August 16, 2023, Panama. I woke up at 8:04—my alarm was set for 8:05. I shoved some cornflakes in my mouth and met up with the three Spanish women to drive down to Santa Fe. The road was bumpy and it took an hour and a half. I talked with one of the women in the backseat about her trip and her favorite places, then stared out the window, watching the cleared land pass by.

Viktor had talked the night before about the French community and all the deforestation. They think clearing land means cutting down trees—for cows or for nothing. To me, it feels connected to some twisted Biblical ideal.

As soon as we arrived in Santa Fe, someone grabbed me and ushered me toward a bus to David. Classic hawker chaos. They threw my pack on top of the bus and tied it down—I just hoped it wouldn’t fall off.

The ride was torturously long—3.5 hours going maybe 30 or 40 mph. A car could have done it in half the time. A guy blasted YouTube videos loudly the entire time, and everyone ignored it. People here are so used to noise and discomfort. I don’t know how they cope.

I was reading an article about how many Americans, when denied opioids, kill themselves. And yet people here live lives that are unimaginably harder and don’t do that. What does that say?

In David, I rushed to find a bathroom, then jumped on another school bus with no AC and the windows down. I finally got to Boquete and went to Hello Travel. They seemed distracted and didn’t look happy to see me. But then I found María. She told me everything that was going wrong in her life, and I gave her a hug. She really appreciated it.

I grabbed some chicken at a fonda and went for a walk up Monte, ran into the other María, and had a brief chat about the botanic garden where her mother used to work. It closed five years ago—some Chinese investors bought the land.

August 17. I’ve grown numb to discomfort. Haven’t washed my hair in a month. No hot water for weeks. Bug bites all over my legs wake me up at night. I’ve been jolted awake for two weeks now by roosters crowing at 3 or 4 a.m., every single minute.

I’m staying in a hostel with open holes in the cement walls. Every sound outside—drunken shouting from the cantina next door, the roosters—echoes through. It’s relentless.

I nearly fall asleep on crammed buses, packed like chickens on a factory farm. No napkins or paper towels. My meals are basically chicken, rice, and plantains. I crave pastry made with real butter, not lard.

A local mocked foreigners who want to sleep through the night. “What’s wrong with them?” he said. “What do they think this is, the cemetery?”

I try not to be that entitled Westerner—but the truth is, I do want to sleep. I don’t want to be woken by roosters. I fantasize about poisoning them.

Haven’t watched a single movie or show in a month. My scalp is flaking, clothes stink from sweat and cold showers. No wonder I’ve had a cold since July 4.

Still, I’m grateful I haven’t been bitten by a dog, that I have a place to rest my head. But I keep asking—what is the point of this trip? Is it just to make me appreciate what I have?

August 18. I was woken early by someone pounding on a nearby Airbnb door—it sounded like they were knocking on mine. First at six, then again at seven. They’d been shouting in the hall the night before too. I really thought I’d get a good night’s sleep here, but the universe had other plans.

I headed down for a latte at Buckle Tip but stopped at Hello Travel on the way and talked with the other María. She told me about some Spanish guests who had yelled at her because the van was late. Then I made my way to the Ecuadorian store and asked the man there what was going on in Ecuador. He told me it’s become a narco-trafficking country. I told him I’d wanted to visit back when I was in Chile in 2013.

At Buckle Tip, I ordered a foamy latte but got a watery, boiling-hot mess. I asked them to remake it, which they did, but I wasn’t impressed. They act like coffee snobs, but I’ve had better. Won’t go back.

Later, I ate lunch and headed up to Jaramillo via the dirt road, listening to We. I hiked up toward the rock, past the junkyard dog again (who still scared the hell out of me), and eventually made my way down to the gelato shop, then home. I hoped for a better night’s sleep, but still couldn’t fall asleep until the wee hours. I don’t know why.

August 19. I woke at 10 and finally went to Berlina for a latte. I’d passed it so many times and figured they had to be decent. Across the street was a café on a large estate, so I stopped in. The pastries didn’t look great, nor did the size of their coffee cups or their machine, but I met the owner, Maria, who has a PhD. She shares the estate with her brother, who runs a coffee-packing business. Their finca is in Palmyra.

She talked about how hard it is to find labor to pick specialty coffee and how most plantation owners end up selling the land instead. The cost of labor makes it unviable.

I told her I’m a biologist. She said she’s taking care of her mom and aunt and grew up here. As I was leaving, an old man stopped me and said, “You’re lovely. I have no work. Can you give me some money?” I said no, I only had credit cards. He asked me to speak with the owner—her brother. I think he wanted me to ask the brother for money on his behalf, but I wasn’t sure.

I ended up talking with the brother, who told me his grandfather had worked on building the railroads and how they used a particular lowland tree to make the tracks. He explained which trees were good for cutting and which weren’t—like the marmasillo, which was too big, too bent.

He asked if I was an anthropologist. I told him no—just an amateur one. He said the local indigenous people prefer to go back to their reservations and only return when they need money.

I wanted to stay longer, but it was already 11:15 and getting too late for caffeine if I wanted to sleep later. As I walked away, the old man gestured behind the brother’s back: don’t leave. I still wasn’t sure what I was supposed to communicate on his behalf. Probably a request for help.

I crossed the street to Berlina Station Café and met Erik, a humble barista who, it turns out, has beaten Buckle Tip in most of the local coffee tasting competitions. I only learned that after mentioning how arrogant I thought the folks at Buckle Tip were. He just smiled and agreed.

I sat there reading depressing news articles about Trump’s chances at re-election and the fear in Europe over what that might mean. I continued my walk along the Panamonte to Altieri, where I enjoyed the blooming gardenias above the tasting area and spent a peaceful moment by the creek. Then I continued toward El Pianista and beyond.

At the turnoff for Tree Trek Boquete Adventure Park, I decided to hike the 7 kilometers up Volcán Barú, hoping I’d make it before the day was gone. I passed some lovely housing complexes—like The Springs—but got tired after half an hour or so stuck my thumb out. I felt like the heavens were showering me with gifts when someone stopped. The someone turned out to be Brian Stoll, a transplant from San Diego.

We ended up having lunch on a lovely veranda overlooking the main zipline in the park. As we ate, he told me about his life in Boquete and the brewery he’d been planning to create for the last two years. His Russian wife was currently in Saint Petersburg providing parenting and support to her son attending military academy. Apparently she loves Saint Petersburg but finds Boquete boring. Ironic since it was her idea for both of them to move and set down roots here.

After lunch, Brian drove me to Bambuda Castle—a place I’d always wanted to see since arriving in Boquete. I had originally planned to stay there before Richard offered me a place. Maria Elisa used to run the hostel with her uncle before it was sold. I’ve always wondered why they let it go—it’s an actual castle, complete with a moat full of koi, grass-roofed cabanas, and a view of the volcano. It looked like something out of a fairytale.

We sat on the deck, looking out over the valley in the sun. It was beautiful. Somehow we started talking about Cerro Punta, and I said I’d always wanted to go. He offered to take me on Monday—he likes showing newcomers around. What an amazing spot. I’m so glad I got to see it.

Back in town, he showed me the brewery site—across from the fairgrounds next to the artisanal market. We sat in the backyard and looked at the mountain view while he told me about the difficulties getting funding. Apparently, one investor put in far less money than Brian but expected to have 50% influence. Total quagmire.

I wanted to walk before dark, so I said goodbye. I walked up past The Rock restaurant to the main dog (who barked again) and made my way back to town. I bought a quart of gelato—pistachio, yogurt, and coffee—figuring it would last me the week. Back at the house, I said hi to Richard, and we chatted for a while. He mentioned being hard on himself about his diet. I told him I think being kind to ourselves is as much a part of health as what we eat.