Islands Mag - Panama Bocas Del Toro Trip
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story by
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Adrienne Egolf
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In Panama’s Bocas del Toro — a place known for its timeless peace — the author and her father discover there’s more to conversation than words
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Maybe my dad was right.
Behind me, he’s in flip-flops. Bocas del Toro, an archipelago of untouched beaches and uncrowded seas, is a place for sand between the toes, after all. So why am I in durable Gore-Tex shoes? Because the island we’re on, Isla Bastimentos, also has thick jungle, and the rugged trail winding ahead is steep and slick from this morning’s rain. The canopy drips with condensation and life. Roots jut from the ground at every angle, and streams cross our path. Our Ngobe Bugle Indian guide, Delfina, is barefoot — but her soles must be superhuman to manage this terrain with no tread. Surely, my feet are the best equipped here in hiking shoes and super-absorbent socks. “Uh, un momento, por favor, señorita,” my dad calls in halting Spanish. Delfina pauses and turns, whether in understanding or lack thereof. My dad takes the moment to sit down on a log and trade out the flimsy flip-flops. I don’t say, “I told you to wear different shoes,” and he doesn’t say, “I’m glad you said to bring these sneakers.” Only a running stream narrates our intermission. We’re here, my dad and I, to bond — to travel, just the two School children signal water taxis (above) for transport through the islands’ beauty. While hiking barefoot, local guide Delfi na (opposite) of us, to a place where clear, Caribbean water and golden sand shows the way to Bocas del Toro’s simple pleasures. might bridge the distance and years since our last trip together — a simple getaway to North Carolina for a family reunion that still spurs laughter, stories and watery eyes. “What about hiking through the woods behind Aunt Hazel’s house?” he’ll ask, nudging my arm. “Yeah, you made me walk across that log over a raging river,” I’ll respond, exaggerating for the sake of the story. But since then, we’ve each made ever-growing lists of destinations to get to with ever-shrinking windows of time to travel them. When he does escape somewhere, he goes with my mom; I’ve gone with friends, and now almost always, my husband. My dad and I haven’t made the time for a new adventure together. So when I heard about Bocas’ two newest eco resorts — one over the water and one in the Caribb e an Se a jungle — I thought first of him. My dad’s a surfer, sailor and fisherman — a man of the water. “It’s all deserted beaches and sea,” I told him. “Hardly any developBOCAS ment at all. We’ll have so much time to talk.” Yet as we DEL TORO planned our weeklong stay, trading flight schedules and tour suggestions over e-mail, I started to worry: Was Bocas del Toro too quiet? I hoped the sounds of these islands would be loud enough to inspire us. Pa c if ic Oc e an They were, at least, loud enough for Columbus. It’s said that when the explorer first visited this 30-milelong stretch of islands along Panama’s northeastern PLAN YOUR TRIP, p. 94 coast, the sounds of its waves prompted him to name COSTA RICA
PANAMA A
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the archipelago after the “mouth of the bull.” Five hundred years later, this destination is a time capsule of what the Caribbean once was. With a tourism industry that was long overshadowed by a once-prevalent banana business, Bocas del Toro seems to be about 50 years behind the rest of the region in terms of development. No high-rise condominiums or mammoth all-inclusive resorts tower over these sandy shores. No blinking casinos or silky spas line the main drag. You’ll find only Bohemian-style, eco-luxe havens built over the sea and into the hillsides and this knobby trail worn not by hordes of tourists before us, but rather by bare feet like Delfina’s.
We aren’t talking in the same conversa-
tion. “What time is it?” I ask my dad. He looks down at the foggy face of his digital watch then back up at the sun and simply says: “We must be headed southeast.” We’ve just arrived on Isla Bastimentos after a water-taxi ride from Bocas Town, the archipelago’s dominant waterfront city on the southern coast of Isla Colón. We make our way through the hustle and bustle, and I silently hope that the noise from the small outboard engines whirring past will spark a new, common language for us. Or at least fill the margins in our conversations. Because pulling up to the Eclypse de Mar Acqua Lodge on the northwest tip of Bastimentos across the bay from Bocas Town, I see right away that there will be plenty of space to fill. Instead of television-facing sofas, our overwater bungalow at Eclypse boasts sunset-facing hammocks. Instead of the Locals have hideaways such as mangrove tunnels near the village of Salt Creek (above), while travelers to Bocas del Toro can get away at cacophony of traffic, hand-carved paddles quietly push along eco resorts like Eclypse de Mar Acqua Lodge (below and opposite). cayucos, or dugout canoes. Instead of ringing phones, white flags catch the breeze to signal nearby water taxis. “Wave it over your head,” I tell my dad as we stand on the edge of the dock at Eclypse, the sun rising behind us. The heavy cloth snaps and releases, snaps and releases, in time with the salty gusts. He walks to the tip of the pier, the banner now flying above his head, a surrender to this primitive communication. I wait at the other end for the boat that’s now buzzing toward us at top speed. Our driver, like many people on this side of the archipelago, is not Hispanic, but AfroCaribbean. The islands are still home to descendants from the plantation workers who came here during the banana-industry boom in the late 19th century. At that time, the fusion of cultures that began during the Spanish-colonial era and slave trade developed further. It’s a fusion we taste in the Balboa beers, named after the first Spanish settler, and mixed seafood ceviche we eat for lunch. Sitting at the Pickled Parrot bar, I notice my dad’s longing gaze toward the water. I turn to the bar owner, George, an eccentric American expat who moved to these islands 15 years ago on a lark and never left. “So where’s the best snorkeling?” I ask him. He points across the bay to Hospital Point, where a couple of boats bob near the rock jetty. “The view underwater is awesome,” he explains. “But during the banana days, it was a dump. A quarantine
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Bird Island is beyond Bocas d Toro’s largest del island isl a , Isla Colón. And its rock formations, if not its mig igrat ra ory birds, are b ond quiet bey et.
The town thins into a spray of overwater bungalows, an off-theJu n e 2 0 0 9 ISL A N D S . c om
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grid home and finally, nothing. Just water fringed with palms. Ju n e 2 0 0 9 ISL A N D S . c om
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station for patients with contagious diseases. Probably why it took so long for tourists to find the place.” My dad and I exchange a glance and wordlessly agree: We’ll skip the snorkeling today. Back in our water transport, it’s not long before the freneticism of Bocas Town and its busy bays thins into sparse development: a spray of overwater bungalows here, a private, off-the-grid home there. And finally, nothing. Just open water ruffled sometimes by a passing pod of dolphins and fringed with the occasional stretch of yellow sand and coconut palms. We make our way to sites that are named for their exotic charms. Places like Starfish Beach, where cushion stars freckle the white sand in orange, red and black splotches from ankle- to waist-deep water. Or Bird Island, a rock formation less than two miles from the quiet, northern coast of Isla Colón, where a cluster of remote greenness attracts myriad migratory birds with multicolored plumes and firecracker beaks. And finally, Red Frog Beach, where Isla Bastimentos’ most famous residents — tree frogs the size and color of painted fingernails — bounce among palm leaves leading up to the shore. “This is your mom’s favorite time of day at the beach,” my dad says as he strolls a few steps ahead of me along the yellow sand. It’s our last stop of the day. The high tide kisses our toes, and the sun begins to set. “I know,” I say, nodding. “Mine too.”
We’re deeper still after another boat ride that ends up landing us 12 miles south of Bocas Town, past
the modest Afro-Caribbean villages of northern Bastimentos, Expat bar owner George (above) happily serves Americans who find toward uninhabited mangrove islets, glassy-smooth sea and their way here, whether to ride with stowaway lobsters on a traditional Isla Popa. Here at the newly opened Popa Paradise Beach Indian cayuco (below) or lie back at Red Frog Beach (opposite). Resort, we find that our bungalows are built away from the water and into the jungle, where hummingbirds buzz and toucans fly past our windows. We both amble instinctively to the kayaks, positioned near the surf on Popa Paradise’s stretch of private white sand. I know my dad’s history with the water as a competitive catamaran sailor and fisherman, always adept with a paddle. And he knows the context of my own trips, where a kayak has become my favorite mode of exploration. The boats now bobbing in the shallow surf call to our mutual love of the water. We slip into a tandem, sit-on-top vessel floating easily near the dock and merge a pastime we share but have rarely shared together. Our paddling isn’t in sync like the pairs of Indians who drift by in ancient cayucos, rowing in perfect, graceful unison. But like them, we let our paddles do the talking as they carve the smooth surface of an inland stream, push us out from a mossy bank or slap the rolling water. The sun is setting as we walk back up the path, and I find myself smiling — but not talking. I search for the words to capture our experience, but “I’m having a great time” seems so trivial. I’m still wondering what it is I should say, what it is my dad wants to say. Our boat glides the next morning onto a powderywhite shore. Home to nesting turtles, coconut-palm forests and some of the best reefs in the archipelago, the Zapatillas, a pair of shoe-shaped islands
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Off the not-so-beaten Bocas path, the Panamanian waters that weave through this coastal archipelago offer gorgeous sites to see by boat and stunning snorkeling with vivid sea creatures.
in the eastern reaches of Bocas del Toro, are part of the Isla Bastimentos National Marine Park. But even the promise of virgin sands and stellar snorkeling hasn’t crowded the beach today on the easternmost of the twin islands. A tan, young couple lazing in the water at the other end of the beach, the only other beach-goers on this brilliantly sunny afternoon, wave as we climb out of the boat and our driver ties it off. “Let’s snorkel.” My dad tosses me my mask and fins, and I follow him as he swims toward the breaking surf about 200 yards from shore. It’s unmistakably familiar to us, this ritual of follow the leader at the surface of the water, an activity my dad taught me as soon as I was old enough to swim. And here in a silence forced by our environment, we make do with sign language and gestures. He points to cool water springing up from deep canyon ridges and parrotfish swimming past in a blur of electric color, and I give him the OK sign to let him know I understand. I stop above giant brain corals bathed in dappled sunlight and he stops next to me, appreciating what I appreciate, mesmerized alongside me. We make our way around the reef, my dad dolphin-kicking ahead of me, judging the currents and never looking up to spy the beach. We swim along the wall at the edge of the reef, going as far as we can possibly go before heading back. When we emerge, smiling and soaking, my dad is as excited as I’ve seen him all week. “Did you see the drop-off?” he asks. “And the ray just before we came in?” The moment is fluid, as easy as the memories from that last trip. I start to say out loud what I’ve been thinking, “I’m having such a good time,” but stop myself. “Yeah, that reef was beautiful,” I say instead. It still sounds too simple. I’m unsure if the old memories and old language are holding me back as the new ones seem to take shape.
We are surprised
when Delfina begins to lead us into the jungle. The hike from the Indian village of Salt Creek to Playa Larga on the island of Bastimentos looks treacherous, and we’ve found Delfina weaving jewelry while her babies play at her bare feet. She looks less than equipped to guide us. But as we begin our trek — Delfina’s short legs stomping ahead of us, her tattered skirt swishing in time with her steps, her narration muted by our lack of a common language — she becomes as essential to us as hiking shoes. She trucks along as if she’s done this every day of her life. As if, maybe, she did it just this morning. She turns down an invisible bend in the trail, and I look back at my dad, who smiles with eyebrows raised. We would’ve missed that turn, his look says. She never tells us how much farther we have to go, never warns us when the path gets slippery. But I keep my gaze on her feet, mimic how she maneuvers the cliffs like they’re stairwells, sidestep the hidden potholes that she avoids, quicken my pace when her steps become faster. My eyes stay downward until her finger shoots to the trees — “Noche rastreador! Un mono!” My dad and I both halt, scanning the branches above for what she’s seen. Only when we see the tangle of black fur, arms and legs swinging mischievously against the neon-green leaves do we understand Delfina’s shouts. It’s a monkey, what the locals call a night crawler. We three stand smiling, unable to say our thoughts out loud to each other but pleased nonetheless while the monkey chatters and thrashes 20 feet above ISLANDS.COM/bocas our heads. It’s only a moment, though, before Delfina’s on the move again. GET THIS ITINERARY We hike for more than an hour, past misty waterfalls and along deep ridges. Then we FIND LATEST RATES SEE MORE PHOTOS make out the purring sound of waves in the distance. “Hear that?” (continued on p. 94)
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Bocas del Toro (from p. 64)
quiet place. But for now, it’s enough just to share Bocas del Toro, all of its yellow and white beaches, all of its azure sea, all of its silence laced with rolling waves and flapping wings. Because for now, it feels like a spell that can’t be broken. As the sun drifts from behind the clouds, the water turns a striking blue, so we ditch our shoes and head for a my dad asks from behind me, hopeful quick plunge together. My dad puts his as we get closer to our destination. But arm around my shoulders, a gesture as I’m too tired, too focused on Delfina’s loud as the waves. muddy feet ahead of me to answer him. “Ready for the hike back?” he asks. Instead, I give into the jungle’s noise: “I am,” I say, thinking of all the memMy well-equipped feet crunch across ories, old and new, we’ll have between dried banana leaves as we trek into a us when we reach the end of this island clearing. The flutter of a hundred jet- trail. “I really am.” ^ black wings and fluorescent yellow tail feathers rustles above. The calloused PLAN YOUR TRIP: Bocas del Toro FLY direct to Panama City (PTY) from sevsoles in front of me squish into the mud, and the breath behind me quick- eral U.S. hubs on Copa Airlines.Then catch Air Panama’s or Aeroperlas Regional’s hourens. All the while, the sea purrs a little plus flight at Panama City’s domestic airport louder with every step. (PAC) to Bocas Town (BOC) on Isla Colón. Finally, we emerge from the forest copaair.com; flyairpanama.com; aeroperlas.com into a fringe of coconut palms and onto STAY at Eclypse de Mar Acqua Lodge on the a deserted yellow-sand beach framing northern tip of Bastimentos. Four overwater bungalows offer sunset views and open-air miles of turquoise water. My dad and suites that sleep up to four people. Explore I stand quietly. Delfina stands in the the property’s nature reserve to find red frogs middle, silent. There are no common hopping among banana trees, pineapple plants and wild orchids. Rates start at $180. words among us. Still, the language is eclypsedemar.com Popa Paradise Beach there as we pass a water bottle from per- Resort offers beachfront and oceanfront cotson to person and smile toward the sea. tages on the otherwise undeveloped Isla Popa. Paddle a kayak to the reef for snorkeling. Rates Behind us, the foot-worn trail winds like start at $215. popaparadisebeachresort.com an unfurled ribbon into the jungle; ahead SHOP for molas in Bocas Town. A booth at of us the sea unfolds to the horizon. On the end of the main shopping strip sells the this beach, reachable only by a hike like story-telling tapestries, which are handmade ours, no boats are coming to our rescue by Kuna Indians. Search through the piles of tabloid-size cloths — each one unique — for with whirring motors and knowing driv- the perfect mix of neon colors and natureers. So no one looks expectantly around themed shapes. Cloths start at about $20. the corner; no one becomes anxious with EAT a mix of Panamanian and Caribbean anticipation. We slow our spent breaths specialties throughout the archipelago. In to the rhythm of the waves, train our Old Bank, a West Indian village on the west coast of Bastimentos, try Roots, a local gazes to the place where the water meets hangout serving Balboa beer and Creolethe shore, savor the support of a twisted style fi sh. Red Rooster is an expat-founded piece of driftwood and enjoy the simple restaurant whose varied menu features fresh wahoo and Caribbean lobster. In Bocas value in this moment. Town, munch on fried plantains and seafood Maybe, I think, there are other salad at The Reef Restaurant. islands where my dad and I can embrace SEE Bocas by boat. Take a water taxi to the noise around us together. Maybe we’ll Bird Island, at the north end of the archipelago, pack our muddied shoes and embark and stop at Boca del Drago for a beach-side lunch and Starfi sh Beach, where the stars on a journey again soon. Or maybe the dot the shallows. Boat south to Zapatillas for spell will be broken when we leave this snorkeling and picnicking. — AE
𰁣𰁢𰁘 𰁘𰁧
Ju n e 2 0 0 9
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story by
EPSON
Prod/Traffic_______ EIC_______ Photo_______ Fact Check_______ Copy Ed_______ Lead Ed_______ ME_______ Art Dir_______
Adrienne Egolf
photos by
Shelly Strazis Ju n e 2 0 0 9 ISL A N D S . c om
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In Panama’s Bocas del Toro — a place known for its timeless peace — the author and her father discover there’s more to conversation than words
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Maybe my dad was right.
Behind me, he’s in flip-flops. Bocas del Toro, an archipelago of untouched beaches and uncrowded seas, is a place for sand between the toes, after all. So why am I in durable Gore-Tex shoes? Because the island we’re on, Isla Bastimentos, also has thick jungle, and the rugged trail winding ahead is steep and slick from this morning’s rain. The canopy drips with condensation and life. Roots jut from the ground at every angle, and streams cross our path. Our Ngobe Bugle Indian guide, Delfina, is barefoot — but her soles must be superhuman to manage this terrain with no tread. Surely, my feet are the best equipped here in hiking shoes and super-absorbent socks. “Uh, un momento, por favor, señorita,” my dad calls in halting Spanish. Delfina pauses and turns, whether in understanding or lack thereof. My dad takes the moment to sit down on a log and trade out the flimsy flip-flops. I don’t say, “I told you to wear different shoes,” and he doesn’t say, “I’m glad you said to bring these sneakers.” Only a running stream narrates our intermission. We’re here, my dad and I, to bond — to travel, just the two School children signal water taxis (above) for transport through the islands’ beauty. While hiking barefoot, local guide Delfi na (opposite) of us, to a place where clear, Caribbean water and golden sand shows the way to Bocas del Toro’s simple pleasures. might bridge the distance and years since our last trip together — a simple getaway to North Carolina for a family reunion that still spurs laughter, stories and watery eyes. “What about hiking through the woods behind Aunt Hazel’s house?” he’ll ask, nudging my arm. “Yeah, you made me walk across that log over a raging river,” I’ll respond, exaggerating for the sake of the story. But since then, we’ve each made ever-growing lists of destinations to get to with ever-shrinking windows of time to travel them. When he does escape somewhere, he goes with my mom; I’ve gone with friends, and now almost always, my husband. My dad and I haven’t made the time for a new adventure together. So when I heard about Bocas’ two newest eco resorts — one over the water and one in the Caribb e an Se a jungle — I thought first of him. My dad’s a surfer, sailor and fisherman — a man of the water. “It’s all deserted beaches and sea,” I told him. “Hardly any developBOCAS ment at all. We’ll have so much time to talk.” Yet as we DEL TORO planned our weeklong stay, trading flight schedules and tour suggestions over e-mail, I started to worry: Was Bocas del Toro too quiet? I hoped the sounds of these islands would be loud enough to inspire us. Pa c if ic Oc e an They were, at least, loud enough for Columbus. It’s said that when the explorer first visited this 30-milelong stretch of islands along Panama’s northeastern PLAN YOUR TRIP, p. 94 coast, the sounds of its waves prompted him to name COSTA RICA
PANAMA A
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the archipelago after the “mouth of the bull.” Five hundred years later, this destination is a time capsule of what the Caribbean once was. With a tourism industry that was long overshadowed by a once-prevalent banana business, Bocas del Toro seems to be about 50 years behind the rest of the region in terms of development. No high-rise condominiums or mammoth all-inclusive resorts tower over these sandy shores. No blinking casinos or silky spas line the main drag. You’ll find only Bohemian-style, eco-luxe havens built over the sea and into the hillsides and this knobby trail worn not by hordes of tourists before us, but rather by bare feet like Delfina’s.
We aren’t talking in the same conversa-
tion. “What time is it?” I ask my dad. He looks down at the foggy face of his digital watch then back up at the sun and simply says: “We must be headed southeast.” We’ve just arrived on Isla Bastimentos after a water-taxi ride from Bocas Town, the archipelago’s dominant waterfront city on the southern coast of Isla Colón. We make our way through the hustle and bustle, and I silently hope that the noise from the small outboard engines whirring past will spark a new, common language for us. Or at least fill the margins in our conversations. Because pulling up to the Eclypse de Mar Acqua Lodge on the northwest tip of Bastimentos across the bay from Bocas Town, I see right away that there will be plenty of space to fill. Instead of television-facing sofas, our overwater bungalow at Eclypse boasts sunset-facing hammocks. Instead of the Locals have hideaways such as mangrove tunnels near the village of Salt Creek (above), while travelers to Bocas del Toro can get away at cacophony of traffic, hand-carved paddles quietly push along eco resorts like Eclypse de Mar Acqua Lodge (below and opposite). cayucos, or dugout canoes. Instead of ringing phones, white flags catch the breeze to signal nearby water taxis. “Wave it over your head,” I tell my dad as we stand on the edge of the dock at Eclypse, the sun rising behind us. The heavy cloth snaps and releases, snaps and releases, in time with the salty gusts. He walks to the tip of the pier, the banner now flying above his head, a surrender to this primitive communication. I wait at the other end for the boat that’s now buzzing toward us at top speed. Our driver, like many people on this side of the archipelago, is not Hispanic, but AfroCaribbean. The islands are still home to descendants from the plantation workers who came here during the banana-industry boom in the late 19th century. At that time, the fusion of cultures that began during the Spanish-colonial era and slave trade developed further. It’s a fusion we taste in the Balboa beers, named after the first Spanish settler, and mixed seafood ceviche we eat for lunch. Sitting at the Pickled Parrot bar, I notice my dad’s longing gaze toward the water. I turn to the bar owner, George, an eccentric American expat who moved to these islands 15 years ago on a lark and never left. “So where’s the best snorkeling?” I ask him. He points across the bay to Hospital Point, where a couple of boats bob near the rock jetty. “The view underwater is awesome,” he explains. “But during the banana days, it was a dump. A quarantine
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Bird Island is beyond Bocas d Toro’s largest del island isl a , Isla Colón. And its rock formations, if not its mig igrat ra ory birds, are b ond quiet bey et.
The town thins into a spray of overwater bungalows, an off-theJu n e 2 0 0 9 ISL A N D S . c om
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grid home and finally, nothing. Just water fringed with palms. Ju n e 2 0 0 9 ISL A N D S . c om
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station for patients with contagious diseases. Probably why it took so long for tourists to find the place.” My dad and I exchange a glance and wordlessly agree: We’ll skip the snorkeling today. Back in our water transport, it’s not long before the freneticism of Bocas Town and its busy bays thins into sparse development: a spray of overwater bungalows here, a private, off-the-grid home there. And finally, nothing. Just open water ruffled sometimes by a passing pod of dolphins and fringed with the occasional stretch of yellow sand and coconut palms. We make our way to sites that are named for their exotic charms. Places like Starfish Beach, where cushion stars freckle the white sand in orange, red and black splotches from ankle- to waist-deep water. Or Bird Island, a rock formation less than two miles from the quiet, northern coast of Isla Colón, where a cluster of remote greenness attracts myriad migratory birds with multicolored plumes and firecracker beaks. And finally, Red Frog Beach, where Isla Bastimentos’ most famous residents — tree frogs the size and color of painted fingernails — bounce among palm leaves leading up to the shore. “This is your mom’s favorite time of day at the beach,” my dad says as he strolls a few steps ahead of me along the yellow sand. It’s our last stop of the day. The high tide kisses our toes, and the sun begins to set. “I know,” I say, nodding. “Mine too.”
We’re deeper still after another boat ride that ends up landing us 12 miles south of Bocas Town, past
the modest Afro-Caribbean villages of northern Bastimentos, Expat bar owner George (above) happily serves Americans who find toward uninhabited mangrove islets, glassy-smooth sea and their way here, whether to ride with stowaway lobsters on a traditional Isla Popa. Here at the newly opened Popa Paradise Beach Indian cayuco (below) or lie back at Red Frog Beach (opposite). Resort, we find that our bungalows are built away from the water and into the jungle, where hummingbirds buzz and toucans fly past our windows. We both amble instinctively to the kayaks, positioned near the surf on Popa Paradise’s stretch of private white sand. I know my dad’s history with the water as a competitive catamaran sailor and fisherman, always adept with a paddle. And he knows the context of my own trips, where a kayak has become my favorite mode of exploration. The boats now bobbing in the shallow surf call to our mutual love of the water. We slip into a tandem, sit-on-top vessel floating easily near the dock and merge a pastime we share but have rarely shared together. Our paddling isn’t in sync like the pairs of Indians who drift by in ancient cayucos, rowing in perfect, graceful unison. But like them, we let our paddles do the talking as they carve the smooth surface of an inland stream, push us out from a mossy bank or slap the rolling water. The sun is setting as we walk back up the path, and I find myself smiling — but not talking. I search for the words to capture our experience, but “I’m having a great time” seems so trivial. I’m still wondering what it is I should say, what it is my dad wants to say. Our boat glides the next morning onto a powderywhite shore. Home to nesting turtles, coconut-palm forests and some of the best reefs in the archipelago, the Zapatillas, a pair of shoe-shaped islands
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Off the not-so-beaten Bocas path, the Panamanian waters that weave through this coastal archipelago offer gorgeous sites to see by boat and stunning snorkeling with vivid sea creatures.
in the eastern reaches of Bocas del Toro, are part of the Isla Bastimentos National Marine Park. But even the promise of virgin sands and stellar snorkeling hasn’t crowded the beach today on the easternmost of the twin islands. A tan, young couple lazing in the water at the other end of the beach, the only other beach-goers on this brilliantly sunny afternoon, wave as we climb out of the boat and our driver ties it off. “Let’s snorkel.” My dad tosses me my mask and fins, and I follow him as he swims toward the breaking surf about 200 yards from shore. It’s unmistakably familiar to us, this ritual of follow the leader at the surface of the water, an activity my dad taught me as soon as I was old enough to swim. And here in a silence forced by our environment, we make do with sign language and gestures. He points to cool water springing up from deep canyon ridges and parrotfish swimming past in a blur of electric color, and I give him the OK sign to let him know I understand. I stop above giant brain corals bathed in dappled sunlight and he stops next to me, appreciating what I appreciate, mesmerized alongside me. We make our way around the reef, my dad dolphin-kicking ahead of me, judging the currents and never looking up to spy the beach. We swim along the wall at the edge of the reef, going as far as we can possibly go before heading back. When we emerge, smiling and soaking, my dad is as excited as I’ve seen him all week. “Did you see the drop-off?” he asks. “And the ray just before we came in?” The moment is fluid, as easy as the memories from that last trip. I start to say out loud what I’ve been thinking, “I’m having such a good time,” but stop myself. “Yeah, that reef was beautiful,” I say instead. It still sounds too simple. I’m unsure if the old memories and old language are holding me back as the new ones seem to take shape.
We are surprised
when Delfina begins to lead us into the jungle. The hike from the Indian village of Salt Creek to Playa Larga on the island of Bastimentos looks treacherous, and we’ve found Delfina weaving jewelry while her babies play at her bare feet. She looks less than equipped to guide us. But as we begin our trek — Delfina’s short legs stomping ahead of us, her tattered skirt swishing in time with her steps, her narration muted by our lack of a common language — she becomes as essential to us as hiking shoes. She trucks along as if she’s done this every day of her life. As if, maybe, she did it just this morning. She turns down an invisible bend in the trail, and I look back at my dad, who smiles with eyebrows raised. We would’ve missed that turn, his look says. She never tells us how much farther we have to go, never warns us when the path gets slippery. But I keep my gaze on her feet, mimic how she maneuvers the cliffs like they’re stairwells, sidestep the hidden potholes that she avoids, quicken my pace when her steps become faster. My eyes stay downward until her finger shoots to the trees — “Noche rastreador! Un mono!” My dad and I both halt, scanning the branches above for what she’s seen. Only when we see the tangle of black fur, arms and legs swinging mischievously against the neon-green leaves do we understand Delfina’s shouts. It’s a monkey, what the locals call a night crawler. We three stand smiling, unable to say our thoughts out loud to each other but pleased nonetheless while the monkey chatters and thrashes 20 feet above ISLANDS.COM/bocas our heads. It’s only a moment, though, before Delfina’s on the move again. GET THIS ITINERARY We hike for more than an hour, past misty waterfalls and along deep ridges. Then we FIND LATEST RATES SEE MORE PHOTOS make out the purring sound of waves in the distance. “Hear that?” (continued on p. 94)
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Bocas del Toro (from p. 64)
quiet place. But for now, it’s enough just to share Bocas del Toro, all of its yellow and white beaches, all of its azure sea, all of its silence laced with rolling waves and flapping wings. Because for now, it feels like a spell that can’t be broken. As the sun drifts from behind the clouds, the water turns a striking blue, so we ditch our shoes and head for a my dad asks from behind me, hopeful quick plunge together. My dad puts his as we get closer to our destination. But arm around my shoulders, a gesture as I’m too tired, too focused on Delfina’s loud as the waves. muddy feet ahead of me to answer him. “Ready for the hike back?” he asks. Instead, I give into the jungle’s noise: “I am,” I say, thinking of all the memMy well-equipped feet crunch across ories, old and new, we’ll have between dried banana leaves as we trek into a us when we reach the end of this island clearing. The flutter of a hundred jet- trail. “I really am.” ^ black wings and fluorescent yellow tail feathers rustles above. The calloused PLAN YOUR TRIP: Bocas del Toro FLY direct to Panama City (PTY) from sevsoles in front of me squish into the mud, and the breath behind me quick- eral U.S. hubs on Copa Airlines.Then catch Air Panama’s or Aeroperlas Regional’s hourens. All the while, the sea purrs a little plus flight at Panama City’s domestic airport louder with every step. (PAC) to Bocas Town (BOC) on Isla Colón. Finally, we emerge from the forest copaair.com; flyairpanama.com; aeroperlas.com into a fringe of coconut palms and onto STAY at Eclypse de Mar Acqua Lodge on the a deserted yellow-sand beach framing northern tip of Bastimentos. Four overwater bungalows offer sunset views and open-air miles of turquoise water. My dad and suites that sleep up to four people. Explore I stand quietly. Delfina stands in the the property’s nature reserve to find red frogs middle, silent. There are no common hopping among banana trees, pineapple plants and wild orchids. Rates start at $180. words among us. Still, the language is eclypsedemar.com Popa Paradise Beach there as we pass a water bottle from per- Resort offers beachfront and oceanfront cotson to person and smile toward the sea. tages on the otherwise undeveloped Isla Popa. Paddle a kayak to the reef for snorkeling. Rates Behind us, the foot-worn trail winds like start at $215. popaparadisebeachresort.com an unfurled ribbon into the jungle; ahead SHOP for molas in Bocas Town. A booth at of us the sea unfolds to the horizon. On the end of the main shopping strip sells the this beach, reachable only by a hike like story-telling tapestries, which are handmade ours, no boats are coming to our rescue by Kuna Indians. Search through the piles of tabloid-size cloths — each one unique — for with whirring motors and knowing driv- the perfect mix of neon colors and natureers. So no one looks expectantly around themed shapes. Cloths start at about $20. the corner; no one becomes anxious with EAT a mix of Panamanian and Caribbean anticipation. We slow our spent breaths specialties throughout the archipelago. In to the rhythm of the waves, train our Old Bank, a West Indian village on the west coast of Bastimentos, try Roots, a local gazes to the place where the water meets hangout serving Balboa beer and Creolethe shore, savor the support of a twisted style fi sh. Red Rooster is an expat-founded piece of driftwood and enjoy the simple restaurant whose varied menu features fresh wahoo and Caribbean lobster. In Bocas value in this moment. Town, munch on fried plantains and seafood Maybe, I think, there are other salad at The Reef Restaurant. islands where my dad and I can embrace SEE Bocas by boat. Take a water taxi to the noise around us together. Maybe we’ll Bird Island, at the north end of the archipelago, pack our muddied shoes and embark and stop at Boca del Drago for a beach-side lunch and Starfi sh Beach, where the stars on a journey again soon. Or maybe the dot the shallows. Boat south to Zapatillas for spell will be broken when we leave this snorkeling and picnicking. — AE
𰁣𰁢𰁘 𰁘𰁧
Ju n e 2 0 0 9
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