August 1, 2023, Panama. I woke after a restless night, still thinking about feeling taken advantage of and knowing I needed to say something. I wrote a message to Tamir and then spoke with Julian. I’d drafted the message to Julian so I could translate it into Spanish, but when he asked what was wrong, I told him as best I could. He said not all Panamanians are the same and that he didn’t want to take advantage of me. I told him I wanted him to keep his word about paying half the price of the shoes ($35) as we agreed—even if it took him months.

I felt better after restating our agreement. When I’d first seen him, it seemed he wasn’t planning to pay me back or appreciate the shoes. I’d put a lot of effort into ordering them, returning two pairs that were the wrong size, and bringing them in my luggage. I felt resentful that he didn’t seem to value this. Tamir also replied to my WhatsApp message, though he didn’t mention promising me a ride or going silent. I’d written him at his new number while in Panama.

After the counseling session with Leia and Shawn, I called Shawn, and we talked for an hour about how to approach dealing with my mom, given a lifetime of being her emotional caregiver. Around 2 pm, Julian and I went for a walk. I told him I was open to anywhere, and we ended up hiking up Cerro Cariguana. It was a very steep climb along the road. An older local man passed us during one of our breaks. I hadn’t done much uphill walking lately due to my cold and post-surgery condition. Julian said people lived up here, and later, we saw a truck carrying workers up the hill. The road is being prepared for paving and leads down to the Pan-American Highway.

There’s a beautiful view from the top, with a trail overlooking the valley. I saw some interesting flowers, and asked Julian to take photos and send them to me. We had a great chat on the way down, and I was happy to reconnect as friends. He told me his wife was asking when he’d be coming home, and I told him I understood he needed to attend to his family. He decided to head home that evening, pick up his things from the station, and wait for a bus. I was sad to see him go and wasn’t sure I’d see him again on this trip. He said he’d try to come back but felt his family would come first. He reassured me he’d told the fire captain I was his friend and that I could eat with the firemen and they would help if I needed anything.

August 2. I woke after a deep sleep feeling much better from my cold, which had lingered over a month despite all the vitamins, syrups, and tinctures I’d tried. I’d been trying to squeeze in TEFL study while in Panama City—I have a deadline of August 14. The original deadline was earlier, but I managed to get an extension from Canada.

After breakfast at the station, I headed to Unidos Café around noon and spent three hours working on my TEFL course, moving from 6% progress to 30%.

By 3 pm, I was pretty bored and decided to go for a walk. I bought snacks and toilet paper at El Rey (critical at the fire station, where everyone has their own roll). Then I headed to the Golden Frog project and caught Edgardo before he left. I asked why he wasn’t mentioned in the Smithsonian’s frog research info. He told me he’d declined their offer to work for them—$600 a month versus $1000 at his mining job—because he sees them as colonialists who should be paying to do research in Panama, not profiting from it.

We talked for a while, then he gave me a ride back to the main street and said we could try to meet the next morning before they left for the beach to celebrate his son’s birthday. I stopped by their place later that evening and caught him just as he was parking, asking if I could come by at 9 am. He said no, that was too late, but they’d be home Friday, and I could get in touch. I reached out Friday but haven’t heard back yet.

I headed toward the mountains behind El Rey, passing Hostal Orchidea, which I found out was closed for the season. I had a confrontation with a few dogs—I’ve started carrying a stick when I walk, as many dogs roam the streets and more than one has lunged at me. Having been bitten by a street dog in California, I have trauma around dogs, and they seem to sense it.

At the end of the road, I found a bucolic area and a grotto with a statue of Mary. I wondered if the property belonged to the Catholic Church but didn’t want to trespass, even on a road, so I turned back. On the way, I waved to a friendly man who turned out to own and run Casa de los Patos, a lovely estate surrounded by a duck pond.

Alejandro was happy to show me around Casa de los Patos and his other rental, Villa Hermosa. He has a successful business offering massages, making tinctures, renting rooms, and other ventures. Rooms range from $55 to $90 a night in the low season. Over the next few days, we had several conversations about ethnobotany. He grew up in Barcelona and moved to Venezuela at 19, where he met his wife and earned a degree in structural engineering. About six years ago, he moved here to follow his parents. He and his wife work together on their vocational pursuits.

In addition to tincture-making, he wants to get into mushroom cultivation, and we talked about Paul Stamets’s work. He showed me some plants they use for tinctures. I ended up buying oregano and passion flower tinctures. Alejandro believes in the “matrix” meme and self-identifies as a conspiracy theorist. We discussed altered states of consciousness, meditation to heal trauma, and chlorohexidine for treating Covid. He said it worked and seemed pleased with Trump.

He told me about being cured of ailments by “viejitos” (old healers) in the mountains when he was young, which likely sparked his interest in healing arts. During the nearly two years of Covid lockdown—when most Panamanians could leave the house only two hours a week—he and his wife got a special pass allowing them to leave whenever they wanted. The streets were empty and ghostly, but because he was in hospitality, they could get travel permits. Police would interrogate them, but he’d say, “I have permission.” Most Panamanians without a pass could leave only one hour twice a week. His view of Panamanians, like Edgardo’s, is that they’re obsequious and obedient. When a population suffers under wealthy forces, it’s common to blame the poor rather than question the rich. Neither Alejandro nor Edgardo identify as Panamanians, interestingly.

After a long conversation, Alejandro gave me a ride to Bodhi Hostel on the main street. From there, I walked back to the fire station, ate, and did some TEFL study before heading to bed. I took a brief walk toward the zoo and discovered fireflies! There were barking dogs further on, so I stopped at a bend where the river gurgled and giant trees blocked city lights. I watched, fascinated, as the tiny insects flashed on and off. I returned nightly to watch.

August 3. I slept well and had eggs and rice for breakfast. I walked along the street parallel to the fire station and met Gabriel, a friendly gardener who used to be a construction worker in Panama City. He told me about the plants he tended. I also met two men collecting passion flower leaves for the butterfly aviary. Apparently, butterflies love passion flower leaves. We had a nice conversation about connecting with animals, how animals communicate, and how humans don’t always listen. I felt a kinship with them. We walked in silence searching for passion flower vines until we reached Bodhi Hostel, where a short, stocky man looked at me quizzically and asked if I could give him money.

I felt awkward but gave him a dollar, feeling sad and a bit exploited. But my adventure didn’t end there. Later, the man on the bicycle spotted me and stopped, his eyes wild—he looked like he’d been on meth. I asked how his day was; he said it was bad because someone had stolen his phone. He spoke very fast and asked me for money again. I told him I had none left, just spent it on food, and hoped his friend had shared the dollar I gave him. He stared at me for a long moment, then rode off. I felt afraid he might follow me, but I reminded myself I was camping in the fire station yard. I told one of the firemen, who said, “Don’t worry, he won’t come this way because he’d have to pass the police and fire stations.”

After my conversation with the men looking for passion flower vines, I headed to Heaven’s Café, ordered a latte, and joined the second Osteoporosis Zoom session with Amy Culver. I was struck when she said she’d never been in the Herb Room and thought it was a marijuana depot. Could she really be that ignorant and live in Santa Cruz? She fit the stereotype that Richard had about doctors perfectly.

She repeated information from the first session, but this time I was more suspicious—especially when she claimed bisphosphonates prevent fractures. How would they know that? There’s no way to measure the drug’s effectiveness on an individual because you can only compare people who take the drug versus those who don’t. Claiming the drug prevents fractures is, therefore, misleading.

After the session, I walked to the thermal baths. I’d thought about taking a soak since my knee hurt from the hike a few days ago, but it was already 2 pm and the baths closed at 4. Being “Jubilado” (retired) in Panama means being 60, but places require proof of residency. I planned to return Friday when they’re open until 5.

I walked back through the bucolic neighborhood near Millionaires Avenue and found Alejandro helping Dutch guests settle in at Casa de los Patos. We had a long chat, and I got to meet his large, furry gray cat who looked more like a disdainful emperor than a feline. I deleted many travel apps while he helped guests. I also identified two plants he was using to make tinctures—turns out he was wrong about their identification, which is critical for medicinal tinctures.

It started raining and we were both tired, so I walked back to the fire station. I was very hungry and asked if I could join the firefighters for dinner. They had beans and rice and gave me some overcooked chicken. I watched the sunset as a flock of parrots flew toward the mountains, making their distinctive cries in unison. I love sunsets because birds are very active then. Since I usually miss sunrise, it’s my best time to observe them.

I walked down the road to visit the fireflies. The firemen had a call and locked all the doors before leaving. I went to sleep, unable to access the bathroom or my food, which was in the kitchen.

August 4. I woke around nine, made breakfast, and left around 10. I was amused by a TV show called “Jejou” featuring a comic man interviewing people, showing cross-training, and other special interest stories. It was personable, and I learned a lot about Panamanian culture watching it.

I decided to return to work. Gabriel was there as promised and invited me into the yard, showing me many plants he was proud to have planted. It was fun talking with him and identifying a few plants I didn’t know. We exchanged contact info. He said he had time to walk tomorrow, which I thought would be nice.

Then I walked to Kare Café, ordered a latte and brownie, read New Yorker articles, and caught up on my blog. Around 2:30, I left for the Pozos Termales (thermal baths), which are more like tepid mud. I arrived at 3 and asked to pay the retired rate of four dollars. They said no and charged me eight. About 50 kids were there, diving and making tons of noise. I was told they’d leave in half an hour but they stayed an hour, leaving me only one hour before closing. Not wanting to risk collisions, I waited in a tepid tub with a couple from Amsterdam.

I got into trouble for putting clay on my face in the tub. Apparently, that was taboo, even though the Dutch couple had done it and told me it was okay. I tried to explain to the chastising woman, but she stalked off, threatening to throw me out. I was angry because the kids were breaking all kinds of rules while I tried to follow them. The injustice made me mad.

Finally, the kids left, and a worker beckoned me to the big pool—the only one fed by warm volcanic water. The water was an opaque brown; last time it was clear. I positioned myself near the intake pipe and basked in the warmth. For the next hour, I had a lovely conversation with Mercedes and her husband Gille from Geneva. She told me about their trip; he talked about his work as a psychologist helping people identify brain regions causing stress.

They were a lovely couple with three kids playing in the pool. My parents would never have put up with that kind of rowdiness—zero tolerance policy. The man was from Germany and also had three kids. It was nice to be around fellow travelers for a while; I felt in my element. Gille teased me, saying I couldn’t possibly be American since I spoke several languages. I hadn’t expected to manage a fairly fluent conversation in French, but I did. Mercedes was born in Argentina and moved to Switzerland when she was 12.

It was probably the most fun I’d had all week. Gille was very kind, and when the place closed, he offered me a ride to town. The Dutch couple had recommended La Ranitas, so I passed that recommendation on to them. I decided to walk toward Chorro El Macho for my evening stroll and had a nice conversation with Angel, whom I’d met the last time I was in El Valle. He was an engineer for an energy company and owns a large piece of land and a house in a lovely part of the valley, as well as a finca further out. He thought I had visited last year, but I told him I was here in April. He reminded me that he had sung last time I was here. I said yes, I remembered—I had even sent him a message thanking him for his song.

We talked until it was too dark to see, and he asked me what I thought about the environment in Panamá. I shared my thoughts. He said he had requested environmental protection for the valley and believed people couldn’t cut trees without a permit or unless they planted more. But I don’t think it’s enforced. From what I’ve seen and heard from anyone who’s lived in the valley for a long time, many trees have been cut down, it’s much warmer than before, there’s less rain, and the microclimate has changed dramatically. There are also far fewer animals and plants. Gabriel’s cousin remembers that many different flowers used to grow on La India Dormida. Not anymore.

When it was too dark to continue, I excused myself and walked back to town. I try not to walk too much at night, even though El Valle de Antón seems fairly safe aside from the occasional drunk, especially on Saturday nights. As I passed Lagunita, I remembered to book a table for the family and spotted Gille and Mercedes eating dinner. I said hello, and they invited me to join them. Mercedes offered me a margarita, but I declined, saying I didn’t want to drink that much. We settled on passion fruit juice, and I stayed through the entire meal. Their kids didn’t eat much, so I offered to finish what they hadn’t touched. I felt a bit ashamed but said I didn’t like seeing food wasted—which was true.

Gille was curious about what I do for work. I said it’s complicated and then told them about my career before getting scleroderma and my wish to keep my medical coverage. Mercedes suggested volunteering and told me about biologists who volunteer to help save turtle eggs on Isla Cañas near Pedasi. I said I do volunteer sometimes, but flexibility can be difficult. I mentioned WOOF and other similar organizations that let you work abroad on organic farms.

Gille said, “I’m not worried about you—you’ll find your way.” I thought that was sweet, especially because I don’t always have as much confidence in myself as he does. I didn’t want to say goodbye. Mercedes asked to exchange numbers, and I sent her a message on WhatsApp. She said, “You never know, maybe we’ll see you again.” I got back to the bomberos and my tent around 9:30 and fell into bed. I felt like I was overstaying my welcome but was really enjoying the valley and didn’t want to leave just yet.

August 5. I woke up at 8:30, ate my usual onions and eggs, then headed to Kare Café for lemon pie and a latte. I met Gabriel at 11 at the market. I had stopped by his work the day before, and he suggested we walk to Cerro La Cruz. We headed toward Las Mozas and cut up the trail before reaching the river and the path to the waterfall. What a beautiful day! I found a Momoto tail feather and felt like I’d found a lucky talisman.

We took it easy—I didn’t want to walk fast. We stopped at the cemetery, where Gabriel told me about various family members who had died, partly from the pandemic but also from accidents and illness. As we continued along the bridge and approached the face of La India Dormida, he suggested we take a trail through a small valley. I was glad—partly because I didn’t feel like climbing, but also because I prefer walking through the jungle rather than on an open ridge.

He spotted a small ocelot they call a tigrillo. I wish I’d seen it. He’s really good at spotting wildlife. The next day, he pointed out a sloth and a couple of toucans calling from the land his friend Ray Santana is caretaking. It started raining as we headed down the trail toward the valley. It felt beautiful and refreshing to feel the rain through the trees. This year has been much drier than usual, and there’s no water in the quebradas—rare for this time of year, when they usually gush.

We finally got down to the valley floor, and Gabriel greeted everyone we passed, all friends or family. I wanted to meet his family, and he said he’d take me to them. We arrived at a hodgepodge of houses in various stages of construction, with a multitude of chickens running around the yard. I met his cousin, who seems to be the rock of the family, as well as his mother, grandfather, aunt with her 14 dogs, and a few other family members. I felt very welcome and appreciated Gabriel inviting me.

His cousin cooks for a wealthy Panamanian who vacations in the valley. She’s also been a hairdresser, a nurse, and worn several other hats. I mentioned I like desserts, and she said she would make one. We talked about cooking. I told her about Shawn owning a pasta place. She said she learned to make pasta from scratch and was impressed at how easy it was.

I loved hiking with Gabriel. He was very patient and told me stories about what it was like when he was young—not long ago, as he’s only 35. He remembers locals riding horseback on the trail across what they call the violin, a very narrow, precipitous stretch. They would bring produce to and from the valley that way. People still carry huge bags of lentils and rice up hills to their homes in villages outside the caldera and bring produce that mostly grows outside the caldera on steep hillsides because land in the valley is scarce now. Rich people have bought most of it for their grand houses. In the past, the valley was full of agriculture, but it has been pushed to the margins.

August 6. I woke up with diarrhea, large itchy insect bites, an ant infestation, a worsening cough, a bad sunburn, and a fresh loaf of bread ruined by ants. To top it off, I was late meeting Gabriel, and we had to wait an extra 30 minutes for the bus to the trailhead for Cerro Gaital. Fun start to the day.

Panamanians, at least the poorer ones, have learned extreme patience due to circumstances beyond their control. As a result, they accept all kinds of insults—not out of choice but conditioning. For example, buses regularly idle for 10 to 15 minutes in front of locals waiting at bus stops. Most buses are in terrible disrepair, and people are forced to breathe those nasty fumes. Burning plastics and other toxic substances are common when people burn trash. That’s part of life here.

Many people have to cultivate gardens (sembrar) just to have enough to eat. They have no choice but to grow yarrow, corn, potatoes, tomatoes, and other vegetables. Vegetables are very expensive here—more expensive than in the U.S., at least where I live. During the pandemic, for almost two years, people were only allowed to leave their homes two hours a week. Can you imagine? They weren’t able to work during that time. Only people with four vaccinations are officially allowed to work now. Gabriel only has two. He said that’s enough and he doesn’t want more, so he works under the table.

We took the bus to the entrance of Cerro Gaital, the tallest mountain above the valley. On the way, we passed through La Mesa (the table), a flat area with many fincas. Some raise chickens, others produce agricultural goods, goat milk, and cheese. We were let out at the trailhead, and I walked slower than usual, stopping every few steps to admire and photograph the wondrous plants. The trail is only 2 km long and ends at a platform overlooking the valley. It was very foggy, so the view was less impressive than I’d hoped. Actually, the trail continues, but Gabriel said we weren’t prepared. The sign warned that professional guides were needed beyond this point. Gabriel had hiked it before using climbing ropes to rappel. He said it’s very slippery, narrow, and dangerous.

Reluctantly, I descended toward the trailhead. I didn’t want to leave what felt like paradise. We took a different trail back and saw a few large fallen trees covered in bromeliads and orchids. I worried about the orchids—they’d die without the nutrients they need. Gabriel pulled them off the dead branches and placed them on living trees. He said the trees had succumbed to insects and drought. I wondered how many more would die in the future.

Back at the guard station, I was surprised no one was there collecting fees, as is common at other trailheads in Panama. It’s low season, so probably not worth paying someone to collect.

I wanted to walk back toward the valley rather than wait at the bus stop. I hoped the bus would stop for us along the road rather than at a formal stop, assuming the fare would motivate them. We walked down a hibiscus-lined avenue, very different from the streets near poor locals’ homes clinging to mountainsides. I figured we were near old money.

Sure enough, Gabriel looked through a privacy hedge and called out to his friend Ray. I could barely see him lying in a hammock on a beautifully tended giant estate. I was surprised Gabriel knew someone so well healed. After a brief chat, he led me to the front gate of the estate.

Ray turned out to be a lovely 62-year-old man with a wonderful sense of humor. Although I understood less than half of what he said, his laughter was contagious. He has cared for this land for 18 years.

I don’t know how he met the landowners—the son and daughter of the original owner of El Javillo, a large pharmacy chain in Panama. Apparently, they used to grow medicinal herbs on the estate. There are still remnants of large oregano plants, salvia, and other herbs. They dried the herbs in the old house on the property—the drying trays and special roof still exist. I felt like I was in paradise. We watched a flock of toucans calling to each other from neighboring trees. It was so quiet and peaceful, completely removed from the valley’s hubbub.

Ray said he hates coming down to the valley, where he has a house Gabriel helped him renovate. He only comes down at dawn to buy supplies, then hurries back up the hill before anyone sees him. He told us how his mother granted him a large piece of land from her estate, but without a legal deed, his brother took it instead. He advises all his friends to get a paper deed. Panamanians don’t tend to do that—it’s not part of their culture. I think they’re just more trusting.

We sat at the edge of the property, looking out toward Cerro Gaital and the misty valley below. I didn’t want to leave. We watched toucans jabbering at each other. Ray told us there’s a family of toucans in the area. The parents are teaching their young to hunt, and often the juveniles fly willy-nilly, landing on the ground or crashing into trees. After a while, he offered us coffee, and we moved to the veranda, admiring the forty or more hydrangea bushes he planted by hand. I shared my chocolate and cookies with him and Gabriel.

I don’t like coffee black; I much prefer milk to sugar in my coffee. That’s not common here, probably because milk is more expensive than sugar—though it wasn’t always that way. I didn’t want to leave, but eventually our conversation dwindled, and Gabriel said, “Let’s go.” It was about 4:30 when we started back down the hill.

Ray invited me to come back whenever I’m in the valley and promised to make me chicken soup from one of his 36 hens. Apparently, he loves to eat chicken feet. He loves his chickens. When he only had five, the owner asked him to get rid of them. Ray was clever—he sent photos of snakes he almost stepped on around the property and said the chickens would take care of them. Apparently, they have a toxin in their beaks and win if they strike first. Since he’s had chickens, he hasn’t seen a single snake on the property. I wonder if the lack of snakes is partly due to changes in the local ecology.

We said goodbye to Ray and began walking down the hill. We planned to take the bus, but the one we’d seen heading up to the trailhead was taking forever to come back, so I suggested we keep walking. Gabriel wanted to wait at a bus stop, so we stood there for about ten minutes before I started pacing around. Eventually, we ended up walking all the way back to his house in the valley. Along the way, we spotted a sloth and noticed jungle plants growing wild beside the road. We passed a couple of dry creek beds, and Gabriel remarked on how unusual it was for there to be no water at this time of year.

When we arrived at his house, an outdoor fire was burning and Einy had made spaghetti and banana bread. I thanked her and asked for a smaller portion of spaghetti since my stomach was still acting up. Gabriel was eating yarrow soup. I offered him some of my spaghetti, but he insisted he was fine. I met Alex, Einy’s husband, who has been working on bridge-building and other construction projects in the valley, though work has been scarce these last two years. He was warm and friendly, and we sat chatting for a few minutes.

Then Gabriel’s grandfather shuffled up the stairs, a bit unsteady with a beer in hand, nearly missing his chair as he sat down. He told me he would miss me and asked whether I planned to stay with his family or come back to visit. He asked how far it was back to the US, and I explained the flight time. Then he asked how old I thought he was. He said he felt 55, and I told him he looked more like 45. When he asked my age, I smiled and said I’m older than him.

He then invoked God and the Virgin Mary, asking them to protect and watch over me. I was deeply moved. He told me about his two grandchildren who had died in recent years, and I felt sad. I mentioned we had visited their graves at the cemetery the day before. It was hard to fully understand him—partly because he was drunk, partly because the local accent and rapid speech were unfamiliar to me. Gabriel and Einy had gone into the kitchen, so I didn’t have anyone to translate. I did my best and felt very honored to be asked to stay with them. He kept asking, and I finally said I would love to stay if everyone was okay with it—I didn’t want to impose.

I promised I would come the next day, and Alex said he could help with my luggage depending on when I arrived. Gabriel walked with me back toward the fire station, and we stopped at the bakery to grab a brownie and some bread. I got back to the station and worked on my blog for a bit before heading to bed. There was no wind, and it felt quite warm. I hoped it would cool down so I could sleep.

August 7. I woke up and decided it might rain, so I packed my tent at 8:30 am. Sure enough, it started raining five minutes later. I spent about an hour getting my things ready, then went to Kare Cafe, returning to the station around 3:30 pm after studying for my TEFL certificate. Around 4:30, Gabriel arrived in a taxi to give me a ride. I said goodbye to the firemen, thanking them for their hospitality. In truth, I’d felt quite alone there since they rarely spoke to me, but I appreciated their kindness in letting me stay. I worried I might have overstayed my welcome, not knowing how long Julian had arranged for me to stay, so I was glad to be leaving.

Gabriel’s family is poor. They’re building their house little by little, since concrete is very expensive. They carry bags of cement and supplies up to the house on their backs. They live in La India, one of the poorest parts of El Valle de Antón, where locals are crammed together. The valley has become a playground for rich Panamanians from the city—one wealthy landowner even has a helicopter. Many owners of Panama’s largest companies have estates here. The locals have been pushed to the edges, their homes once on the valley floor now clinging to mountainsides or far outside the valley. The locals do all the hard work—trimming fast-growing plants and grass with weedwhackers, fixing roads and building bridges, cultivating and selling vegetables, driving buses and taxis—while the idle rich eat at expensive restaurants, soak in thermal pools, ride horseback, and cruise around in fancy cars. The disparity is shocking.

August 8. I had a terrible night’s sleep. I’m not used to roosters crowing ten feet from my tent at 3 a.m., and this one didn’t stop when the sun rose—it went on all day. We jokingly called him the clock. Feeling weary, I made oatmeal, chatted with Einy, and watched her bake a delicious Tres Leches cake with strawberries for a visiting client. She took a taxi to deliver it, and I caught a ride to the farmers market. From there, I walked to the café to work on my TEFL studies. Sadly, the birthday woman never thanked Einy for her effort, and I could see she felt unappreciated and demoralized.

I studied for hours and returned at 7 p.m., walking through the wealthy part of town where I saw a couple of toucans flying through the forest. One of the things I like about this area is not having to worry about dogs biting me—they’re behind fences, though their barks are fierce and intimidating. I wear earplugs to avoid getting startled. Einy and her family had already eaten, and I sat outside chatting with them for a few hours.

A man who rides his bike through poor parts of town selling lottery tickets stopped by. I was fascinated by how Panamanians pick their tickets—many working-class people leaf through books, holding tickets as if superstition could reveal the winner by touch. The lottery seller was well-read and knowledgeable about Panama’s history. He was highly critical of the United States and foreigners, and spent about an hour talking with us about government corruption, the environment’s sad state, and the poor social services. He described the drastic ecological changes in the valley: loss of wildlife, rising temperatures, and lack of rain. He spoke so rapidly I struggled to understand everything, but got the gist. I wished my Spanish were better so I could join in more. When he left, I ate some chicken and went to bed around 9:30.

August 9. I woke and chatted with Lea, one of Einy’s two daughters. Einy is Gabriel’s cousin, and I’m staying with her family. Lea said she didn’t have school today. I asked if she found staying home boring, and she said yes, sometimes. I invited her to join us on the trail to Cerro Gaital, and she seemed excited. We got permission for her to come.

Lea is ten. She told me she wants to travel to the United States and learn English, but doesn’t like her strict teacher who forces them to speak only English. I explained that immersion is one of the fastest ways to learn a language.

We had a great time on the mountain. This was my second hike up Cerro Gaital; Gabriel and I had gone two days earlier. I like taking my time, observing plants and taking photos, and Lea seemed to enjoy the wildlife and making bracelets and rings from plants. It was fun watching her delight in nature. It was her first time on the mountain, which surprised me since she lives just a few miles away. In most Latin American countries, girls’ lives are tightly controlled—they rarely go outside without adult supervision. Boys, in contrast, can explore freely. I hoped this experience would broaden Lea’s horizons and inspire her to consider becoming a biologist. I think she would be great at it.

The fog rolled in thick and heavy. At the lookout, we could barely see the valley below. We decided to continue on a less maintained, narrower, and slipperier trail. It turned out to be walkable without a rope. I liked being on the wilder path since the main trail had been weed-whacked. I prefer getting up close and personal with the plants.

From there, we walked to Ray Santana’s house, hoping to see him and his beautiful estate he’s tended for 18 years. Gabriel hadn’t contacted him beforehand and had left his phone at home, so we couldn’t reach him. We waited for about an hour and a half, walking past his house to a viewpoint of La India. Gabriel said his mother had an uncle who lived there, and when they were young, they’d walked from their family home in the valley all the way out here—a long trek!

I suggested we stop waiting and head back to town, asking about Ray at the finca where he works. His coworkers thought he was there, but after checking, realized he’d gone to his home in the valley to celebrate his birthday.

I’d hoped to see the young sloth again that we’d spotted two days earlier on the way down. Unfortunately, it was gone. We looked for birds and found many in one fruit tree near Ray’s house—the birds clearly loved its fruit. We also spotted about eight hanging nests resembling nets in one tree. We saw a couple of toucans flying through the forest and perched high in the tallest branches, wagging their beaks back and forth. I assume visual display is an important part of their behavior.

Our walk down felt surprisingly peaceful. As usual, Gabriel knew nearly everyone and greeted them warmly. He mentioned playing soccer against many kids from La Mesa. His way of calling out to people sounded like a different language to me.

Just above Chorro El Macho, a popular waterfall and canopy climb, a dog from one of the nearby houses suddenly ran up and lunged at Lea. I heard her scream but didn’t immediately realize the dog had bitten her leg and punctured the skin.

I flagged down the next bus and paid for a taxi to get her home. I only had $1.70 left, and the taxi fare was two dollars—luckily, Gabriel had thirty cents to spare. The taxi had the air conditioning on full blast, and I was freezing, so I rolled down the window. The driver immediately shouted, “Don’t do that!” Confused, I asked why, and he said there was a paper taped to the window.

When we got home, her mom sprang into action and rushed her to the emergency room within minutes.

We weren’t sure if Lea would need rabies shots—it apparently depends on the size and seriousness of the bite. They ended up only giving her a pain shot and cleaned the wound with soap. It felt inadequate to me, and I wondered why they didn’t use any antibiotic cream. Einy and others had warned me that health services here were extremely poor.

I didn’t know what to do with myself after that. Whenever I was there alone, I felt trapped, like a prisoner. So I decided to risk it and walked into town for a couple of hours. It was 6 p.m., with sunset at 6:40. I grabbed a stick on my way out just in case a dog tried to attack me and dodged a few on my walk to the bakery.

I bought some wood-fired bread to give to Einy for her trip to the city tomorrow. I found it fascinating that wood-fired bread was even made here. Apparently, the valley is known for its special breads, including ones made with eggs. The sunset was especially beautiful, so I took a few photos of the bright pink sky. At the upscale restaurant La Bruschetta’s, I checked my messages using their Wi-Fi. I was almost out of my monthly 5G data allotment and didn’t want to risk running out, as the internet slows to a crawl after that.

Lea has an appointment in the city every three months to monitor her precocious puberty. One cause is low vitamin D. Apparently, many more girls than boys have this condition. Einy showed me Lea’s bloodwork—her vitamin D level was very low at 27. I tried calling Richard on Monday for supplement advice, but he was busy at work.

I got back around eight, just before Lea and her mom returned from the emergency room. I chatted with Alex, Einy’s husband, about the problem of aggressive dogs and their impact on locals. Luis, Gabriel’s cousin, came out to socialize. He works six days a week in Coronado, a town two or three hours by bus from here. He and his wife Irina only come back once a week to work on their house—no rest for the weary. I really liked Luis. Earlier that evening, we’d had a deep conversation about the plight of poor Panamanians and how corruption has affected the people here. We also discussed the colonial influence of the United States and how it has kept the country in a kind of arrested development.

When Lea and her mom returned, Lea gave me a big hug and reassured me not to worry. It was as if they could read my mind—I’d been feeling incredibly guilty about the dog bite. If I hadn’t invited her on the walk, none of this would have happened. I reflected on how she almost never leaves the house, and now, on the one time she did, this happened. But she said she still had wonderful memories of our walk together. I gave her an orejita, a pastry from the bakery.

Lea’s bite only strengthened my fear of dogs here. It didn’t help that I almost got bitten myself on my way back that evening. Einy lives in a complex of several houses with close family members. There are at least 25 dogs in the complex and about 15 people—roughly the dog-to-person ratio across Panamá.

August 10. I hit my head hard last night on the bunk bed stairs I’m sleeping on, and now I have a big knot on my forehead. This is the poor part of town where unleashed dogs roam freely and bite people. This morning, the dogs from the complex nearly blocked me from leaving. I’m demoralized by trash and diapers scattered on the road, people dumping and burning garbage, and trucks and buses roaring down the street with car alarms blaring. Then they park and idle for minutes, spewing toxic fumes. There seems to be little concern for human health—perhaps common in places where poverty is overwhelming. How can you focus on health when you’re just trying to survive?

I’m feeling frustrated with my Spanish. I learn fast, but people aren’t correcting me, which I need to improve. Being around fluent Spanish speakers makes me realize I’m probably at a kindergarten level. I haven’t studied Spanish in 45 years and have forgotten much of it. The saving grace is I understand quite a bit and speak fairly fluidly despite my limited vocabulary. Still, mornings find me exhausted, and I often don’t want to speak Spanish.

I left Einy’s house at 10 a.m. I woke at 3 a.m. to roosters and dogs but managed to fall back asleep. I was afraid to leave the house earlier because two dogs from the neighbor’s property blocked the stairs, and after the trauma of Lea’s bite, I didn’t want to risk it. After a few minutes, I slowly made my way down the stairs, and the dogs got the message and cleared the way.

I walked quickly to the café and ended up eating two small slices of lemon meringue pie, spilled my latte, and had to buy another. I was determined to finish my TEFL certificate since I only had four days left, and also catch up on my blog. I spent the first two and a half hours writing my blog and began the certificate coursework at 1:30 p.m. By 5 p.m., I finished—success! I scored 95%! And this was after having to do sentence diagramming and other torturous grammar exercises.

To celebrate, I walked to El Rey to buy oatmeal, plantain chips, a lighter, and antibiotic cream for Lea, then called my mom. I’d been meaning to call her for a few days. The last time I spoke with her, she seemed very erratic. I felt sad that she hadn’t told Bob yet and was sending him off in a week. She told me she stood behind Bob at the doctor’s office yesterday, making gestures so the doctor would say the “right” things about why Bob was going.

She lied, telling him it was temporary—not because of her, but because Dan wanted to visit Bob. She has always hidden the truth from me because she didn’t want to deal with my emotions. I now understand why I felt so alone as a kid. She doesn’t even tell me when people are dying so she doesn’t have to face my grief. As a result, I haven’t been able to say goodbye to family even though I’ve asked her to let me.

When my dad left, she never told me they were getting divorced. She said it was temporary.

Perhaps she didn’t have the capacity to handle emotions. When Ed broke up with me and I was distraught, she told me she couldn’t stand hearing me cry and that I needed to leave the house. I was the one who needed support, but instead she pulled the fragile card.

She would also criticize traits she instilled in me. For example, I became the house cleaner and gardener because the only way I could keep my sanity was to organize her chaos and prevent overwhelm. When I later stopped cleaning up after her but instead after housemates, she said I should have stronger boundaries and kick them out. I wondered if she would say that to herself. She also suggested I hire someone to do my house and yard work. The same went for my giving emotional support to others—something she essentially trained me to do. When I did that later in life, she called me codependent and told me to stop.

One of the main ways she showed nurturing was through worry—especially when I was away. I had to reassure her I was fine, even when I was struggling. When I suffered anxiety and insomnia, she told me I needed to learn meditation. My mom has always been extremely anxious but doesn’t seem to take responsibility for being a role model.

She has always been extremely critical of herself—and, by extension, of others. Ironically, she often criticized me for acknowledging that I am hard on myself. Her reaction made me feel like I was a bad person. She rarely took responsibility for her emotions or actions and recently admitted that she seldom reflects on how she was as a parent. When pressed, she’d say she knew she was terrible—a defense to avoid hearing criticism, knowing I would disagree and say, “No, you weren’t.” Whenever I used nonviolent communication to express my feelings or describe behaviors I disliked, along with my needs and requests, she became incredibly defensive and refused to hear me out.

When I was diagnosed with scleroderma, she blamed my diet. When I caught a cold, she told me I needed to take better care of myself, as if I hadn’t been trying and somehow hurt her by being sick. After I was in a car accident as a passenger, I delayed telling her until after surgery because I feared her extreme reaction and tendency to blame me. As it turned out, she said I should have grabbed the steering wheel when my friend was about to hit a tree—like I had time for that.

When I struggled with self-criticism, she told me I needed to learn self-love and recommended the self-help books that filled her bookshelves. Any expression of weakness was a fault to fix. Growing up with her, I felt life wasn’t about enjoyment but about constant self-improvement, and I took that deeply to heart. It’s no wonder I always felt I had to excel at everything I did; I didn’t know how to do something just for fun if I wasn’t good at it. I learned early on that nothing was worth doing unless it was done very well.

During a recent phone call, I told her I’d been staying with a family for a few days. Without asking for details, she immediately asked if I was paying them. I felt criticized because, in the past, she told me never to take advantage of people, accusing me of doing so because I’m an only child. I explained that they invited me, and I contributed as I could. I didn’t want to be the “rich American” handing out money to people I consider family.

I had decided to leave the next day and didn’t think the family would mind. But when I told them, their reaction surprised me. I got home before anyone else, then Alex arrived, and we talked about the fear of dogs. Later, Einy and Lea came back from Santiago, and finally Gabriel, who said he had been helping a friend clear land. They said they’d miss me and seemed surprised I was leaving so soon.

I had asked to speak with Gabriel’s grandfather—the very reason I stayed in the first place—after he told me on Sunday that he wanted me to stay and that I was a good person. I’d tried to talk with him before, but he lives next to Gabrielle’s aunt, who has fourteen dogs. To get to him, I’d have to pass through that gauntlet, and I wasn’t willing to risk it. This time, his granddaughter fetched him, and we had a pleasant conversation about his memories, especially about nature and how much it has worsened. I had hoped to spend more time with him during my stay, as I deeply value the perspective of elders, especially in a culture so different from mine. So, it was sad that my only interactions with him were when he was drunk and during this brief visit.

Hearing that various family members would miss me made me sad, and I couldn’t sleep, worried I’d made a mistake leaving so soon. I considered staying until Wednesday so I could hike with Gabriel on Saturday and Sunday to Río India, attend the Golden Frog Fair on Monday, and celebrate Lea’s birthday on Tuesday. The decision tormented me; I went back and forth all night, ending with a nightmare that I had missed my plane.