Panama City / San Blas
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In the bus to Panamá City I looked on the map and excitingly learned that there were 3 (!) national parks bordering the capital. Dreaming about my future hiking adventures I stood up to jump out of the bus... and crammed a pin sticking out of the floor a few centimetres into my heel. Because well, in Panamá that seems like a logical thing to do: Spreading the floor with sharp objects, f*ck the tourists anyway. Bleeding like a pig I limped to my Couchsurfing house, leaving a trace of blood.
Once my host Erick especially drove out of his work to welcome me into his house, he raced to the pharmacy to basically buy up their whole stock. In the car he proudly told me about his Venezuelan roots and his gorgeous homeland he unfortunately had to leave years ago due to the political tensions and violence. He wasn’t exaggerating: Coming from a well-off family he was kidnapped twice, losing an approximate amount of $50.000 in exchange for his life. The second time he managed to escape, but once he jumped into the cab also the taxi-driver pulled out his gun to grab the last money and belongings he had left. Let’s say I made the right decision holding off on visiting Venezuela, a country that’s still high on my bucket list. “Oh yes, with your foreign looks and backpack it wouldn't take more than a week before you lost everything you own”, confirmed Erick.
He ended up quite comfortably in Panamá though: Once I entered his downtown penthouse right on the shore I couldn’t suppress the urge to immediately run to the balcony to take in the endless views over the modern skyline.
He ended up quite comfortably in Panamá though: Once I entered his downtown penthouse right on the shore I couldn’t suppress the urge to immediately run to the balcony to take in the endless views over the modern skyline.
“Ok, I have to go back to work now, feel at home, eat all the food you want, visit the private gym, watch some Netflix [on a screen bigger than my entire body] or relax at the swimming pool on the 50th floor.” Ok, if you insist.
After an evening of hanging out with Erick’s flamboyant friend Bruno, who built an exclusive porn room into his house (incl. red lighting and pole dance facilities), it was time to discover this famous capital city. While following wherever my (stumbling) feet took me to I noticed the sharp differences between the filthy rich and the deprived poor. I mean, also in Colombia these big differences were existent, but these various population layers lived separately in secluded neighbourhoods with a considerate distance in between. Here you could walk in between the villas and skyscrapers and one block further up stand in between the trash, impoverished ruins where two families live in a single room and watch shoeless addicts tightening up the belt on their arm to prepare for the next fix.
As usual, I try not to avoid these places as it gives a more honest and realistic insight of what a country is really about. I can’t share any pics though, as flashing around cameras and iPhones in these surroundings is not the smartest move.
As usual, I try not to avoid these places as it gives a more honest and realistic insight of what a country is really about. I can’t share any pics though, as flashing around cameras and iPhones in these surroundings is not the smartest move.
In the middle of this polluted melting pot of life I found the Museo de Arte Contemporaneo. Besides a temporary exhibition of the German George Grosz, the compact permanent collection focussed on the talent of mainly local Central- or South-American artists. The list of gifted painters is endless: Alicia Viteri, Andrés Vasquez Gloria, Javier Marín, Margarita Monsalve, Alejandro Peréz Cruz, Augusto Anastacio, Monica Kupfer... artistic talent is in the soil here.
The idea was to check out some Chinese cemetery on the way to the centre, but as this route went straight to some slum two cops grabbed me by the collar and informed what the hell I thought I was doing. If I continued they wouldn’t stand in for my safety... Because they’re cops, and cops rather go after the small fish, bugging the good citizens with useless parking tickets and charges for minor violations, instead of arresting the big boys that murder and plunder. They pointed to the only safe street in the area and recommended me not to stop walking... and again, from one street to the other the area changed from gangsta ghetto to tourist trap.
Casco Viejo: Although I just paid $0,25 for a coffee that I drank chatting with 15 Panameños, in this area $3,00 is the going rate. Here you can’t recognize a Panamanian restaurant because the place is filled up with Panamanians, no it’s because the English sign tells you so... And on every corner of the street you can buy that ‘typical Panamanian hat’ not one Panameño wears. This must be the place other travellers referred to when they said Panamá is the ‘American Disneyland’. It's how smooth citymarketeers want to present Panamá to us gringos: a fake safe haven of colourful colonial buildings where poverty doesn't exist.
Although not coherent with reality, it is a comfortable hang-out to take a break from the city fumes and the bumping horns of the cab drivers. It’s an odd phenomenon: The fact that you’re NOT hailing down a taxi is not enough to convince the drivers you don’t need one. By consistently honking and screaming to pedestrians they hope we ‘suddenly’ realize we need a cab after all.
As most tourist hotspots are obviously located in Casco, I took my time here to check out Teatro Nacional, Plaza Bolivar, Herera and Francia, some history museums and #1 attraction Iglesia San Jose. #1 because... yeah, no clue. It’s just a regular average church with a plain ceiling. I mean, Catholics do care about their ceilings right? Why else would they cover it with pure gold and paintings if they can use that money to feed the poor?
As most tourist hotspots are obviously located in Casco, I took my time here to check out Teatro Nacional, Plaza Bolivar, Herera and Francia, some history museums and #1 attraction Iglesia San Jose. #1 because... yeah, no clue. It’s just a regular average church with a plain ceiling. I mean, Catholics do care about their ceilings right? Why else would they cover it with pure gold and paintings if they can use that money to feed the poor?
I ended the day with a live jam session from an all-out-American Marilyn Monroe look-a-like, but nevertheless decided not to go back to this area. It’s a beautiful polished place, but I like it rough.
After I spent some days exploring the slums and discovering the cheap side of Panamá City (quite a challenge when staying with a rich guy), I decided I needed to check off an obligatory sight:
The Panamá Canal
After I spent some days exploring the slums and discovering the cheap side of Panamá City (quite a challenge when staying with a rich guy), I decided I needed to check off an obligatory sight:
The Panamá Canal
The budget way to get there is buying a public transport pass for $2,00 with some credit ($0,30 per ride), take the metro to Allbrook bus terminal and from there bus to some docks. If you speak some Spanish, all locals are more than excited to help you out. Initially I followed the (white) crowds and drove down to Miraflores. However, the admission price for the observation deck and museum is $15,00 (a zero less for the locals). My ass.
I decided if they refuse to charge a normal admission price I refuse to follow their rules. So I climbed over some fences, ignoring the red screaming signs saying ‘NO ENTRAR’ (that’s Spanish for ‘please enter’ right?) and checked out the canal and the impressive technology related to it from up close by myself.
I decided if they refuse to charge a normal admission price I refuse to follow their rules. So I climbed over some fences, ignoring the red screaming signs saying ‘NO ENTRAR’ (that’s Spanish for ‘please enter’ right?) and checked out the canal and the impressive technology related to it from up close by myself.
When some workers ran my way aggressively signalling I decided I would suddenly only be able to speak Dutch. However, when they came closer their faces changed and instead of brutally escorting me out they offered me a private tour. As I still pretended to only speak Dutch they used a translating device on their phone to provide the whole canal history in my mother tongue. Some people think it’s brave to travel the world as a woman alone, I think it’s just very convenient. After I thanked these ‘hard workers’ for showing me around I ran into an Argentinean guy who took me to the (free) Pedro Miguel look-out where you can spend hours watching the massive ships changing the Pacific for the Atlantic.
Canals are alright, but nothing beats a sea.
Canals are alright, but nothing beats a sea.
A pristine clear blue sea with white sand islands, to be more precise.
I allowed myself a budget splurge in Panamá: The famous San Blas Islands.
Skipping this natural delight is like going to Perú and not going to Macchu Pichu. As usual, I wanted to avoid a tour and go by myself... but unfortunately the Kuna tribe owning these grounds and waters only allows a limited amount of tourists via a by them organized tour. So there I sat at 4:45AM, waiting on a jeep that eventually picked me up at 6AM. You know it’s going to happen, but your western DNA forces you to be ready in time ‘just in case’ anyway.
On the provincial routes we passed the privately owned colourful buses decorated with paintings, garlands and images of naked women that must convince the crowds to use their bus instead of their competitors’. The carretera changed into a sandy off-road rollercoaster right through a national park, where some Kuna police men awaited us to charge the $20 entrance fee (on top of the $199-tour). A rattle-boat that took exactly 35 minutes to start took us to Aroma Island, where we had to pay a $3 tax again.
I allowed myself a budget splurge in Panamá: The famous San Blas Islands.
Skipping this natural delight is like going to Perú and not going to Macchu Pichu. As usual, I wanted to avoid a tour and go by myself... but unfortunately the Kuna tribe owning these grounds and waters only allows a limited amount of tourists via a by them organized tour. So there I sat at 4:45AM, waiting on a jeep that eventually picked me up at 6AM. You know it’s going to happen, but your western DNA forces you to be ready in time ‘just in case’ anyway.
On the provincial routes we passed the privately owned colourful buses decorated with paintings, garlands and images of naked women that must convince the crowds to use their bus instead of their competitors’. The carretera changed into a sandy off-road rollercoaster right through a national park, where some Kuna police men awaited us to charge the $20 entrance fee (on top of the $199-tour). A rattle-boat that took exactly 35 minutes to start took us to Aroma Island, where we had to pay a $3 tax again.
Tax was the last thing on my mind though while gaping at this overwhelmingly gorgeous bounty island surrounded by waters as blue as my eyes. These are the kind of sceneries I used to see on big billboards while waiting on the bus in the pouring rain... Glad things change. This slice of paradise appeared to be my sleeping spot for the night, so I dropped off my backpack in the secluded tent I rented in the middle of a palm tree forest.
Only wearing a bikini I hopped on board again heading to Perro Chico (little dog) island for my own Finding-Nemo-experience: Wearing a stylish snorkel mask I paddled to an old ship wreck to admire the fluorescent fauna of bright tropical fishes swimming around the pink-purple-orange reef.
Completely speechless the boat took me to a dozen of other snorkelling spots and bright white empty islands, after which lunch was served by a beautiful traditional-clothed Kuna lady. As it was only 2PM I worried that my book wouldn’t last until sunset, but once I heard another boat filled up with loud Canadians arriving at Aroma Island I knew I wouldn’t be bored. With self-invented drinking games like beer-frisbee and booze-ball we partied away our lucky night.
Therefore, the last thing I needed was someone waking me up at 7AM by blowing a huge shell right next to my ear. My deep-fried breakfast was ready. After some refreshing dives into the ocean the boat picked us up again and brought us to the Islas Holandesas. Yeah Holland, you wish. Although it’s about the same size (you can walk around it in half an hour), I clearly prefer this spot over Amsterdam. While chilling to the max I enjoyed the landscape that almost seemed photoshopped: A sea in 50 shades of blue, magazine-friendly beaches, pink hammocks hanging in between palmtrees... the world is a true piece of art sometimes.
Going back to Panamá city after this was almost shocking: Cars, skyscrapers, traffic lights... wow, where did this civilization come from all of a sudden? I decided to immerse in this metropolitan city life a few extra days before heading to more beach towns. There were just so many things to do here that I didn’t know what to do: Laguna Gatun or Laguna San Carlos? Soberanía or Metropolitano National Park? Visit the Panama Caves or Museo de Biodiversidad? Punta Culebra Nature Center? Theatre? Nahhh... if your name is Stephanie van Hoeijen you do other things if you get bored. Like impulsively getting your nipple pierced. When sitting in the back of a shop called ‘Dark Stage’ while a big tattooed man was holding my boob it did cross my mind that this is quite an unusual way to spend a Saturday afternoon. Especially when he took out a big sterile needle and crammed it right through my nipple without anaesthesia I wondered what the hell I was doing. During the ten most painful seconds of my life I let out some intense primal grunts... but man, how happy I was with the result! Also, it’s quite fun if your mom texts you what you’re up to being able to reply with a pierced boob-pic.
With a stinging tit I decided I needed to do something civilized afterwards. But while marching to a museum I ran into an Italian-German couple I hung out with on San Blas and joined them for drinks instead. I found out a local art gathering called Macro Festival just made its entrance in Panamá, which seemed to be the perfect start of a party night.
Over-saturated from all the free snacks and drinks handed out on the festival I drove down to Erick’s friend’s house, as these two locals where eager to show me the Panamanian nightlife. As his friend Monica owned a bar the drinks were plentiful and the night was long. It seems like the right thing to do to withhold all details of this noche loca, but I won’t keep the casino story from you. When the bar closed at around 3:30AM we felt like we just started, so Erick took us to the only place still open: the local casino. I never went to a casino in my life as I always thought this was a pathetic place for fat old ladies accreted to their stools while pulling the one-armed bandit as their only stimulation, as well as farting unshaved dudes with alcohol breath that aren’t welcome in their wife’s house anymore. This night I learned this was indeed true, although I forgot about the prostitutes. Of all women visiting this peculiar site about 95% were on duty. Notwithstanding the fact that I wore a decent backpackers-dress and beaten-up shoes, many macho-gamblers approached me to shamelessly check me out from a five-centimetres distance while breathing their chemical breath into my face. In short, this money-oriented cocoon of twisted reality highly discomforted me... but it was one interesting research project of life.
Over-saturated from all the free snacks and drinks handed out on the festival I drove down to Erick’s friend’s house, as these two locals where eager to show me the Panamanian nightlife. As his friend Monica owned a bar the drinks were plentiful and the night was long. It seems like the right thing to do to withhold all details of this noche loca, but I won’t keep the casino story from you. When the bar closed at around 3:30AM we felt like we just started, so Erick took us to the only place still open: the local casino. I never went to a casino in my life as I always thought this was a pathetic place for fat old ladies accreted to their stools while pulling the one-armed bandit as their only stimulation, as well as farting unshaved dudes with alcohol breath that aren’t welcome in their wife’s house anymore. This night I learned this was indeed true, although I forgot about the prostitutes. Of all women visiting this peculiar site about 95% were on duty. Notwithstanding the fact that I wore a decent backpackers-dress and beaten-up shoes, many macho-gamblers approached me to shamelessly check me out from a five-centimetres distance while breathing their chemical breath into my face. In short, this money-oriented cocoon of twisted reality highly discomforted me... but it was one interesting research project of life.
As we exchanged day and night I took the concept of Couchsurfing very literally afterwards and only moved until hunger forced me out of the house. Feeling weak and wiped out I stumbled to the Mercado de Mariscos to score some fresh fish (pre-vegan era indeed). Although Erick had warned me that some people got sick there recently, I already had the shitters from the San Blas food so I was ahead of the game. To make up an excuse to stay longer I convinced myself I had to get the poison out by hiking the Metropolitano National Park the next day with my wounded feet... but then, I really, really, REALLY felt like I had to leave: Panamá left some more spots for me to explore.
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