for us to park our car, so we obliged, and were led towards the aduana to get our car paperwork done and our exit stamps on our passports. Then we were back in the car, straddling the precarious crooked tracks in the middle of the bridge on our way across the river, while pedestrians hugged the sides of the bridge with scantily more than a few centimetres clearance to spare. On the other side of the bridge there was a fumigation area, so we parked the car and had all those pesky critters blasted off with some kind of heinous chemicals. In addition, a gentleman wearing a mask sprayed a container inside of our car. It’s ironic how he is wearing a mask, but its fine for us who have to be in the car for several hours with the noxious fumes. To our delight, the paperwork and entry on the Panamanian side of the bridge goes quite quickly and without concern, except a brief encounter with the overweight migration lady who wants us to buy a bus ticket to return to Costa Rica. It’s the law in Panama that you have to show some way back out of the country, but I told her we have a car and would be driving back, which she only seemed to understand after I stated it a few more times over the next ten minutes. All in all we were just over an hour at the border, paid $15 in fees and $15 in helper fees, probably our cheapest crossing yet.
Our destination for the day was Bocas del Toro, a chain of islands in the Caribbean just below the Costa Rican border. There is also an old Survivor set left on one of the islands from the reality television show. We had planned on leaving our car on the mainland and taking a water taxi to the islands for about five days. Wherever the ferry location is, we were unable to find it after asking directions from several people and driving aimlessly for approximately an hour and a half. When the last set of directions took us to a big highway that crossed the river that we were supposed to be taking out to the Caribbean and further onto the islands, I cut our losses and proceeded to the other side of the country to Santa Catalina. Bocas del Toro would have to wait for our return trip. Having lost an hour entering Panama with the time change, we were not sure how far we would make it, but a lack of suitable lodging along the way had me gunning the throttle and making haste for the Pacific. Swell forecasts had shown a 5 star swell rating all week here, with 21 second periods, making for powerful surf and clean big waves. So the sweet siren song of the ocean called us along the highway.
We climbed quickly up the eastern slopes which were densely vegetated with every kind of tree and plant imaginable. Rain had been sporadic throughout the day, and no doubt they had received the same torrential downpour of biblical proportions that we had awoke to at 5 in the morning in Puerto Viejo, so the roads were all wet and the ditches full of water. When the rain did subside for brief periods, misty clouds clung low to the hill sides, as our elevation steadily rose throughout the afternoon. A couple of pit stops were taken to photograph some of the beautiful landscapes and give relief to the bladder. After it appeared that the road would continue to climb forever, we reached a grand plateau, and everything amongst the landscape was transformed. Gone were the towering canopies of a trillion shades of green, replaced with a mixed open forest dominated by large needled pine trees. If one were to drug someone and bring them here in their unconsciousness, they could easily be led to believe that they were presiding in the interior of British Columbia. The road slowly descended from the plateau towards the pacific, and with the wonderful condition of the highway and lack of any traffic, our intrepid Matrix devoured the kilometres to the coast.
Time was not on our side however, and it became quite apparent that we would not be making it to our destination before the sun had set. In addition to this we were faced with Panama’s decision to not provide any road signs that might indicate which turns we needed to make along the way, so our journey was fraught with stalls and delays while we pulled over to ask the locals the direction to the next town on our route. This brings us to the crazy night driving of a man on a mission, driven solely by the hunger in my belly and need to reach our destination. Just after 8 pm, a full hour and a half after last light, we arrived in Santa Catalina, to find a quiet town nearly shut down for the night. We checked one set of cabinas which were very nice, satellite television, air conditioning, and kitchen, but a little out of our price range at $55 per night. I asked for a better deal if we were to stay for the week, but the girl said she would have to talk with the boss. Not expecting a drastic price reduction, we continued on to the only other lodgings open at that time, and are presently sitting inside our room at the Rojo hostel, just off of the beach. We’ll be here for at least one night, and then check out some other options during the daylight in the morning, perhaps after a surf.
Tyler.
No comments:
Post a Comment