Into the Valley

On the way from Boquete to El Valle, two mountian-bound Panamanian retreats for big spenders from the City or imported from abroad, we spent a day dehydrating in David, charmed for the first time in Panamá by real grit and bustle and knockoff goods, cantinas and the omnipresent odor of piss and drunks hurtling invectives in flailing attempts at English. Truly cheap eats too, platters of rice and beans and that-gristly-carne-that-you-really-have-to-work-to-gnash-into-swallowable-bites for under $2. David, a transportation hub and Panamá's second largest city at some one hundred thousand and a handful inhabitants, has a beatiful, modern parque central centered around a fountain, well-lit at night and with benches aplenty for necking couples. Car dealerships and American food chains dot the city's outskirts, more evidence of the money that surrounds in the nearby highlands.

At the David bus station, Calvin decided just before the ticket counter to make his escape, heading back to Costa Rica for surf or a French girl or, in an ideal world, both. We exchanged quick hugs and professions of brotherly love and then Jackson and I disappeared, via a Panamá City bus, toward a split in the Pan-American highway where we were to be deposited roadside. After too few hours of air-conditioned bliss, we were hailed by the aisle-stalking bus attendant, "¡El Valle!" Off the bus, we ambled across the highway to the paint-peeling concrete shelter where various people awaited transport. A microbus passed but we were denied entry, large bags and all, as as many as possible of the waiting crowd jammed into the already overcrowded microbus, two men hanging entirely out of the bus, hands gripping the luggage rack bars running the length of the roof, feet jostling for position in the two foot doorway. Only twenty something kilometers of mountain road to go, sure to be driven in typical blind-corner-cutting, limits-of-engine-endurance-testing fashion. So Jackson and I stepped back to wait again, rejoining the small crowd of remaining Panamanians who hadn't even stepped toward the speeding death rocket -- a ticket to hell where severe overcrowding makes even the trip toward demise uncomfortable.

Before a microbus with empty seats materialized and, though we'd soon picked up enough people that seats were crammed with four butts each, with up to three men crouching near the exit, we were always able to shut the door. So, by Central American standards, hardly crowded. And then we arrived in El Valle, which is a town situated inside of a volcanic crater. A town surrounded, three hundred sixty degrees around, by forest-covered thousand meter mountains. At sunset, or when clouds and the bright sun casts shadows, it's especially intoxicating. Throw in a few $0.50 Balboa's sipped on any grocery store's front steps -- yes, the cashiers offer to pop the top off your bottle immediately upon purchase, though the police are liable to confront you upon sight and inform you it's illegal to drink in public...confusing, I know -- and, well, it's a slow, easy life. Gazing at gorgeous scenery, running down winding, forested lanes spotted with gated properties every few hundred meters, flowers in full bloom. Bikes are the preferred mode of transportation in town, and there's usually a traffic jam of them pitched on the ground, leaning on kickstands or against a column in front of every grocery store's front doors.

Jackson and I read almost all day long, pausing every few hundred pages to walk to our adopted eatery, a cheap comida a la vista establishment (Cafe Bambú), to run, or grab a Balboa or three, sometimes a pint of Estrella Azul ice cream. We watch NCAA basketball in an out of place sports bar, where, with the exception of an exceptionally flirty and touchy gay millionaire -- he liked to slap hands and squeeze shoulders after his every agonizing attempt at karaoke -- and a motivational speaker -- who name-dropped and quoted his bank account on a by-sentence basis -- we were the only customers for two straight nights.

Yes, life is slow. So slow that this morning, while I waited for Jackson outside of the local panaderia-cum-internet cafe, ignoring the two dogs circling my legs, I suddenly felt a stream of warm liquid splashing down my calf. One of the dogs had taken position behind me, lifted his back leg, and claimed me as his bitch.