Panama (firstly)

Panama is hot. Steaming, really. The weather digs into the pores and pulls hard. In stillness, the skin decompresses and feels like a starfish out of water.

It´s gritty here, or it seemed to be at first. I´m used to it now and anyway, I feel like it could only be a prelude to places like Ecuador, Bolivia. Those places without a world wonder.

(Aside: My Great-great Grandfather worked building the Canal, which is a strange thing to know when you´re standing in front of it. Or in front of that archival photo mosaic, looking for a glint of yourself.)

Panama City was the beginning. Was overwhelming. I stayed in Casco Viejo where gentrification is in the midst. The buildings are beautiful, the buildings are falling down. Planks, bare bulbs, flat screen tvs. This is Panama.

In Panama City, I mostly wandered. Wandered to the Miraflores Locks where I missed all the big ships, but watched the small ones rise with the gates. Wandered to the tip of Cerro Ancon and stood in the sway of the Republic of Panama flag, hard won in it´s place. I wandered across the coast of that Old Town, knocking on hollow bricks meant as pirate code. Wandered through the hostel and all the new people. Drank with some, ate with some, left.

And then, Bocas.

In Bocas I am burned and bit and in love with it. My skin contracts almost painfully with the weather and the pores open to the surf and sand and feel dirty and I am constantly accosted by mosquitoes and sea creatures, but... In the mornings Senora makes me huevos and piña and Rodolpho asks ¨How you doin´today, Leeeeeesa?¨ And the people all say ¨Buenos¨and want to talk and the boat taxis constantly offer to take me to Bastimientos and I tell them that the sun burned me and there will be no beach today or tomorrow and then Rodolpho or Jason or that other student ask me to go and I do because that´s what you do in Bocas.

Bocas is beautiful. Not shiny, not clean, not perfect. Beautiful.

It´s main bits are owned entirely by gringos, but if you wander slightly to the right you´ll find the true Bocas. Those hearts that sold the land and lost the money and built anew with less, with much less. They speak all different languages and cobble them together to something new. And they are quiet. And they are good.

It´s hard to see nonetheless. I have too much...we have too much. But I know this is just a prelude to those places without a world wonder.

Bocas is good. Beautiful.

(Pictures forthcoming)

xo