Panamania

Our dear friends, who recently moved to Victoria from Red Deer, have discovered Panama as a winter haven. Panama boasts first-world amenities but maintains a shade of third-world edginess.

Panama frequenters are not rookie snowbirds. They’re seasoned travel vets. Many previously sought out winter refuge in more typical tourist destinations like Florida or Mexico. But this adventurous lot appreciates Panama’s laissez faire lifestyle – a place where rules don’t interfere with the fun factor.

Four-wheeling hell bent for leather down a pristine beach would be verboten in most civilized places. Not so Panama.

Most afternoons we’d Razor along the shore at sunset, cocktail in hand, to watch the murky waters of the Chamé River spill into the sea. Offshore, pangas motored slowly into the approaching darkness – fishermen seeking the abundant fish and camerones that inhabit the shallow waters of the Gulf of Panama.Although Panama’s narrow isthmus connects North and South America, the country lies in an east/west configuration. Thus the Atlantic Ocean is to the north and the Pacific is south. We were on the Pacific side, at Neuva Gorgona, an hour west of Panama City.

Panama was once called “a sunny place for shady people.” We didn’t encounter any shifty characters, but everyone we met certainly had a unique mould. Like brothers Walter and Art. Decades ago they abandoned small-town farm life for the west coast. But a distinctive lilt and permanent prairie grin are dead giveaways: Saskatchewan Ukrainian.

Art’s passion is sausage. (We caught him more than once slipping into the elevator with a cooler full of fresh-ground carne, en route to a local smokehouse to perfect his Panamanian-style garlic rings.) Older brother Walt, thin – and energetic as the TV bunny – is a perpetual deal-seeker. In the short time we darkened Panama’s doorstep, he had his finger on three different real estate leads – and still found time to organize our fishing trip to Lago Gatún.

Panama is a great place to brush up on your Spanish. Few of the locals “habla inglés.” Gonzalez, the affable fellow who “guarded” access from the beach to our condo development, was more than happy to kill time pretending to understand our feeble Spanish – and we in turn politely nodded at his incomprehensible English. (Surprisingly, after a few days of these clumsy exchanges, I felt we were really making progress. I’m certain he told me that his goat was going to have a baby… or was it that his aunt was ill?)

At noon the black-sand beach at Neuva Gorgona reaches a foot-scorching 34°c – too caliente for the tender Celtic skin of this cat. But the Continental Divide – the Cordillera Central that forms the backbone of Panama – is just an hour away and offers a soothing reprieve from the searing sun. A breath-taking backcountry Razor ride whisked us into inaccessible terrain, to the heart of a verdant rain forest, where colourful tropical birds, vast blue horizons and indigenous hospitality rein.

Down an abandoned, treacherous path, we discovered a remote waterfall and, to our surprise, a young mother bathing her infant son in the cool, refreshing water. She smiled shyly and nodded when asked in pidgin Spanish if I could take her photograph. A small parade of local kids appeared from the shadows and, sure-footed as billy-goats, urged us up the rocks framing the waterfall to a deeper tranquil pool above, then up and around another cascade, and another… and another.

The thundering sound of water made our communication gap irrelevant. The universal noise of niños laughing and their encouraging gestures conveyed the message: climb, jump, swim, repeat.

Panama City, situated on the Pacific Ocean-end of the great canal, is home to half of Panama’s 3.8 million people. The Capital is a modern metropolis. But beneath the skyscrapers and building cranes that obscure the sky, vast shabby neighbourhoods thrive, warrens tucked down unnamed, un-navigable streets.

This is where the real heart of Panama pounds – and where we went looking for street food. The temperature was sweltering. But it was hotter still under the corrugated tin roof of Perdita’s fonda stand. Hot steaming pots and smoking meat blurred my sweating eyeballs. Locals lined up behind us, heads craned to see what was on the grill. We ordered, perspired and dug into sopa de carne con arroz (spicy beef-bone soup with a side of rice). Lunch for two was under $5. A quenching cervesa grandé was another two bucks.

The Panama Canal forms the west boundary of the City. This impossibly difficult project was completed in 1914, propelled forward by Teddy Roosevelt’s unswerving resolve. His (clearly successful) intention was to affirm U.S. hegemony and America’s position as the dominant power of the 20th century. For a century this 80-kilometer slash through the jungle has made the shortcut between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans 13,000 kilometers – and a hard month’s sailing – shorter than skirting Cape Horn and the Antarctic waters of Tierra Del Fuego.

The Canal is a fascinating work of engineering. Construction took 11 years and the cost was high: $375,000,000 plus the lives of thousands of canal diggers – mostly Caribbean and Chinese immigrants who toiled, sweated and died in the malarial and yellow-fever infested swamps of the impassibly dense Panamanian inland.

A huge lake was created during construction of the Canal. The Gatún Dam on Rio Chagres flooded a vast section of Panama’s interior.

Today Lago Gatún is blissfully peaceful. Trunks from an ancient rain forest, defying time, imperiously poke their remainders through the surface. And the lake swarms with peacock bass eager to swallow a wriggling minnow. We landed 62 of the little beauties in a fine tropical morning of jigging.

Fishing is arduous work: attach bait, hook fish, reel in fish, place fish in bucket, etc. I was worn-out and wanted to jump into the tranquil-looking waters, but our guide Edgar waived me off, pointing to caimans lurking amongst the mangroves.

Back at shore, Edgar deftly filleted the catch (at the appallingly expensive price of thirteen cents a fish). After a celebratory cervesa, Walter zigzagged Art’s car back down to the sea, our cooler overflowing with fresh pescado.

That night 15 of us feasted on tasty bass at La Ruina, the local fonda restaurant. The proprietress served our fish with papas fritas (crispy french fries), fresh salads – and fried caiman as a bonus appetizer.

Walter and Art spent the evening at either end of the communal table, schmoozing, eating, drinking – and grinning at the world like Cheshire cats.

Gerry