At the Sixaola border crossing, we paid our exit taxes in a funny little shop reached by a small bridge. A bit further on, we and the bike were stamped out of Costa Rica. This is going well I thought, as we drove across the bridge to Panama but before we reached foreign soil we got stopped by a group of soldiers. We never found out why but it was a long, hot wait before we were allowed to proceed to that old routine of fumigation and immigration. Next it was on to the container selling insurance but it was closed. The sign said opening was at 8:00 AM but the insurance girl didn’t appear until 9:35. When she finally got going, it seemed all she was authorized to do was phone in our information and then the person on the other end of the line sent over the insurance certificate. Listening to her struggle over the spelling of ‘Francis' I knew we were in trouble. Sure enough, the cert came through with a misspelled name and an incorrect vehicle ID number. The corrections could only be made by the guy on the phone but he had gone off on an extended coffee break or something. While the minutes dragged into half hours, my insurance rep texted smiley faces and hearts to her amor. I couldn’t even get a head start at customs because they wouldn't issue the bike permit without insurance. All in all, we didn’t leave until noon by which time Fran was almost melted into a puddle outside.
What a relief to get on the road, and what a nasty surprise to be stopped after 5 minutes. There was a road block leaving town, locals protesting the recent presidential election. We’d been alerted this may happen but assured there was no danger. After 4 hours on the border, I’d actually forgotten about it but here we were, stopped in a small line of traffic in front of a barrier of tree branches and an old fridge on its side. We couldn’t believe it: after all the warnings about Mexico and Central America, our first and only protest was happening in Panama! A group of villagers were milling around on the other side. Sitting there struck dumb, Fran finally said, you go in and ask them to let us through. I said no, you go in. I went in. I made my way around the foliage and cowardly headed for the women and children. I tried to talk to them but I think they were just laughing at me so I’d no choice but to approach the men. There didn’t seem to be a leader so I picked the nearest and said please, we’re only tourists, let us through. He said there was no point as we’d only come across more roadblocks further down. I would have said we’ll take our chances but that was way beyond my espanol. In the end they ignored me but did begin to move some branches aside, enough room for Pferdi, and one other motorcyclist to drive through. Bowing and scraping like Uriah Heep, I backed out of there and wished them well in their struggle. Well, not really but I did say “Good Luck” and “Thank You” and put a tremendous amount of feeling into those four words.
Less than 10 minutes later we came across another blockade. This time the barrier was moved aside with a big smile and we passed through. Shortly after, the motorcyclist who’d been going in the same direction stopped and beckoned us over. He pointed to a banana plantation on the right. If we followed him through it we’d avoid the next roadblock and end up in town. After a quick discussion we decide to risk it. We drove through rows of banana plants, all with their blue plastic bag covering the fruit, and without incident emerged in a bustling side street.
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In the province of Boca del Toro, we continued along the Caribbean coast but bypassed the islands. The main island we’d seen advertised for a pub crawl, aimed, we assumed at the gap-year crowd across the border in Costa Rica. To visit the quieter islands we’d have to put the bike in storage and water taxi across, which we didn’t want to do. So we headed into the mountains, a beautiful, remote region of dense, green jungle and steep ascents. The road was in terrible condition, its isolation broken only by the odd palm-roofed hut on stilts and mothers and children washing in roadside streams, just inches from the tarmac. We got into the clouds and it began to rain. For the first time my bike jacket leaked and water ran down the inside of my arms and into the sidecar. It was getting dark by the time we reached the outskirts of David (pronounced ‘Dav-eed’). At 10 hours it was our longest, and wettest, day on the road.
Somewhere in the middle of Central America I’d begun to enter that state of not knowing what country I was in. In Panama I became more aware again because there was hard stop at the end of this one. We couldn’t leave by land and the next country would be on a new continent. We were back to using US dollars which made the expense reporting easier but the odd thing was that after 17 months of driving south, we were now going east. The Panama isthmus goes west to east and while Fran kept saying we’ll drive south, that would have sent us into the Pacific Ocean. (So much for having Pancho the Navigator on board.)
I got a text from a Bobby in the support group, inviting us for a spaghetti lunch and offering a bed for the night. With our jackets still damp from the day before, we left the city for a startling green countryside. Refugio Mamao turned out to be quite the surprise. Bobby’s retreat consisted of a container with 2 bedrooms and a large covered area outside was kitchen, dining room and garage combined. Fernando, a retired colonel from the Argentinian army was also visiting on his way to Alaska. He struck quite the imposing figure in spite of wearing only a pair of black shorts and canvas shoes. The Baru volcano was hidden under cloud but looking over the valley it was easy to imagine no man ever having set foot in those forests.
After walking the empty beaches of Pedasi for the best part of a week, we escaped the humidity by driving up to El Valle de Anton. The town, in the crater of an old volcano, was surrounded by double circles of mountains. It was cool and green, and the season was over. We sat alone in restaurants each night but I’m not complaining. The streets were tourist-free and it was nice when the security guards at the bank stop to chat.
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It’d been ages since we spent time in a city so we were looking forward to Panama City. Driving over the Bridge of the Americas was exhilarating until I got a shove on the shoulder to get back to the directions. The outskirts of town had some very poor districts that didn’t encourage stopping. Seeing the canal was first on our list, the second was shopping. We’d both had to dump our boots in a rubbish bin in Pedasi. Fran’s had become a weapon of toxic destruction while I kept finding bits of my right sole in the bottom of the sidecar. Driving to the mall, our first in maybe a year, was stressful. The taxis were very aggressive and lanes didn’t seem to account for much. More than once we got stuck on the toll road that runs along the coast. You need a pass and the booths are unmanned. This we found out the hard way. So there we sat with cars honking. The first couple of times the barrier went up after a few minutes. Driving out of town on the last day a construction worker came and pressed a button so now we knew what to do. I don’t think it’s legal so good thing we were leaving the country.
Panama is only a little less expensive than Costa Rica and pretty much the same as far as food is concerned. We found ourselves in an upmarket supermarket one day and they didn’t have onions. We’ve never come across that before, even in Greenland! There were the usual mirrored skyscrapers but also a beautiful, historic downtown, Casco Viejo, poised on the edge of the water, waiting for the next pirate ship to dock. The center was very much gentrified but there were still locals going about their daily business in the back streets. I wonder how long that will last. Our hotel was close to the malecon where palm trees and green spaces provided relief from the traffic chaos just a few yards away. The highlight was of course the canal. At the Miraflores locks we watched several ships pass through. Two of the car carriers belonged to Glovis, a shipping company that operates in Pt. Hueneme, California. Fran worked for them for a while and we also used to watch the ships from our bedroom window. It was funny to think they might be going up there now to unload.
To avoid the early morning commuter traffic, we spent our last night near the airport. It was on the road to Carti, the port we were catching our boat from. Kadir from the moto group visited us with his heavily pregnant wife. With low-flying planes drowning out our voices, we spent several happy hours together. Signing our bike boxes before they left, he included his unborn daughter’s name so little Isalys is already along for the ride.
We’d reached a bit of a milestone. After five months we were leaving Central America. In Mexico, there’d been dire warnings about the dangers down here. Later, the Guatemalans bemoaned our plans for El Salvador. Faustina my Spanish teacher said, can’t you go around it? Si! I said, we can go through Honduras instead. Maybe we’re all the same, suspicious of the next tribe up the road. It’s probably an inbuilt survival mechanism, so we don’t go ringing the first doorbell in a village of headhunters saying we’re new to the area and could we borrow a cup of sugar please. Whatever it is, all fears went unfounded. Let’s hope our Latin soothsayers’ predictions that we’ll be fine once we reach South America are not as wrong.