Panamania

The Costa Rica - Panama border crossing

C enjoying our balcony

We had a really hard time leaving Puerto Viejo…in fact; we probably wouldn’t have if it weren’t for the Semana Santa crush.  Feeling remorse over leaving our extremely chill and accessible beach, we wandered around town on our last day trying to find another hotel room but alas, everything was booked solid. We continued on to Panama in a tourist shuttle. Some fellow travelers assured us this was not much more costly than taking the bus, though I have my doubts. The pre-arranged shuttle-border crossing-shuttle-boat was convenient, though I don’t think next time I’d just wing it.

Red Frog Beach

Old house, Isla Bastimientos

Altogether it took about three and a half hours to get from Puerto Viejo to Bocas del Toro.  The Panamanian islands are lovely and extremely popular. We stayed in Bocas Town on Isla Colon. The area has a reputation as a party destination but I found that apart from the main drag, the streets were quiet and residential.  Our hotel had a balcony, where we spent a lot of time enjoying the frequent afternoon downpours.

There was one beach within walking distance…not lovely but still sort of special for its local flavor.  There was a fair amount of trash, but also an old cemetery and an athletic black dog with one brown eye and one blue who played fetch with us for hours. It wasn’t a bad place to float in the water in spite of the eel grass and every afternoon a group of young men appeared to play soccer in the sand (occasionally resulting in passionate disagreements!)

Panama hat, cigar

One day we took a water taxi over to the town of Old Bank on neighboring Isla Bastimientos. Fantastic. Sleepy. Sticky. The feel of the “real” Caribbean. Laundry hanging limply in the afternoon heat, televisions murmuring, some little girls playing in the path.  We wandered up the hill for around 15 minutes, arriving dripping in sweat to the little organic coffee shop on the crest. After sipping our beverage (locally grown in Boquete, we were told) we headed back down, bought some picnic provisions at a dusty, Chinese-run grocery shop (somehow two cans of beer, nuts, bread, bananas, olives, and tuna amounted to under $4) and took another taxi to Red Frog Beach; a sorely disappointing experience. We’d been promised something pristine by our guidebook – obviously a mistake to rely on one at all. In reality it was quite a circus: golf carts shuttling people to a beach crowded with sun bunnies, men drinking beer and flexing, huge families erecting tents and spilling into the water buried in inner tubes and aqua wings. Instantly fled back to our sand-flea ridden beach on Isla Colon and welcomed the silence. One plus was that on our way out, we spotted a sloth hanging in one of the tall trees near the water. The Argentinian couple sitting behind us in the water taxi told us the name in Spanish is oso perizoso…literally, “lazy bear”.

Bocas Town

House, on the trail from Old Bank

Another highlight was renting a bicycle and peddling north along the quiet road until it turned to dirt. There was a cove with a little beachfront restaurant serving seafood and cold beer (even on good Friday, during which alcohol is prohibited on the rest of the island). Another thirty minutes along the path leads to the windswept and mostly deserted Playa Bluff. Hefty swells and a mean break close to shore make swimming nearly impossible, but it is definitely has a certain “end of the earth” charm.

Other than that C and I relaxed, ate seafood and vanilla crepes, drank rum, swam, strolled around town, and occasionally retreated to the computer lab for air conditioning and homework.

The border crossing back to Costa Rica was ridiculous; hours waiting in line during a torrential downpour, standing ankle-deep in mud, our passports nearly soaked.

Bike + Beach

C on "our" little beach, Isla Colon

Puerto Viejo, Costa Rica

Within minutes of leaving San Jose, we’re slowly climbing up a densely-forested, misty mountain.  Leaving behind the urban expanse of concrete, I’m instantly struck by just how beautiful this country is.  

The ride between San Jose and Puerto Viejo is around 4.5 hours. Most of the passengers on the bus are foreigners. We pass through Limón and stop at a gas station with a snack kiosk and only one bathroom for over forty passengers. Craig and I buy two cans of Imperial beer, Costa Rica’s signature brand, which instantly reinvigorates the ride. Soon we are racing along a flat, two-lane road toward Cahuita where we catch our first glimpse of the Caribbean. Flat and muddy brown, empty beaches, a tanker…it isn’t exacly how I imagined it. But the German girls sitting in front of us squeal and grab their cameras and their enthusiasm catches.

Some of the terrain reminds me remarkably of Malaysia. Palm oil plantations have been exchanged for Chiquita Banana, Bahasa for Spanish, mosques for churches; but the colorful stilt-houses hidden amongst the palm fronds look nearly identical.

Several friends whom I had spoken to in Antigua – tour guides by profession – had wrinkled their nose at the mention of Puerto Viejo, so I wasn’t expecting much.  However, I had a good feeling the instant we rolled into the sleepy coastal town.  Touristy, yes. Yet somehow, the influx of visitors hadn’t robbed the area of its charm.  There was Reggae music and barbecued fish, locals sitting around drinking and listening to the radio, children riding their bikes down quiet neighborhood streets.

We didn’t do a whole lot during our three day stay, mostly swam and picnicked at Playa Negra, the crescent of black sand on one side of town.   We also wandered up to the cemetery with its tiled tombs and peaceful hill overlooking the ocean.  The one short day trip we took was to the Jaguar Rescue Center just north of town.  The facility not only rehabilitates injured wildlife, but also offers educational tours to interested visitors. Contrary to the name there are no jaguars, but we did see a plethora of other animals including eagles, an owl, caiman, a margay (small, spotted wildcat resembling an ocelot) and several species of frogs and snakes. The baby sloths were even cuter in person than on YouTube and Craig was a big hit with the monkeys, who kept contentedly falling asleep on his shoulders and arms.

Street Art in San Jose

“There are many Nicaraguans here”, the taxi driver told us in Spanish, sweeping his leathery hand out the window to indicate the derelict suburb we were driving through.  “They come to work and then send money home. Many, many come here.”

I asked him how the Costa Ricans (referred to as “Ticos”) felt about the immigration.  “The culture is the same, the language is the same,” he responded, shaking his head. “But they aren’t educated. People look down on them.”

We’d already discussed the upcoming Semana Santa (Holy Week) holiday and been warned that the roads would be extremely busy.  Advising us to plan ahead, our kindly driver offered to swing by the bus station on the way to our hostel, so we could buy tickets in advance.

“These men are from the Dominican Republic. It’s easy for them to get a visa. They sell drugs, like this man, look…crazy”.  He was staggering across the road, dreadlocks, clothing reduced to greasy rags, a glazed look in his eyes.  “They also bring women and sell them for prostitution”.  I saw the women too, leaning in a doorway with frosted glass, tight clothing, and garish makeup.

We didn’t stay in San Jose long enough to form much of an impression. Overall, I was disappointed. There were drab concrete buildings, fast food chains, pigeons.  On one street, a casino door creaked open, releasing the smell of stale smoke and a middle-aged foreigner with two scantily-clad young women scurrying to keep up in their high heels.  We returned to our hostel – the former ambassador’s residence – to find cockroaches scuttling out of the woodwork, unhindered by our presence.  “I called the fumigator”, the proprietress said with a sheepish smile, “he’s supposed to come tomorrow”. Thankfully, she let us change rooms.

Criticisms aside, I’m sure San Jose has some hidden charms, for those inclined to stay and look. There are universities and parks where break-dancers congregate.  There is also some fantastic street art, which is why I decided to devote an entire entry to a city where I spent a grand total of 1.5 days.  There were colorful murals splashed across walls, cartoon figures painted on trash cans, abstracts sprayed across concrete barriers and on the faded walls of condemned buildings.

Which brings me to a favorite debate: Can graffiti be considered art or is it simply an act of vandalism? I’m not talking about a few obscenities scrawled over the window of a city bus, but rather work that, while perhaps reflecting discord with current events also has a deeper social message.  The website RECLAIMYOURCITY.NET states that “urban public spaces are reserved for those who have enough money. Advertising dominates the urban landscape, and we are constantly bombarded with slogans from multinationals everywhere we go. Architecture and the streets are shaped by commercial interests, not by the residents of the city. It is impossible to avoid, the public have no access to these spaces, that is, unless we claim them for our own.”  So why not create a public space where artists are free to experiment? This can not only enhance a rather bland cityscape, but also provide people with a creative outlet to express themselves.